I’m scared of meeting strangers for sex.

Hy shares some cleavage.
Just a little tug’ll do ya.

But I answered a Craigslist ad anyway.

The reasons I don’t meet men with the soul intent to fuck are threefold.

Initially, it intimidates the fuck out of me.  If I show up and he thinks I’m a sure thing then I have no wiggle room to gracefully exit stage left.  There might be a scene, I might be hurt, I might have to be rude about maintaining my boundaries versus coyly deflecting.  I’m American, I don’t want to offend anyone, even a man in whom I’m not interested.  I want to feel that no decision has been made yet as to how the evening will end and just because I’ve met with him is in no way a guarantee I won’t find him repulsive in some way.

Nine times out of 10 just knowing that we are both aware of my escape hatch is enough to embolden me to push past any reservations or bashfulness that might otherwise trip me up and have me run for the door.  When a man tells me he has no intention of fucking me what I hear is, “I am a safe man,” and my body is launched into action.  When he says, “Well, we’ll see what happens,” I understand that he isn’t picking up what I’m putting down.  I hear, “I am [possibly] not a safe man.”

Meeting a stranger just to fuck also crowds me out of the equation; I’m reduced to a walking, talking glory hole at that point.  Neither of us have to work for the reward of cock in pussy, instead it comes down to a matter of an agreed transaction and cooperating body parts.  No muscles of seduction are flexed, it’s like dogs in heat without all the sniffing first.  I need to sniff and be sniffed.  A lot.  Then we can fuck like dogs.

And let’s not forget how women are so often [and easily] brutalized, raped, or murdered by men.  On BuzzFeed’s main page yesterday alone I read three articles reminding me in great detail how vicious unstable men can be.  Women are fucking vulnerable at all times for any goddamned reason a crazy, homicidal man feels like it and therefore I tend to avoid complete strangers who might mistake my willingness to fuck as offering myself up to them to do with as they please.

I’ll tell my friend Amy where I’m meeting him and send her a pic.  I’ll also give her his room number at his hotel if I decide to go back with him.  He’ll understand; my Spidey senses tell me this Seattle dude with the softly chiseled torso and meaty cock isn’t a bad man.  “I’m man enough to know that even if you come back to my room No means No.”  Not quite an “I won’t fuck you,” but certainly good enough for me as I venture into the slightly frightening world of CL.

So why did I respond to this guy then?

I read his note and I liked it.  He seemed relaxed, yet adventurous, inviting and eager.

He’s in town this week for a wedding.  He’s, tall, fit, safe, clean, friendly.  Really loves to kiss and cuddle and wants something to do in his down time.  And he’s hung.  A detail he added almost as an after thought.

And I haven’t been touched since The Russian and fucked since July 1st so there’s that, too.

I thought about how I’m trying to merge the two parts of me, Hy and “the other woman,” and decided to go ahead and email him from Hyacinth’s email account.  If he Googled me and found the blog, I’d be straight up about it and more careful about letting slip any identifying real-life facts once we met.  (Also, I was lazy and didn’t want to switch to my “real me fake account”.)

I wrote something blithe.  Like how I’d never answered a Craigslist ad before and was he real?  He’d asked for my age and eye color to be in the subject line to ward off bots.  It was the first time I’d ever written 40 to identify myself.  I told him that was weird.

He wrote back and immediately asked for pics.  I sent him a few, but he didn’t believe they were me.  I laughed and thought if only he’d Google Hyacinth Jones he’d think I was trying to catfish him with pics from the blog never knowing I’m her.  But he hung in there despite his doubts and we moved to text.

He sent me pics of his cock and it was resplendent — big and fat — and the way in which he talked about it reminded me of other well-endowed men I’ve spoken to.  There’s an ease with which they discuss it that clings to them like Axe body spray.  They have nothing to prove and that confidence lodges itself in my senses.

However, I wasn’t doing as good a job of dispelling his doubts about me, and so he asked to hear my voice.

I called after work on Friday and chatted on my drive home, nervous and bashful.  He’d been texting me some fairly filthy things, but hearing his voice I decided to be bold.  “Well, you did say that this time on Tuesday you could be ‘licking my pussy,’ after all,” I said.

I could hear his smile.  “Yeah, I did say that,” but he dropped it with a laugh and we talked about the weather in our respective cities.

We only spoke for a minute or two, but it was enough for me.  His voice was deep, pleasant, playful.  I liked him.

We’ve texted off an on the past few days, sent more pics.  He’s an ass man and I am sorely lacking in the ass-pics department so he coached me.  “Over the shoulder, in the mirror,” he said.  I laughed as I posed awkwardly, but sent the photo anyway.

He loved the pic, seemed to forget himself, and typed, “Damn, we are so fucking,” and then quickly added, “If I’m not charming enough in person tell me and I’ll turn it up a notch or 2 ;).”  It made me laugh and I liked his visceral response to an image I don’t find remotely sexy.

We texted yesterday right around the time he landed and was getting his rental car and sketched out a plan.  I was seized with a blush from head to toe.  My reaction to the idea of fucking a stranger wasn’t unsurprising, just unfamiliar.  Then, as if by telepathy, Troy texted me some hardcore body-pounding sex .gifs.

“Getting any of this lately?”

I exhaled breath I hadn’t known I was holding.  Troy, my sex friend in arms, was always there for me whenever we had sex with a stranger.  He made sure I never felt pressured and always felt safe.  I told him about the sexy stranger and sent him some pics of his pretty cock.  He approved.

“I wish you could come with me tonight.  How were you always so cool and calm??  I always relied on you!”

He laughed and said he didn’t know, but it’s true.  I do wish he could come with me.

As the clock ticked and I hadn’t heard from Sexy in Seattle I checked in with him.  Our plans had only been a sketch, not set in stone.

“Probably tomorrow,” he wrote back.

I chuckled, told him that was cool, and that I was looking forward to getting pounded by his giant cock.  His ongoing promises that he didn’t expect sex from me turned up the volume on our interactions.

I took another ass pic and pulled out a breast like he’d asked me to earlier when I was too busy and sent them off.  No hard feelings.

Hy pulls one out.
Tan lines.

Even if I don’t meet this man it doesn’t matter.  What matters to me is that I’m pushing my own boundaries, being adventurous and bold when I typically duck my head.  The flush of bashfulness I experienced talking to this guy is the same rush I felt with Troy whenever we met men.  That moment before they touched me together, the moment the strange man pushed deep inside of me, the moment my lips touched his and I tasted a stranger’s breath.

I don’t have Troy to hold my hand in these moments anymore, but I do have me.  I have the ability to recreate the beauty of raw, unadulterated passion and so long as I follow my gut and my own safety rules this could fun as fuck.

Later last night, sexy Seattle man texted me in response to the pics I’d sent him.  He was a very big fan, but I was in bed already.

If all goes well, this little flower will be properly debauched this time tonight.  I’ll be reduced to a sobbing, sweaty, flushed pile of pale, heaving skin.  And I’ll have checked another box.

Maybe I’m not so scared of meeting strangers, after all.


Ass love.
Ass love.

I get begged, I get ignored.

The candle on my bedside table gutters under the ceiling fan as I stretch out naked beneath my dark sheets.  I imagine my creamy whiteness and soft curves stand out like the flesh of an eggplant against its skin.

I hear you push through my front door, the puppy wriggle, and then see my bedroom door push open.  It’s “very late,” just like you said it’d be.

You come to me, closing the distance, and remove what little clothing you have.  Your meat hard and hot in your hand is by my face.  I lean over and suckle the glistening head and push my face down farther.

“I’ve missed you this week, Hy.  I’m so sorry I’ve been distant.  There’s no excuse for that.  You certainly don’t deserve it.  But I’m here now if you’ll let me.”

My answer is a harder suck…

Only, that’s not what happened.  At all.  Instead I woke up to a warmly lit room at 1:30 am alone and with no returned message.  My phone tells me the last of our correspondence went something like this:

A little after 11 pm, when I got home from a first date with a handsome 30-year-old, I asked, “You win??”  And when I awoke, restless and unnerved at close to 1:30 am I checked my phone.  Nothing.

I texted again, “Why do I keep waking up and you’re not here?? :(  And you haven’t said boo.  So not like you.”

It’s almost 9:30 am and I still haven’t heard from you.  I’m sure you’re headed to work.

This just isn’t the man I know.  All week I’ve struggled with this “no plans” thing.  It feels like a line out of He’s Just Not That Into You.  Just the week before you were laying plans with me and then I reneged on our “no feelings” policy and here I sit.  Angst ridden and feeling slighted. This is, I’m certain, all my fault.

Monday night you met the friends I’ve wanted you to meet.  We drank and laughed riotously and headed down to the hot tub.  Seven of us, you the only stranger, and you fit in and were charming and gracious as ever.  And as I let you out of the pool gate you whispered to me that maybe you’d come fuck me that night, but later said no.  Instead, you promised you’d fuck me the next night.

Tuesday night you cancelled on me with a genuine apology, but no promise to come over either.  I left the door unlocked hoping you’d come over anyway, but instead you called to say you wished you could get both 8 hours of sleep and fuck me, but that you were opting for the 8.

Wednesday you flat-out ignored a text of mine asking if you were busy and to come over, the door was unlocked.  The next day — after I inquired — you said you hadn’t seen my text till 1 am because you’d been busy.

Thursday, I put myself out there again and felt good about it.   You gave me hope with your filthy response only to detract it all with silence and absence and yet another feeble “maybe” in your language.

What is going on, dear Neighbor

Tonight, you need a favor from me and I must admit I’m ill inclined to come through for you.  This is bullshit.  No one else treats me this way and I plan on pointing this out to you.  I’ve been thinking long and hard about my feelings and I’m confident that I’m reasonably upset after this week.  And reason is always paramount for me.

I miss you, friend, and yet you are handling this poorly all of a sudden.  Where’s the man who was checking in with me nearly every day last week?  The man who cleaned my apartment, met my friends, silently got me a chair to sit on unasked before their watchful eyes?

Where did you go??

The date helped peg me back to earth as I cheekily declined a quick fuck with him.  I didn’t feel the chemistry. He was extremely handsome and charming, but lacking in some invisible way.  Perhaps it was how he told me he loved the idea of a 17-year-old lusting after him and that 18-year-old pussy was a delicious treat.  I’m certain the disgust on my face was more than a flash, the look in my eye more than disdain.

But he begged me to come back and to let him fuck me.  Begged.  I told him I didn’t need notches on my belt anymore and I felt proud of saying no, of doing what you’ve been coaching me to do for months.  “But I’ve never fucked someone I’ve only just met!” he pleaded.

“I have,” I replied, “And frankly, I might get fucked again later.  How many men am I going to fuck in one night?  If saying No to you tonight means I’ve wrecked my chances for a second date with you, I’m ok with that.  I don’t need this.”

His pleading was embarrassing.  He wouldn’t stop.  He was throwing out everything he could think of to turn me around, desperate.  I hung up on him and drove the rest of the way home hopeful of seeing you, my young friend who lives next door.

(Funny thing is that dude texted me at 12:30 to ask if the fuck I’d been looking forward to with you was worth passing up on his offer.  Oh, the irony.) 

I’ve run out of plays this week.  I’m not sure what my next move is.  I want to hide away and be left alone.  I fear you asking me to fulfill that favor in equal measures because I don’t want to and I want to.  I never say no, remember?  I’m bothered that I’m afraid of the word with you when you are so comfortable using it with me.  And that bothers me.

Actually, none of this sits well with me.  You are a wonderful guy and I hate that I have these sniveling little things to say.  I like being proud of the way you treat me and this week… well, I’m not so proud.  Not proud at all.

I hope we can talk today, but the ball’s in your court.  It will be up to me to have the strength to leave it there.

Fuck.  I hate that that this is what I have to say.  Hate it.

I fucked a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched.

This is for the Bare Your Sexual Soul Day. The challenge was to share a fantasy or a piece of fiction. This is non-fiction, but a fantasy come true for me. Enjoy.

I fumble through my box of scarves for just the right one, but give up and settle for a sleep mask. I put it on, adjust its tightness. The rule is I can’t see anything the entire time they’re here. I have 30 minutes until they arrive.

I get the blindfold just right, take a small sip of wine, and kneel in front of my fireplace facing the front door.

My heart pounds in my throat and fuck-music fills the vaulted ceilings. I sit, I lay down, I sit up on my knees again. My nerves are getting to me. Suddenly, I realize my dress can’t be easily removed without threatening the security of the mask, so I dash back to my closet and put on a dress that can be slipped down over my hips. I have on nothing else.

Two weeks before, Troy had said he’d wanted to get me a birthday present. This was it. He’d found a guy on AFF with a giant cock and who was willing to jump out of my proverbial birthday cake and fuck me while Troy watched. Troy would have normally joined in with his new bi-sexual friend, but his monogamous relationship forbade sexual contact with me. This was the best he could do.

Troy texts to say they are minutes away. I don’t know what Max looks like. I only know he passes muster with Troy. I slip the mask over my eyes and wait, trembling.

I hear a knock, and a low, male chuckle from Troy. My shaking is visible. He quickly closes the distance and embraces me. “Oh, Hy… you’re trembling!”

“Well, yeah,” I manage to squeak out. “Hi, Max,” I say to a presence in front of me.

“Hello, Hyacinth,” the man says in a heavy, unplaceable accent.

My senses are buzzing, my chest heaving, my cunt damp. I am the tinderbox, Max and Troy the matches.

Troy’s hands are on me in a sensually comforting way. His voice and scent calm me. I’ve been here with him before with Jack and Ryan. He’ll protect me.

I can feel Max move in front of me, hear his belt buckle and the slide of his jeans. Then his hands take mine and pull me up to my knees. The hot round knob of his cock butts against my cheek.

I sigh and take it in my hands, the shaft meaty and long, my fingers not quite encasing it. I open my mouth and flick my tongue on his salty aperture. Push further down on the pole and suckle. I’d closed my eyes in joy if I wasn’t already blinded.

Troy is next to me, touching me, stroking my breasts and massaging my neck. He loves watching me suck cock. I take in as much as I can and wish badly that I was watching him deepthroat this giant man instead. He is so brilliant at it.

I dip to the foreign man’s testicles, cleanly shaven, and nuzzle my nose into his groin. He presses into my face and exclaims at how good I am. Troy agrees. I swell with pride. I want so badly to please him. Our sexual life together might be dead, but this is something I can sink my teeth into.

I fantasize about a parade of men brought to my house by my ex-lover to fuck me anonymously while I am carefully watched over by his powerful 6’6″ frame.

Tears come to my eyes as my dress straps are pushed over my shoulders and pulled off over the large swells of my tits and hips. Max groans. Troy groans.

I stand helplessly alone and naked as Max pulls away from me and removes the rest of his clothing. Troy moves to a different vantage point.

Max kisses me deeply and his cologne swirls around me, sticky and sexual. His hands roam my body as Troy keeps up a steady commentary of how hot I am, how beautiful, how amazing. I bloom under the words and the physical ministrations.

Fingers enter me gently, part my soaking lips, and hook me like a fish. I hump forward on his hand and Max comes closer.

He’s short. Maybe 5’6″. I am putting together an image of him. He is densely muscled, with tightly curled hair on his body, like a black man might have; closely shaved head and face; full lips and a wide smile. He wears a heavy chain necklace.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and pushes me down. Troy gives him a condom. I lay naked and exposed on my floor peering into darkness, my hole a venerable beacon of light. He lays down on top of me and the cool metal of his necklace kisses my lips. Troy moves closer and takes my hand.

I feel a warm blunt object butt up against my opening and I gasp. Troy squeezes my hand and sucks in his breath. My pussy is the sole focus in the room, like a birth, only I am being impaled instead. The cock slides all the way into me and exhales are heard all around the room. The baby is ok. It’s done. We’re all ok. I am reborn.

He moves inside of me and I writhe and buck beneath him in half a dozen positions. I can’t believe what is happening to me. I am only a bundle of nerves, some arms, legs, a cunt, breasts, a mouth, moans, sweat, and cries. I am not Hyacinth. I am just there, enveloped in sex. I feel at home.

Max finishes with a pounding and cries out. Troy cheers us on from his spot out of the way, still holding my hand. I ask him to run into my room and grab my vibe.

I lay on the floor and spread my knees, lay my dress over my pubis. I put the head of the toy between my legs and start to whisper, “I was fucked by a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched. I was fucked by a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched. I was fucked by a stranger. While blindfolded. And I was watched.”

I repeat it ad nauseum as my orgasm grows. Troy’s voice joins mine, his hands stroke my inner thighs, but never come near my heat. Max mumbles in a foreign tongue and I jibber on as my crescendo breaks over me, huge, enlightening and powerful.

I cry out and cry, big, fat tears that roll out from under my mask. I gasp and pant and say I want more. I begin to chant again and the wave up is immeasurable, the orgasms breathtaking.

I am a fucking slut; a dirty, reckless whore and I love it.

I have gone against everything I have ever known, ever been taught, ever thought of myself, and I have given myself to a stranger on the word of a lover, a whimsical, fantastical gift, and it has been exquisite.

As I come over and over I tell myself I’d do it again because I am a colossal slut. No one is more awful, more slutty than me. No one more debauched and deserved of filthy, anonymous sex.

I revel in the outlandishness of my behavior. The pure bliss and dissolution of propriety. It is beautiful and raw and more pure than any courtship-like tryst I had ever experienced. It feels like freedom.

Troy’s voice breaks my revery, “Hy… Are you ok?” His voice is filled with concern. My view is still black and stunted, my sense only of myself.

“Yes. I am,” I breath, sinking into the floor further.

“Good. Because that was goddamned amazing.”

“Yeah, I know it was. And thank you, Max.”

“You’re welcome,” he trips out and leans over to kiss me.

Troy says, “Happy birthday, Hy. You deserve it.”

Then it’s all over and I am being helped up and into a robe.

Max gives me a quick hug and kiss goodbye. Troy bends down, hugs me tightly, kisses my neck and leaves with my birthday present in tow.