He doesn’t want to date me.

The Russian called me last night.  I missed the call initially because I’d fallen asleep watching the cringe-inducing Iron Chef America.  “Who doesn’t fall asleep during that one?” he quipped when I called him back.

His voice was sweet to my ears, but I was tense.  It’d been a strange two weeks of texting between us since we’d met and he’d turned down my offers to talk on the phone.  A hangover hung on me like cheap perfume; I wasn’t prepared.

“I’ve been thinking a lot about us,” he began, “and the thing of it is, I don’t think we should take our relationship to the next level.  We can’t be lovers.  I’d like to be friends, though.”

I shook my head as if I hadn’t heard right.  “Ok…” I said.

“It’s too intense to be casual and too casual to be this intense.  I can’t unknow about your blog and it’s just too much.  It’s too much exposure; I don’t want to be a character.  I don’t want to do it.  I’m spending as much thought and energy on all of this as if we were in a committed relationship and that’s not what I want.”

Many more words were said.  I was keenly alert now, no vestiges of my night lingered.  “I need to be selfish,” he said.  “I choose me.”

I stammered that I understood.  He worried if I was ok, how I was feeling.  I felt vaguely punched, but only shared that I felt trapped.  “I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.”  This was my worst fear about the blog come true: that I would be rejected because of it.

He lamented with me, apologized again.  “I know this is the very thing you were afraid of happening and here I am doing it to you, but I just can’t help it.”

He said he didn’t want another intense and complicated relationship.  He was done with those.

Occasionally I felt tears well up in me, but I kept them at bay.  “I’m happy to be friends if you want,” he offered towards the end.  “When you’re up here for Labor Day you’re welcome to come over for a beer and hang with me and my friend.”  I told him I’d think about it knowing full well we’ll likely never speak again.

His words were well-formed and precise, my responses were bumbling and ill-formed.  I had known something was going on with him.  He’s a thinker, a thoughtful man and I took every pause in texts and new punctuation to mean something was going on over the past couple of weeks and I was right.

My blog, he said, is me and he would never ask me to stop.  I didn’t offer any solutions because it didn’t seem relevant.  He lives so far away, the mechanics of any kind of relationship with him were already complicated.  I was keeping an open mind and feeling my way through this new exposure.  He was safe, he was sexy.  That’s as far as I’d gotten.  Apparently, he’d gotten much further.

“I don’t want the burden of your secret, the double life.”

I sat on my couch as every word hit my eardrum.  I felt overwhelmingly sad, yet relieved.  I’d no longer be hurt by my texts being ignored, at least.

“Meeting you and liking you has been great, but it can’t go any further.”

I’ve always known that my blog could be a deal breaker for someone, I just didn’t expect it to happen.  It’s scary even for me, but I’ve chosen to take the risk.  For any man who gets involved with me he’d have to be comfortable with the level of exposure that could come if my cover were ever blown.  Don’t date me if you have a political career on your mind.  I’d ruin it just by association.

I’ve thought about the impact of this space on my life for years.  On the one hand it has provided me with a rich playground of creativity and connection.  On the other, I risk losing important people if it’s ever revealed — by me or by anyone else.

When I told The Neighbor, I was terrified.  I had been lying to him about what I did with my spare time for two years, I’d shared every intimate detail of our sex life.  He had every right to be angry, to leave me, to walk away.  But, he didn’t.  He was proud of me in a detached way and left me to it.  “Is it anonymous?”


“Am I anonymous?”


“Ok then.  I’m ok with it.”

It had been that simple.

With The Russian, even knowing I’d taken every measure possible to protect my identity, the very idea of that many eyes reading about him was too much.

When we hung up my eyes stung and my gut ached.  I had hoped for a different kind of ending.  He was intelligent, kind, introspective, sexy, and successful.  Being accepted by him would disprove the inner voice in me that says no one will want me if they  know everything about me.  Unfortunately, my worst fear has been proven correct.   I’m sorry, Hy.  I can’t do it.  It’s just too much.

Part of why I opened up to The Russian that night is because I’m tired of the double-life.  I’m proud of what I’ve done here and it’s a huge part of my life, yet I can’t share it.  It’s a difficult position to be in and my patience has petered out.  I need to search my soul about this: why now?

How do I manage this going forward?  I don’t want to find myself in another situation like I did with TN where I have years of lies under my belt, nor do I want to expose myself to a total stranger and hope he’s not a psychotic asshole who’ll rat me out — I got supremely lucky with The Russian.  What’s the middle ground?

Perhaps I tell everyone that I have a secret blog about my sex life, but won’t share any information about it until and unless we develop feelings for one another and decide to commit.  At least that way he’ll have been able to think about it and not feel blindsided.  I’ll tell him the size of my readership, the topics I cover, etc., but keep the URL and names out of it.  I just don’t know.

I’m missing TN tonight because he was safe and he accepted me.  I have to remind myself that he also never wanted me despite it all.  I found an old post where he said, verbatim, what he told me in January, “You’re not the right person for me.”  It’s been nearly a month since we spoke last.  It’ll be exactly one month on my birthday next week.  I don’t expect to hear from him.  In fact, I don’t expect to hear from anyone.

I’m lonely, I’m sad, I’m worried I’ve wrecked my chances for love because of my need to be Hy.  I’m sad to miss out on a man like The Russian, but relieved that he let me off the hook as he did, with kindness and like a grown man.

Maybe I’ll meet another one like him, but one who is also willing to take the risk to be with me.  I won’t be Hy forever after all.

I met The Russian.

Hy after the Russian
As I gather my thoughts to write.

“I have to kiss you,” he said as he pulled me to him and crushed his mouth down onto mine.

I kissed him back and pressed my body against the length of his.  His arms wrapped around my waist like a straight jacket and our mouths locked and unlocked, nibbled and bit at soft, silky lips.

He released my body, for just a second, and I grabbed his face and held it to mine.  He kneaded my arms and shoulders and pulled me back into him and a little noise escaped me.  This kiss..

Finally we broke apart and looked at each other under the street lamp.  I blinked.  “So, that answers the chemistry question,” he said.

I felt mute, but agreed.  My head spun like a top.

“Don’t worry.  We’ll figure this out,” he said.  “I like this,” his big hand dragged lightly down the front of my dress and motioned to my body.  “And I really like this.”  Both hands traced my face and head.

We were no more than 30 feet down a residential street on our way to his car.  “So, will you walk me to my car?” he’d asked while Marian was in the restroom.  Of course I said yes.  The bar was closing in 20 minutes, we didn’t have long, but the couple of times Marian had gracefully given us a moment to ourselves there were unspoken messages flying between us, a foot casually hooked on the other’s calf, a sneaky sniff of a perfumed neck or broad chest.  We needed to be alone.

Marian winked at me as we’d left and when we crossed the street he took my hand.  I told him how good it felt to have my hand in his, how I typically don’t let a man touch me there.  I felt like making a reference to Vivian, the hooker with a heart of gold who doesn’t let her tricks kiss her on the mouth, but I felt too shy.  Holding his hand and admitting it was new to me felt like enough.

Moments later he was kissing me roughly on the sidewalk and saying those words and filling my every sense.

He took my hand again and we crossed the street to the darker side under a canopy of sleeping trees.  He pressed me against a trunk and slid his hand up my thigh, our kiss deep and passionate.  I kept my eye on the warmly lit windows over his shoulder and wondered if anyone could see us.

We kept walking, his fingers threaded through mine, our arms and bodies intermittently drawn back together to embrace.

Finally, we reached his car parked directly under a streetlight.  He came up behind me and held me close and kissed my neck.  I stumbled forward and leaned against the hood of his car and he pressed himself against me.  I saw headlights approaching.

Hy in striped cardi
He likes this.

“We can’t do this out here,” I said.

“You’re right, we can’t.”  We laughed at our homeless situation and got in the car.  I unbuttoned his jeans but couldn’t slip my hand in before he stopped me.

“Wait…” He looked confused.

“Are you turning down a blowjob?” I asked.

“No.  Yes.  Wait, I think I am.”  He explained that he’d told himself to wait until September.  “And besides, I want space to be with you.  I don’t want it like this in a car.”  I hadn’t thought anything through, but he was right.   We needed space.

“I’ll be back up for my birthday with Peyton the first weekend in September.  You can come over after bedtime and we can just hang out some more then and the weekend after that I’ll be back for Tina’s 30th birthday and I’ll peel off then and we can have some real alone time.”

He thought that sounded like a fine idea.

“I’m not used to this waiting,” I said and squirmed a little.  The light from above cast shadows on my bare legs and cleavage.

“I’m not either.”

He reached across and pulled my top down and my bare breast sprung free.  “Your nipples are amazing,” he breathed as his mouth locked on.  He sucked and nibbled and bright, exquisite pain shot through me.   I held his dark head to me and closed my eyes.

He drove me back to the bar and we kissed goodbye and I floated to Marian who was talking to a man in a plaid shirt and leather necklace.  Barbacks were flipping chairs upside down and people were noisily closing tabs, but I barely noticed.  I stood there as if in a daze while we got our car from the valets, the drive home was a dreamy recap of how the night had gone, and by the time I climbed the stairs to my guestroom all I could do was smell him all over me.

I texted him that I’d arrived safely like I’d promised and a picture of me smiling and disheveled.

This morning, in my pajamas and Marian’s cardigan, I’m still smiling and still covered in his scent.  Our first meeting went well.


Hy after The Russian in striped cardi
I imagined him watching me take these pics.
Sinful Sunday

I’m feeling shy.

Wednesday morning light.

I’ve been writing all week, but unable to get anything I’m satisfied with down on the page.  It’s not writer’s block.  It’s a quagmire of thoughts and an inability to figure out what I want to say and how I want to say it.  I feel shy and a little repressed.

My Instagram continues to build steam and instead of sharing my words with 1000 people, now it’s closer to 20,000.  It’s a lot to consider as a sensitive writer and person.

And then there’s The Russian.

We’ve spoken a few times this week, shared pictures and our voices.  The last time I spoke with him on Wednesday we sketched out some details of our first meeting next weekend.  I’m to drive to Marian’s Friday and stay with her, futz around with her all day Saturday and then she and I will head into the city and meet him for drinks and he and I will figure it out from there.  “That sounds perfect,” he said.

I’m nervous.  For lots of reasons.  Things change so quickly.

I’m also confident it will all work out just fine, whatever that means.

Meeting this man the way I have and opening up the way I did has forced me to be critical of the two halves of me, the Hy with the other woman.  What I’ve discovered is Hy, as my alter-ego, draws the attention that I need.  She’s my muse.  She’s bold, sexy, sensual.  She’s an artist and an advocate.  I wish I could be her.  The other woman has a heart that has been trampled and wishes to take things slowly.  The two of us have been battling all year.  I’m currently winning, though Hy may win the war.  I suppose time will tell.

My dreams perfectly reflect my knotted thoughts:

In one I lay with The Russian, our limbs entwined.  We kiss, I inhale his scent.  There’s a clock in the room and it looms large, sun streams through the blinds.  His erection is hot and hard beneath my hand tucked inside his boxers.  We roll around and he is inside of me with a long, slow push.  No condom.  It’s safe and sexy and he holds himself there.  My throat touched with his lips on the outside and his cock from within.  He doesn’t move, but I flare around him.  I awaken with a familiar ache between my thighs and deep in my belly.  I am strangely satisfied.

In another, last night, I have double-booked my Friday night.  A date with two men who are a perfect blend of so many I know.  There’s a man whose mid-century style home will be my first destination.  He has chosen us a bottle of wine based on my preferences and will cook for me.  The other man, I will meet out somewhere else after dinner.  My eye is mostly on him.

Imagine my surprise when my amore knocks on the door of my first date.  He wants to confirm plans for later.  I attempt to hide him from Mid-Century Man, but obviously fail seeing as he is large and the floor plan open.  I take him into a back room and he kisses me.  I fear discovery; he fears I’ll like this other man more and decide to not meet him later.  I assure him I always keep my promises and insist that he leave at the very moment my host decides to crash our little party.

The men shake hands and size each other up.  I feel horrible and not a little judged by them, but I stand tall.  I owe them each nothing.  My crush leaves and my host levels a look at me.  “Do you even want to be here?”  I can smell dinner cooking.

“Yes, of course I do, I promise.  I’m so sorry about that.  My plans with him will have no bearing on our time together tonight.”

He held my hands and just looked at me, sizing me up.  I could see him weigh his options.  He pulled me into him and hugged me.  He was taller than I remembered and I felt strangely attracted to him, too as he lowered his head to kiss me.

As I walked with him back to the kitchen I regretted lying to him.

Anyone who’s keen on armchair psychology might see the landscape of my heart in those two dreams.  I certainly do.

As I work through this new phase of being Hyacinth (and the other woman) in front of watchful eyes, I realize that I have a lot more to say than Hy might right now.  This platform affords me great privilege and an opportunity to support and educate as much as it does to entertain.  Hy can’t write as freely as she once did, but this isn’t a bad thing any more than is a fallen tree across a stream.  I will divert into a new direction and happily so; give Hy a rest for a bit and let me enter her space in her stead.

I might write less about trysts, but that won’t mean I will hide.  I’ll still be Hy, I’ll still share what I can — discovering Hyacinth saved me, I’ll never let her go — and I’ll always want the happy ending.


The Russian said he liked my arched back and backside.

He’s shy.

Hy in the am, white shorts
Good morning.

I stared at his cock.  The tip, only a sliver of edge viewable above the bottom of a lavender dress shirt, glistened.  The shadow cast on thin fabric denoted the helmet, his hand gripped the base of the shaft.  It looked mighty and throbbing.

My hand holding the phone shook a little as I continued to stare at it as my orgasm built.  I clenched the muscles deep inside of me, imagining him there.  I pushed and released and willed my x-ray vision to kick in.  It never did, but my orgasm didn’t seem to care.  A scream ripped through the room.  I arched and convulsed harder and longer than usual.

I’d cum to this image 6 times in the last two days.

My new reader, The Russian, said he doesn’t send dick pics.  He’s shy and a little nervous about the oozing black eternity of the internet — I get it — and yet, he sends me photos nonetheless.  It is an honor.

In the ensuing hours since our phone call he’s sent me a handful of pics which I have dutifully deleted per his request.  All but the purple shirt one, which he has let me keep.

His shyness personified in the second one with a white sheet gently draped on his erection; the third his hand wrapped around the base looking down; the fourth and fifth variations on the same theme: a POV of a long, erect morning wood.

We have spoken a little bit more about what I’ve done to two strangers minding their own business, the magnitude of trust that I’ve bestowed upon someone out of the blue.  He’s been kind, thoughtful, and introspective about it.  I’ve been sensitive to what feels like a blunder and how this might affect him, us, me, etc.  It’s a new riddle to solve.  I’m up for the challenge.

His proximity to Marian is a boon; she and I were already planning for me to visit in the upcoming weeks.  Her availability is even sooner than I expected and The Russian and I might be sitting face-to-face much faster than either of us anticipated.  This weekend is a slight possibility, certainly the 14th, definitely mid-September if nothing has soured us on one another.

In the middle of the night I awoke to my upstairs neighbors locked in a heated fight.  I’ve never heard more than the occasional creak from them.  This was new.

Bellowing, he said, “I never told you to fuck off!”

“Yes, you fucking did!” she shrieked.

More shouting, some door-slamming.

I checked my phone.  There was a message from The Russian from 20 minutes earlier.

“You up?”

I texted back that I sort of was, listened to the lovebirds upstairs make a great deal more noise, and drifted off back to sleep.

Dawn broke, my eyes fluttered.  I reached for my phone.

“Up.  Been thinking about a variety of things.  The huge amount of trust you’ve placed in me.  The enormity of what you’ve implicitly asked of me.  Some light musings.  :)  Also what my cock would look like in between your tits.  So a variety of things.   Night, Hy.”

I replied that I’d cum 3 times to his lavender cock the day before and snapped some pics.  I figured it’d be as nice to wake up to as his texts were for me.

Hy in the am, white shorts
The second pic I sent him.

The morning light splashed across my belly, my waist curved.  I felt like the old Hyacinth, the one who woke up with a fire in her belly and a story on her lips so long ago.  The kind of Hy that I want to be.

Total orgasm count to his cock is now 7.

Thank you.


Hy in the am, white shorts
I love tan lines.