A month of celibacy, possibly more.

I haven’t had sex since June 22nd.  I have a period tracker I’ve been using for years to mark my sexual activity and all of July was e m p t y.  I had one tryst at a guy’s office that was hot, but it wasn’t sex.  We were both in the middle of our work day and I didn’t want our first time to be over his desk.  It was certainly a better lunch break than most others were having, though.

Other than that, not a thing has happened to me.  It’s so still, so quiet.

The Golfer is heavy on my mind and I’m deciding what to do with him.  The best sex of your life with a drunken, wealthy, golfer with issues basically balances out to a zero sum game.  I feel trapped in my own lustful desires.  My heart isn’t involved, but my molecules are.

Sex like what we share doesn’t happen every day and I feel closer to the Universe in those moments of release and abandon.

I can’t stop thinking about his turgid member pounding me in all my holes, the twinkle in his eye as he pulls out a new toy he’s bought for me, for us, or his sweet, praising words.  “Fuck, you are so fucking sexy I can’t keep my hands off of you!”

I haven’t heard anything like that in so long and I don’t see any respite in sight.

I pop onto some sites here and there and engage, but immediately disengage.  Do I even have the time or energy to expend on searching?  Perhaps the best course is to commit to celibacy and wait for my lover to resurface then greedily drive to his little suburban paradise and lose myself in our buckets of cum.

Perhaps the best course is to cut all ties and just focus on other things.

Perhaps the best course is to find a replacement.

Perhaps the best course is to sleep.

Perhaps the best course is to make love to my Hitachi more.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.

I am lost, but a little found.  Fuck, I want to fuck.  Fuck, is this what it feels like to be lonely?  Is this loneliness?  I can’t tell.

I’m fidgety and angsty and frustrated.  I want my atoms to mingle with the stars, but I also want to get lost in a love’s eyes.  A love’s.  But I don’t know if I’m built for love anymore, just lust.  Lust I know, lust I trust.

I wish TG would hurry up and just come back already so I didn’t have to feel a thing.  I like not feeling.



Sometimes, we should remain lost.

Lincoln loved me when I was an innocent 18-year-old girl.

His love burned bright and inexorably for months as I struggled with his attentions.  I couldn’t understand why this handsome 19-year-old boy liked anything about me, but he clung tightly.  His letters came regularly, his beautiful cursive unmistakable.  His words inked so tenderly my young heart often broke as I read for I was confused and uncertain about my own.

He had no car, so I would drive to the shipyard where he’d be waiting for me, the giant Navy ship he called home loomed heavily behind him like a sleeping mountain.  He’d pick me up and squeeze me and I’d sigh not with pleasure, but with impatience.  I wished he didn’t like me so much.

Our little misbegotten love affair ended when my little sister caught him reading a letter I had written, but never sent.  A note which captured a vulnerable moment wherein I contemplated loving him.  His earnest search for me in that letter caused me to evict him from my life instantly and without remorse.  I crushed him irrevocably that day.

Years later I hunted for him online.   Little tidbits of information he’d told became the only leads I had.  He was from Texas somewhere, I had his last name, he’d been in the Navy.  I poured over people-finder and high school class websites, but to no avail.  And then Facebook happened and there he fucking was.

I found him married, with many children through different marriages and configurations and discovered that he had lived 60 miles away from me for 5 years until he’d been restationed to somewhere in the south (via the Army this time).

We quickly caught up, but it came to a screeching halt one day when he announced that his wife was uncomfortable with him talking to me.  My husband understood my excitement and had blessed my discovery that Lincoln wasn’t dead.  Apparently, Lincoln’s wife had very different feelings about me.  And so, amid his many apologies, we said goodbye again in 2008.

In 2016 I became curious about him again and re-found him on Facebook.  I was no longer blocked from his account and messaged him, fingers crossed.  He was instantly receptive this time: he and his wife were separated and he was now 80 miles away, not several states.

We texted and talked on the phone round the lock for days, a virtual love-fest of lost innocence and crossed signals.  Our youthful romance figured prominently for him throughout his life and explained his wife’s misgivings of me.  I apologized for being such a broken girl.  He revealed he had been a virgin, too.  Our words were tender touches, two blind people rediscovering their surroundings with gentle explorations, every sense at attention.

Tearfully one night I revealed my double life.  He said he accepted me no matter what and was proud of me.  I shared the blog and Hy and everything I had ever done.  Still, he accepted me.  We set a date to meet.

He was a card-carrying biker now, literally a member of a national biker club with initiation rights and rivalries; the whole nine yards.  Tattooed all over, short, brown beard with a handlebar mustache, a Harley-Davidson hog his only form of transportation.  He looked formidable in my doorway, leather vest covered in biker paraphernalia, but his big bear hug was just the same.  And my immediate response to pull away was the same, too.

We reacquainted ourselves as adults side by side on my couch for the duration of a single drink.  I called a Lyft and we headed out to my favorite bar.  I didn’t want to just sit and drink at my house, the bedroom around the corner.

We laughed and flirted for hours.  The sun set and tears flowed as we finally said the things we’d always yearned to share.  I felt like a star-crossed lover, pulled away from a sweet tenderness I’d never again know.

Back home on my couch, we kissed.  His plump, soft lips were the same, his sounds, too.  I mounted his lap and he suckled my breasts — a move far past the Second Base of our youth — and I rubbed his crotch.  But I couldn’t go further.

I dragged him to bed, pulled the covers over us, and we fell asleep.

In the morning, I awoke to his big arm flung over my waist, his belly smushed warmly against my back.  I felt trapped.

He murmured and wriggled closer to me and I held still, but wanted to run.  His sweetness felt foreign, wrong.  I didn’t deserve it.  We got up and I made us coffee.  He had to head back to the club for a meeting that afternoon.

I was nervously distant and felt as if I could see the pain on his face, but it’s possible I only suspected to see it.  It was me at 18 all over again.  We hugged and kissed goodbye and the last I saw of him was the menacing skull and cross sewn on the back of his leather vest.

Over the next few days he’d call in the mornings to see how I was and we continued to text.  The intensity of our reunion clung to me like old perfume.  How could I fit him into my life?  I ate men for breakfast and Lincoln was no piece of sausage.  But I wouldn’t have to figure anything out.

One day, the texting didn’t happen.  I checked in and his answer was cursory.  Another day passed.  Again, barely a response.  And then he said we needed to talk.

My stomach dropped.  “Only one other man has ever said that to me,” I told him.  “And then that man left me.”

“Things are complicated,” he said.

A day or two went by without any other word and I guessed that he was reconciling with his ex and we could no longer be friends.  “Am I right??”

“Yes you are. Did some soul-searching. I appreciate your friendship but this is the path I choose.”

I burst into tears and tried in vain to get him to reconcile with her and still be friends with me.  He refused.

“I can’t believe this… I mean, of course you have to do what you need to and I support that, but… fuck.  This hurts.  Not gonna lie.”

“I know and I’m sorry. But I have to make her and my son my priority. Not just over you but the club and everything else.”

“I get that, I just don’t know why you can’t do both: be in my life as a friend and make her a priority but, ok… I guess now it’s my turn to have my heart broken, huh?  I wish you the best, Lincoln, and I’ll always be here for you.  I’ve got to go – need to pull myself together before I head into work.”

And his final words to me:

“Take care.”

He unfriended me on Facebook and has remained silent since, just as he said he would.

I doubled over and sobbed.  Lincoln seemed to be my lifeline to so many things.  The innocent girl I was to the wanton woman I am, the past to the future, from Hy to Me.  And he had chosen something else outright over any of it in even the slightest form.

I cried for a few more minutes, took a deep breath, and brushed myself off.  I had lived most of my adult life without him thus far; there was no reason I couldn’t easily go on without him for the rest.  But now the story is sad for far more reasons than youthful misgivings and childish anger.  Now I’m sad because I know I have truly lost him — forever — and I wish I had never found him again.

Soul searching, indeed.



Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Plugging back in.

Something wonderful happened the instant I shut down my dating profiles.  Gone were the twitches to check email.  Gone was the guilt in my delay, my sloppy responses.  And gone was the worry I was missing out.

For years now I have operated under the assumption that if I said Yes to everyone I might be surprised.  Truth was I was mostly disappointed.

I feel lighter, more focused, more energized.  I’m cautiously exploring what it means to let someone get to know me while folding in this life as Hy.  I also feel the extra energy in my mothering and my work.

Peyton’s colors glow brighter somehow; my baby’s voice like bubblegum and sunshine.  I feel more, hear more, am more.

Had I known shutting off that faucet of illicit want and depravity could bring me this level of calm I’d have done it long ago, but perhaps I wasn’t ready.  Perhaps I had to wait for a million other things to line up to feel like pulling the shades on those windows (shutting the doors?).

When I think back over the many years of my life (for there are many) I am reminded of other moments like this where I feel like my life is beautiful.  The first time I ever rode a horse.  The smell, that rich mix of hay, dirt, and live animal; his warmth beneath my hand and between my legs; the muffled sound of hooves on dirt and a breathy whicker.

When I was accepted to a prestigious university 1200 miles from home.  I packed my little car with all my things and struck out on my own and never looked back.  I sorted out the bureaucracy of the school itself and life as a young woman all while taking 12 to 17 hours worth of classes a semester.  I hobbled through the finish line, but I did it.

I remember the first time I ever fell in love.  It was such a revelation; I felt like I suddenly understood all of humanity.  Why wars had been started over a love, why heartbreak could drag a lonely lover down with the fallen.  What a miraculous thing, love.  Does anything in our lifetimes even compare?

Again when I completed my graduate program with a 4.0.  Never before had I been so ravenous with my schoolwork.  The words I consumed melded to my bones; I am them now, they are me.  How lucky am I to be born in a time when a woman is allowed to achieve and grow and become an expert.

I discovered my body and its pleasures at a time when my life was torn apart.  Alone, nearly penniless, and wounded from a lonely marriage I found solace in the space between me and others, a cock the key to my emotional freedom.  I played in the sparkling pools of orgasm and unreality for many months like a toddler and accidentally realized my own power in my life.

My writing and this blog has outshone so many other relationships in my life.  It has survived The Neighbor and even other real life friendships.  It is a constant, wondrous, evolving thing.  I suppose just like its creator.  The friendships I’ve forged I will have till the end of my days, I have no doubt.  Who knew that my creative outlet and need to expose myself could harvest such a boon of love.

But by far the most outstanding memory I have of my life — which is a universe of emotion compared to even the simple joyful moon I am experiencing today — is the day Peyton was born.  The day I pushed a small body out of mine and held that little blinking face to my breast.  The wash of feeling that poured through me a cosmic binding to my helpless babe.

And every day since feeling the bond between us, knowing I am the protector, the mentor, the safe place.  There is no highlight greater in my life than that.

I’m plugging back in, I can feel it.  I want to be back here with you, Internet Boyfriend, and I want to return to me.  Hello.  Can you feel the hug??


That breast. My body reminds me of so much love.



Febraury Photofest

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

There was an unexpected end.

I’ve never done a Wicked Wednesday before not because I haven’t loved the idea, but because I’m not an organized blogger.  I can barely keep it together for my own meme and I think I only participate in Sinful Sunday about once every 6 weeks or so — again, same fucking problem: disorganized — but as I saw this week’s prompt and posts roll in I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The prompt reads:

End of what? A story? A relationship? End of a project? Or maybe the end of a movie, or a song, or a holiday? Tell us about “the end” – a happy one, a sad one, a funny one. Share your “ends” for Wicked Wednesday.


My life this year as a single person has been filled with ends.  Ends of week-long courtships, of interminable dates, of a 3-year love affair, of nights with clouds of semen sprayed in the space between us like little gloppy paratroopers.

The other night was the end of The Soldier.  He stood me up and disappeared into the black void of non-communiqué.  Drunk and supremely disappointed I texted David, the fireman.

He towered in my doorway and then he towered inside of me.  He hooked his fingers into my body and made me weep around him like a faucet.  He rammed into me like he was angry at me and I hit back with all my might.  His body blocked out the candlelight and he growled in my ear, his words as punishing as his hips.  I trembled my finish and my chest heaved with sobs of release and sadness.  I didn’t want it to be this man.  It was supposed to be The Soldier.  I wasn’t prepared.

I had planned on tracing his tattoos with my fingertips, my hot, wet tongue.  I had planned on relearning my body around his.  I had planned on becoming friends.  I had planned on kicking his ass at dominoes.  However, before it even began, it ended and with a crescendo of confusion and hurt feelings.

I also ended the reel where I pretend I don’t care about being mistreated.  Late at night — lo, early in the morning — limp from [mis]use by the giant fireman I checked my phone one last time.  Still nothing.

So I guess you don’t give a shit about me.

Super glad that I arranged my entire day around meeting up with you tonight.

I don’t get it.  I thought you liked me…

(pissy emojis)

I’m actually super sad (super sad emojis)

I broke character that night in order to admit I wasn’t the sex robot I appear to be.  I’m a person who has expectations.  Low ones half the time, but expectations nonetheless.   Like showing up when you say you will or, at the very least, letting me know that something’s changed for you and it can’t happen, or never will again.  It’s all good.  I’m actually more like a robot in that way than you might imagine.  I have a program for communication and understanding; I resort to full on reactionary human, however, when I am disregarded.  I think it’s a pretty good new start to things.

I’d like to say that this is the end of all the bullshit, but I reckon it’s somewhere in the beginning to middle of a long brown streak of shit in my life until I settle down.  The threat of harm from indecent, ignorant, or otherwise incapable people is always there, but when you deliberately — and unknowingly — put yourself directly in their path, well, you know: shit happens.

Saturday night was the end of one particular story line in my life, a continuation of another I thought had ended.  As many endings as I’ve experienced the past 10 months I’m not entirely convinced they’re all true.  People reemerge, they change, they soften.  Sometimes, my resolve is weak.

I wish I could say I want the endings to stop, but that’s not true.  As tiresome and hurtful as some are, others are equally hilarious and enlightening.  Like the fella on Tinder today who unmatched me when I said that in addition to no strings sex, I’d also like to be able to enjoy a beer with my lover.  I’d say that end afforded me to dodge a bullet.  Thanks for that, Jordan, 30.  4 miles from you.

Then there are the endings at the end of a cock, the ones which keep me warm at night.  The kinds where I shiver and cum streams upon us both and he quivers with climax and holds me close.  The kinds when our hot mouths part and the heady spell dissipates into pressed, smiling lips and crinkled eyes.  And the kinds that were high, kept above the fray of tangled feelings and left alone on the perch of fond memory.  The kinds of ends that remind me of why I persist with the beginnings.


wicked wednesday