Friday, October 5th, is Boobday!

Hy tits banner in black and white v neck t shirt

I met with a friend who traveled to the mountains with me in mid September.  We’ve known each other for 20 years and some of our best friends were getting married on a mountain top.  While there with all of them I was near tears all weekend, not just because of the wedding, but because I was with my people.  My people, you understand?  Sort of like my blog people, except clothed.

It was all I could do not to open up to them all all at once, but I stayed my confession.  It really wasn’t the right time.  We were all basking in the love in the air, but last night, sitting across from this old friend getting a sweater I’d left behind in his rental car I was struck that the time was right. And so I did.

And guess what??  The sky didn’t fall.  He didn’t even seem surprised and then began to tell me all the female friends he has who also have double lives on Patreon and how he’s helped with photo shoots and with creative recommendations.

He understood that I was just trying to piece my two sides together and I was vague with the details, but it still felt good to draw them closer.

Then I came home, made a grilled cheese sandwich, watched Frasier and slept in till 10 am.  Woke up, read in bed for two hours then started cooking for the week in my handy dandy Instant Pot.

I’m about to take the dog on a hike along the river before Peter stops by then I’ll be going to a sex-positive event here in town with some peeps I know.  I’ll be home early, curled on my couch with the dog where I will continue to contemplate my navel.

I’m growing tired of the double life, honestly, and I’m running out of things to say here.  I wonder sometimes if it’s time to hang up my Hy hat, but then I think about losing all of you and I think No way, Jose.  Just relax and you’ll get your mojo back, Hy!

Anyway, I’m not going anywhere just yet (I’m totally going to London in March), but I am thinking about giving myself a break.  Setting up Boobday for a month and just going dark to see how I feel sans blog.  Last time I did that A Dissolute Life Means… was born.  Who knows what would come of a break this time around?

Love you guys.



Full Boobday Guidelines here.

One of two ways to participate:

1) either submit a pic to me via email ( OR

2) submit a link below to your own blog post for Boobday.

Also, just as a reminder:

If you send me a pic, be sure to tell me if you want to be anonymous or not and what your pseudonym is (if you have one or I gave you one)

Tell me why you chose the photo you sent

And don’t forget to comment on everyone’s posts! This is all about spreading the love!

My tits:

It’s been a while since I deliberately dressed for a photo.

NOT my tits:

Imagine being beneath Sandy.

I’m not feeling all that dissolute.

This sex blog affects my life.  I think about it constantly.  I frame encounters with it, interactions, images.  It is a direct reflection of my mind, my eye, and my heart.  The images I post are what I see and how I want to be seen.  The words are my art, the thoughts my deepest secrets, the behaviors the paint, my life the canvas, and this little bundle of 1s and 0s the art dealer to reach the masses.

But, I don’t want to “just fuck” anymore.

I used to have stories every week of this man or that man.  Different, all of them.  Threesomes were my bread and butter, as were random hookups.  Now I just write about the soap opera that is my life with my next door neighbor with the occasional frolic thrown in for good measure.

All I want is this one who is so close, yet so far.  I force myself to go on dates in hopes that maybe I’ll get my hair blown back by one of them and I can finally let go of The Neighbor monkey bar and grab onto the next.  But they all fall short.  Always.

I think back to how I met TN, innocently enough by inviting him over when I had some friends over.  The beginnings were a little weird, to be sure, but there was something there immediately, and though I fought it for a few days — stating loudly that I don’t shit where I eat — I finally gave in to his charms.  And here I am 8 months later in love with him; forced to see when his car is missing at 6:30 am, forced to hear his comings and goings, forced to acknowledge we have no fucking future whatsoever, forced to admit that it’s going to get worse before it gets better.

I feel as though I’ve lost my muse.

What am I to write about at A Dissolute Life Means if I don’t want to fuck anyone else but him and I’m tired of whining about our situation?

TN mentioned last weekend that we had a shelf-life until September (I wish I could remember why he chose that month) and I thought, “Hmm, maybe I can hang on a couple more months.  My birthday is in September, it’d be nice to have him around for it.”  These are seriously some of my thoughts and I’m ashamed of them.  If he didn’t live next door and if we weren’t such good friends I’d cut ties immediately.  Oh, right, and if the sex wasn’t so goddamned amazing.

My current thoughts on the whole mess have been that I’d end it by the end of July.  I have a speech prepared and everything.  But things just keep getting more complicated.  He renews his lease in the next couple of weeks, he’ll be in the same softball league as me, he’s friended some of my friends on FB whom we met at the wedding.  I want to fucking scream.  He’s so enmeshed in my life that this is like a full-blown goddamned breakup without all the benefits of having had a whole boyfriend.  I’m pissed and confused.

So, here I am boyfriendless and in love, undesiring of anyone else and horny as a 13 year old boy, with an audience waiting to hear my next lurid tale and all I’ve got is sniveling.  Boohoo this, boohoo that.  Thank god I have memories to pull from.  Lots and lots of memories.  Because while, and until, I work all this shit out it’s going to be more of the same TN Drama Direct and I’d rather be some place else.  Like maybe on Noodle’s porch sipping some Pinot Grigio while lamenting over our hearts’ betrayals of our pussies.

Fucking hearts.  Fucking pussies.  Fucking fuck it all.



I write when I get fucked.

I now know why I haven’t written much lately: I haven’t had a proper railing. Mediocre sex does not inspire.

But not tonight! Tonight I’m too exhausted to tell you about the awesome sex I just had, as is my cervix and pussy; my bed is drenched, my nipples sore, and my flanks burning with hand prints.

I’d like to write a book detailing every heated kiss and whispered moan, but I can’t. I can’t. Must rest. Will write later. With a smile on my lips and my body thrumming.