I don’t know how to be happy.

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I blinked in the sunlight that streamed through my windows and stretched like the cat who lay on my pillow purring like a crazed motorboat.  He’ll be here soon, I thought, and as if on cue, I heard the front door open and close and the cat tore off to greet our visitor.

“Good morning, TN!” I called.

“Good morning, Hyacinth!” he called back.

I fixed  my eyes on the doorway and let him fill my view as he sauntered in, sheet marks pressed into his skin and his eyes puffy, but his cock enormous and jutting out against his shiny black basketball shorts.

I giggled at the image of his exhaustion mingled with a giant erection.

He walked up to the side of the bed and pulled himself free of his shorts, his taut, pink skin a slightly curved appendage for my viewing pleasure.

I wrapped my hand around it.  “Mmm,” I said and stood up.  “I have to pee.  I’ll be right back!”

When I came back out he pushed me roughly down onto the bed and licked his hand.  “I doubt I needed to do this.  Hmm, let’s see.  Could Hyacinth be wet already?”

“It’s possible,” I answered looking up at him.  “You wake up with that monster between your legs everyday.  I happen to wake up wet everyday.”  He pushed at my opening and sure enough he slid right in.

We moved together in the sunlight, carefully avoiding each other’s morning breath and hugged and humped and clutched and climaxed.  He pinned my legs onto his shoulders and moved until I was begging him to stop and then with a puffy-eyed grin kept going.

We were done relatively quickly, it being the morning and all.  He gently removed himself from me and lay beside me.  “Hang on,” I said and rolled over and grabbed my phone, something I’d done alone for so long.

I began taking pictures of us freshly post-coital.  It felt intimate and odd, like a salty candy that gives you two flavors at once.

He left shortly after to go to work and I smiled, stupidly happy.

And then I realized how uncomfortable I am with happiness and how I am doing my best to destroy what little peace I’ve finally managed to accomplish with him: I suggested that he fuck other women. 

The night I came up with this grand plan I had just met his parents.  Over the course of roughly 4 and a half hours I’d had a glass of white wine while getting dressed, a glass of Prosecco before dinner, and a glass of Rosé with my scallops, but when I’d suggested it to him he seriously wondered if I were drunk.

“I trust you, TN, I really do.  And I’m proud of you and I think you’re amazing in bed.  I want you to be able to go out and have fun.”

He just looked at me, dumbfounded as I blithely continued.  “No, really.  I’m so happy with you, I want you to be happy, too.”

“Ok…” he said, incredulous.  “But why the change of heart?  You’ve never felt this way before.”

“It’s because you told me you loved me and I feel safe with you, content.  I really feel like I could handle it.”

I’d dozed off then on his warm, furry chest and forgotten all about it.  But he hadn’t.

The following day he brought it up again.  “So, what you said the other night.  Do you still mean it?  Or were you just drunk?”

It all came rushing back to me: the warm glow of acceptance, the sense of safety, this ridiculous drive to prove I were invincibly in love with him.  What.the.fuck.  But I was too embarrassed to back out.  “No, really, I do,” I replied and then began that weird dance that people in open relationships do wherein they try to think of every possible thing they can’t handle: no two dates with the same woman, no threesomes without me, no lies, everything has to be transparent to me.  Then, of course I asked if he’d care if I slept around.

He was thoughtful, then said he’d be ok with me and another couple, but not with another man.  I told him I couldn’t imagine fucking another man anyway, I already had my unicorn firmly in my grasp.  He’d smiled at that and then I felt a twinge of something, like a tiny splinter: why would he want to fuck another woman? aren’t I good enough? the best?  And that’s when I knew I was full of shit and actively trying to sabotage my own happiness.

The next night, after the sweet, yet brief morning love session, I came to him with hat in hand, sheepish and utterly embarrassed.  “You’re right, TN.  I can’t handle it.  I think I’m just really uncomfortable with how happy I am.  I mean, look, we’ve only been this kind of happy for 3 months and I’m already looking to inject it with chaos.”

He pulled me into his nook and stroked my arm.  “I thought so,” he said.  “Besides, I’m not a player.  I’m really not that interested in opening this up.”

I’m almost 40 years old and this is a humiliating moment for me.  I left a marriage that was safe, yet passionless, and embarked on a wild year or two of no safety whatsoever, but chocked full of passion.  I manage to cultivate a passionate — and safe — relationship and the first thing I try to do is dismantle it.

After everything we’ve been through — 4 am girl, my secret sex blog, his resistance, my anger — we’ve made it.  He wants me and my entire life and I am inexplicably uncomfortable with his unconditional regard despite my longing for just this very thing.  I am a stupid bastard.

So for now we have agreed to just be happy with each other and I’ve vowed to immerse myself in this new sensation called happiness.  It’s strange and terrifying, but I happen to like salty candy so I’m going to keep chewing.

I have a secret sex blog that won’t be secret for much longer.

Twenty-six months ago, in December of 2011, I started this blog.  I was alone, heartbroken, sexually awakened, lustful, sad, hopeful, terrified.  I was wild with passion to mask my pain and I used men and my body to slake the thirst that oozed from me morning, noon, and night.  I was quite a sight.

For a year prior to that fateful day in mid-December a typical week would consist of 2 or 3 dates with different men.  Sometimes I would sleep with them, sometimes I wouldn’t.  I would dress provocatively, yet tastefully, allow a spaghetti strap to fall and absent-mindedly pull it back up.  I would lean in close and listen to their every important word and hide behind their disclosures, then put my hand on their knee, in control and flirty, filled up and never fooled.  I’d dip into their mouths or fall onto their cocks with abandon.   Happy, distant, very busy.

In my despair I was able to create a space of comfort and control.  I was distracted in a productive, healing way.  I did what I needed to do unapologetically.  I met good men and I met some lousy ones, but they all were a brick in the wall around my heart.  Until one day, I didn’t want to lay another brick.  I froze my acquisition spree and held 4 men in my  hands: Phillip, Kevin, Jason, and The Neighbor.

::

My journey to blogging isn’t a mystery to me, though it may be to all of you.  When I was married and a stay-at-home-mom I blogged.  And when things began to change I blogged then, too.  It wasn’t until I was about to move out of my marital home that an important man I’d met online, Big Tex, suggested I write about sex, too.  And so I did.

He encouraged me to use my words in titillating absolution; he supported my silly endeavor and encouraged me to keep going when I got shy.  He helped me find my new voice, one other than that of mother.

It was a different blog name back then with very different characters, but what I discovered was that I rather liked reliving my wild trysts with Troy and others.  I switched blogs once more to better reflect my new life and kept on writing, but I had made the mistake early on of sharing my writings with Troy and Lina and others who weren’t as safe as Big Tex, so as things became less pleasant for me I found my outlet not my own.  I had made the fatal mistake of sharing my blog with people who knew me.

I shut down that blog and was creatively homeless for 2 months before I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Writing had stealthily welded itself to my marrow over the course of the previous several years and not writing created only more blackness inside of me.  It was this darkness, this need for connection, discourse, and creativity that drove me to start writing again.  I finally had to admit I was a writer.

I switched blogging platforms to WP, found a title that very much matched my behavior and feelings over the previous 12 months — A Dissolute Life Means… — and promised myself to not make the same mistakes regarding disclosure that I had with my previous blogs.  It would remain a secret, my ego forever in check, my drunken desires for confession squashed dead at arrival, my need for approval a private matter.

Two weeks prior to this decision, I met The Neighbor.

::

I had no way of knowing that 2 years later he and I would be in love.  Or that he would be my very best friend.  It started out fun and surprising.  He matched my passion, appreciated my humor, and did things to my body I thought no one could.  We assured each other it would only be a friends with benefits kind of thing, but a handful of months later it began to unravel when I stumbled upon him on a date he had kept secret from me.  That night was eventful: I realized I loved him and I “met” Noodle for the first time.

A few more months and more heart-wrenching longing later, he left me for a woman I called 4 am girl (f.k.a. Pisspants for you longtime readers).  That, he says, is when he realized he was in love with me.  But because this is a tale of two flawed people, he kept it to himself and dated her for 6 short, but agonizing weeks.

In the months following 4 am girl we hobbled along.  I was still certainly in love, but furious with him for hurting me.  I was also confused, embarrassed, happy.   Yet again a big, fat hot mess, but I kept on.

I couldn’t break up with him, though I’d tried numerous times.  Our connection and proximity made it impossible.  And frankly, I didn’t see the need.

We spent more time together, learned to communicate better, and embarked on a different power dynamic that made something in me sing and we lurched yet another step forward, blind as newborn kittens but compelled to grow nonetheless.

As my anger faded my guilt rose regarding the blog: should I tell him about it?

When I was angry and we were clearly not in a relationship it was an easy answer: it was none of his business; what would it hurt?  But as we grew closer I began to question the ethics of my decision, so I battened down the hatches to safeguard my privacy and our identities.

I purchased a VPN for both my computers and my phone; I made a secret email account; I paid for StatCounter which I keep secret; I got a secret PayPal account; I refused prizes that had to be mailed to me and asked for gift cards instead; I’ve deleted browser tabs with the blog on it before I share my computer screens with TN; I opted out of opportunities to broaden my network in person via sex blogging conventions; my computers were set to save zero history; there is no auto-fill in their search boxes; I’ve avoided social media which I might accidentally get mixed up with my own real life personal ones, so I don’t do Instagram or FB as Hyacinth or Twitter as “me,”; I’ve painstakingly deleted all my copyrighted photos so as not to accidentally give away my URL; and lastly I have made up an association with a friend (Noodle) so as to not have to explain how she and I met, as well as with various other characters in my life who’ve come and gone into my personal realm (Gillian and Ella to name two who are no longer with us in our blog-o-verse here).

I never lie outright to TN, but there is a lot of omission going on.  I think I told him I met Noodle through my blog, the assumption being the retired one.  I never clarified, but left it up to him to be curious.  He never really was.

But all of this won’t matter if he feels betrayed.  I wouldn’t exactly blame him, but I hope he can forgive me and get on board.  If he feels betrayed, then I have to own that and figure it all out.

I’ve also come to believe that TN might actually be a little flattered by all of this and maybe — maybe — even a little proud of me.  I have grown my stupidly wild life and tales into a little tiny community of brilliant, open, loving, sexy people.  I’m kind of proud of me.

I can’t begin to fathom how he will react.  It’s just another unknown.

::

I told myself months ago while wrestling with this secret that I would tell him if he ever told me he loved me, because in that instant it would change the scene from me brokenly pining after a man who wasn’t interested in me to me loving a man who loved me back.  I would now be accountable for us, not just me venting solo on the internet.  He would deserve to know.

In a strange twist of emotions, I can’t wait to tell him.  I want to show him Boobday and have him meet all of you.  I want him to see how I see him: beautiful, intelligent, sexy, kind, loving, quirky, funny, complicated, and above all else worthy of all my efforts and affection.  I wouldn’t be who I am or where I am today without his influence.

I want him to see the journey, how I’ve gone from fearful to daring with my heart and gone out of my way to let him tell me his story in his own way and never speak for him; I want him to know that even though he might feel that we have few real life supporters, we actually have a small army of them here.

I used to say that I knew he loved me, but would never hear the words slip from his mouth.  It is pure paradise whenever I hear it now.  Of course, I still don’t know what the future holds, but then again I never knew, so I haven’t lost a thing.

::

I’m not sure what my goal is in revealing my secret blog to him other than the basic sense that it’s time to move on to the next phase of this whole thing.  I trust him with my life, why can’t I trust him with this?

I know that some of you are adamantly against me revealing this blog to him and to you folks I ask to what end?  I doubt I’ll blog here forever or even for a decade, but my relationship with him may last as long as either of those times.  I have no way of knowing.  And my blog, as important as it is to me, is not more important than my relationship with him.   Writing, on the other hand, is different.  I will always write, just not necssarily about the details of my sex life.

Having said all that, I am still afraid.  My hopefulness has its limits and I fear I will lose him, but the clock is pushing me: the longer I wait, the bigger the secret.  I have to do this.

I’ve never presumed to know what he is thinking or feeling in the past and so I’m not going to start now.  I must be brave and patient.  I will tell him and I will wait for him to show me his cards.

Maybe he’ll be holding the King and Queen of Hearts.

 

 

We masturbate with the light on.

hyacinthjones_polkadot_shorts

The outfit of ill repute.

I pressed myself against his bare back and reached my arm around to find his stiff cock resting on the mattress.  We’d been cuddling for a while and our new configuration had interrupted my stroking.  I sighed into his back and kissed his shoulder, squeezed the hot thing in my hand.  He picked up his stream of consciousness and I closed my eyes with a smile as I breathed him in and indulged completely my joy of curling around him while sunk deeply into my mattress.

My hand, wrapped around his hotness, lazily moved the length of him and I felt a familiar draw between my legs.  I was surprised; I thought for sure the pounding headache I’d endured all day had surely killed any kind of libido, but no… she was purring just below the surface.  I decided to test it and thought out loud to us both.

“How long has it been since you masturbated?”

“Since Saturday or Sunday whenever I sent you that pic.”

“Mmm,” I replied remembering the glorious cock shot I’d received, all resplendent dark pink skin arched like a dolphin above the surface of his belly.  “I remember now.  Thanks for that.”  I squeezed my hand again and pulled his shoulder toward me to reposition him on his back.

“I want to watch you cum tonight,” I said softly, firmly.  The room was filled with light and an evening stillness, waiting.

He politely declined, but I persisted, perceiving the game.  “It’s so hot when your hand is a blur, to watch you tense your big thighs,” I whispered.

I traced my hand over his meaty quadricep.  “And to watch you shake a little.  To see your arm flex, your biceps harden.  Your little grunts and then you curl.”

“I curl?” he asked.

“Yes, you curl, just a little, like this at the end,” and I demonstrated the little crunch he does during climax.

He moaned a little and took over.  A slight smacking sound from the head of his cock joined the lilt of my story as his hand moved quickly and expertly over his own body.  “Mmm, how could I have forgotten about that sound?” I wondered.

“I want you to cum with me,” he said.  Then added, “Please, ma’am.”

I rolled over and retrieved the Hitachi resting on a nest of tangled cords and put the head over my polkadot shorts.  I lifted my white see-through t-shirt and lay in the bright light, his eyes locked on mine for a moment before we both shifted to each other’s bodies.

The wand seared through me as I watched the blurry arc of his hand.  Words tumbled out of me as quickly as my orgasm tumbled toward its cliff of release.  “I love your cock,” I gasped, “It’s so fucking big.  Look at you: so beautiful, so sexy.”

His body was doing all the things I’d already described.  His legs were rigid slabs of muscle, his chest was taut with exertion, his breath coming fast and in little jerks.

“I can’t believe you put that giant thing in me,” I managed to say and then my orgasm pushed through me like a wave crashing on the beach.  It came so swiftly the second I was done I wanted more.  He was still beating himself with a steady, sexy rhythm.

“You’re going again, right?” he asked, hopeful.

“Definitely,” I confirmed.  “Talking — hearing my own voice say those things — made me cum faster,” I said a little incredulously.  “But it’s hard.  I’m so shy.”  He said he felt the same way when he tried to talk and I felt less silly.

I put the Hitachi back on me and kept talking.  Again, it pounded through me in seconds and I arched and moaned and called out.  He closed his eyes and moved to his own music, his own needs.  His hand moved impossibly fast and his breathing shortened.  I pressed my hand gently on his thigh, close to the magic and waited.

And then he curled a little and spurts of his seed came spilling out to rest on the brambles of his hairy abdomen.  He giggled a little and relaxed.  “See?” I said kissing his shoulder.  “You curled!”  He giggled again and sighed, wiped the cum off his belly with his bare hand.

I took it and licked some off and smacked my lips, rolled back onto my back and quickly had a third orgasm with the taste of his cum on my lips and his mouth latched onto my breast.

“Let’s talk about our feelings,” he joked.  I snuggled down into my nook and kissed his chest.  His arm squeezed me to him and he nuzzled me for a kiss on the lips.

“Ok,” I said.  “I love you.”  He smiled and I got lost in his icy blue eyes, the whiskers he was growing back for me.

“I love you, too,” he replied and I quietly wrapped myself in the evening’s joy as I looked out into the quiet stillness of my brightly lit room, his chest a pillow beneath my smiling cheek.

hyacinthjones_polkadot_shorts

What he saw.

A cuddle is as good as a fuck.

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I finally got to send a picture this morning.

This month has been a weird one.  I screwed up my pills the first week of the pack and got off to a rocky start and this week, the last of the active pills, I accidentally doubled up one day which set the stage for tears and knee-jerk irritations on Monday and a weird sense of disconnection Tuesday.

Monday night as I laid out all the day’s mini-turmoils I burst into tears [again] when I shared with The Neighbor how when my little 8:30 alarm on my phone went off I thought of Peyton.  It’s a thing I started doing recently to ensure I put my little one to bed on time and leave the room at a decent hour.  Typically we do a little dance on our backs and giggle and kiss and fling our arms in the air.  It’s a highlight of my day and on Monday when it went off and I didn’t have my baby with me I instantly burst into tears, the pain of being separated as acute as the first night I ever spent away.

When the tears sprung to my eyes, TN sprung to my side.  It was such a tender move, so kind, I melted into the moment and let his kindness wash over me, so boyfriend-like.  We retired to my room later and cuddled.  He expressed interest in sex, but my heart was too heavy, I felt too far away from myself, and I said, “Not tonight.”

The next night I had no tears, but I felt prickly, like I had this carpet of spines wrapped around me.  TN popped over and I was watching Girls by the fire doing my nails and I honestly felt interrupted.  He hung out for a little while and let me finish, but I didn’t want to stay there.  I felt a quiet frustration at our routine and said, “I want to cuddle at your place.”

“Ok,” he said.

I didn’t think it’d be that easy to convince him.  It’s been months since we spent any time over there.  Maybe since October.  I’ve neatly packed away that fact so it won’t get in my way of happiness, but last night I wanted to neatly step over it.

We walked next door and I smelled the sweet smell of his space, saw the little piles of his life he had on the kitchen table, the dishes in the sink, the glowing computer screen, the messy bathroom.  It felt like walking on the moon.  His room was clean, and his funny bed, the mattress on the floor inside the bed frame, was unmade and piled high with bedding.

We lit candles and laid down close to the ground and talked and cuddled.  I stroked his cock and he ran his hands over my body.  I asked him to not rub his hands near my pubis; it was irritating me.  He pulled me closer and kissed me.

And then he kissed me again and again and again checking in to see if the irritation was falling away.  It was.

He wasn’t trying to change my mind about having sex, he was genuinely trying to improve my mood.

He cuddled me from behind and from the front.  He stroked my face and hair.  He was so inside of me I felt cracked open, happy, a little scared.

Then, with a smile, he said, “You’re going to be leaving soon.”  We laughed our asses off because that’s what he always says to me from the softness of my mattress.  We cuddled some more and I told him I was about to say that myself.  He piled covers on me and loved on me some more and then it was finally time to leave.

He walked me to the door and I passed to mine through the freezing night and walked to my cold, empty bed with the memory of his arms around me and his heart in my hands.

I cum two different ways.

The tale of two orgasms: G-spot and clitoral.

Two nights ago The Neighbor came over after Peyton was in bed.  I was laying on the couch in front of a fire, he was dressed in a t-shirt and silky basketball shorts.  He stood between me and the TV and waited, smiling.  I looked more closely and could see the outline of a large, heavy cock straining against the fabric.

I reached out and stroked him and looked up smiling.

Minutes later he had pushed me down on the bed, licked his palm and rubbed the head of his cock and pushed inside of me.  He was huge and hot and brutal.  His lips nibbled my neck, his arms wrapped around me and we spun around the bed like wrestlers as we sought deeper, harder, more more more.

His hips curled into me and I wrapped my legs around him to pull him in closer. I ran my hands over his back and gripped his muscled shoulders which strained to pin us both in position.  I inched over the edge of the bed as he kept railing into me.

My pussy squelched a little and I lifted my head, curling my spine and a bloom spread hot and round through me, like a tendril, a rush.  It hit me again as he growled and kept curling into me as I ground down against him. 

Lights sparkled behind my lids and the white-hot wave rolled out of me through my fingertips, the top of my head.

I cried out and he shh’ed me.  “Hy,” he said urgently, “Peyton might hear you!” It was true.  I had been yelling like a banshee as the g-spot orgasms washed over me. 

He put a pillow over my face and we laughed as he kept fucking me and I screamed into it as another one hit me.

When we were done we cuddled and I caught my breath.  I felt stupid, heavy, happy, like I would guiltlessly give away national secrets.

::

Last night we cuddled on the couch and watched American Psycho (“I have to return some videotapes.”).  I was tired, but happy, and faded out at the end of the movie (as I typically do – so sexy).  When the movie finished we went to my room to cuddle.

I laid in his arms and we talked about a transwoman friend of mine who’s having troubles with her soon-to-be exwife.  I staunchly defended my friend who finds her ex to be rather stubborn about a certain issue and TN couldn’t understand why I, “someone who is so empathetic,” couldn’t understand the ex’s point of view.  It wasn’t an argument we needed to be having and he decided to deflect.

He turned to me, stroking my arm, and said, “You are so beautiful,” and kissed me.

I was taken aback a little.  As much as he says he finds me beautiful, it still isn’t that common.

I kissed him back and said thank you.  “No, really, you are.”  I beamed a smile at him in the dark, the one little votive candle really only casting darker shadows, not light.

“I can feel your smile right now,” he chuckled.  “It’s like radiating out at me.”  I giggled and nodded my head, our chat completely forgotten.  “Wow, was that all it takes to end an argument?” he laughed.

I told him hearing how beautiful he thinks I am will never get old.  He wondered if the power of the words would fade with time.  I scoffed just a little and said, “You might be surprised how little I’ve heard those words in my life. My mother doesn’t count.”

While we’d been talking I’d been gripping his cock.  It’d gone from chubby to quite hard once we’d kissed and he’d told me I was beautiful.  “How long has it been since you’ve masturbated?” he asked.

I couldn’t remember.

“Ok, then.  It’s time.”

I pulled out my Hitachi and we settled into position: me on my back, legs splayed, the head of the Hitachi on my underpants, him on his side, head cradled in his hand, his free hand roaming over me.

I flicked it on and the buzz took me away with the jolt of a speeding roller coaster.

TN watched intently as I tensed and shook a little, my roller coaster car twisting and turning this way and that. And then it had reached the top
of the steepest climb and I was falling, crashing. The roar of my own blood in my ears deafening, the fall so swift my breath left me.

I continued to plummet into the depths of release and my body arched and I moaned and whimpered as quietly as I could. Then finally the ride was over and I could climb out of my seat.

I lay there limp and panting only faintly aware of TN beside me. He put my hand — which had drifted away — back on his cock now a raging erection.

“Do it again,” he said softly. I could only nod as I began to stroke him.

As the buzz io the vibrator hit me it connected me to his cock through my hand; it was as if it were my cock in my hand.

Surprised at this new sensation I kept my hand moving. The faster I went the closer I came to cumming and then it hit me like a blast of air in a storm and I bucked and made weird noises and spasmed out through my eyelids. I went limp again.

And then he made me do it a third time. And I died. La petite mort and all that.

I laid there and contemplated my navel, my love, the true beauty of my body, this magical thing that happens to it basically whenever I want it to, and then I considered the differences: the bloom vs. the fall.

That’s the best way I can describe the two. I would never be able to choose between them, though they are very different.

Lobster vs. truffles. There’s no bad choice.

How are they different for you?