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  1. My Daughter Refused to be a Victim

    March 27, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    Young woman from back showing the finger

    On the outside, my daughter is nothing like me. Her complexion is tan, her eyes are so dark they’re nearly black, and she has hair and brows so incredible they’re Instagram famous. True story. On the inside, though, I see more of myself in her every day. Not the reckless teenager I was at her age, but the woman I am today. She’s a pain in the ass, and strong-willed to a fault. She has a dry wit and she’s very cautious, only allowing a select few inside of the walls that guard her emotions. She’s one tough cookie. But recently she met a new boy at school who managed to raise every fine hair on the back of my neck; a boy who brought out in her a darkness I’d known in myself. He was a boy whose intentions I recognized from my past.

    At first it seemed as if he would be the one who would finally claim her young heart. He was a handsome mixture of African-American and French heritage, incredibly smart, admittedly sensitive, and the son of a retired NFL player who showed the promise of following in his father’s footsteps. And this kid, who sucked-up to me big-time, was head-over-heels crazy about my daughter. But after only a week of stolen moments at school and ridiculously long FaceTime calls, she began to change.

    One evening, I came downstairs from my office to find her huddled in the corner of the sofa in tears, a vulnerability she hardly ever shows. When I asked her what was wrong, she said, “I feel like all I do is say ‘I’m sorry’ for things I don’t even think are my fault.”

    Anxiety mushroomed in my chest as I remembered that same feeling. “They’re not your fault.”

    She reminded me how irritated he’d been the night she didn’t reply to a text right away because she was driving. Other than how absurd he’d behaved, I didn’t think much of it at the time, but as she continued to talk, the reason for his impatience became clearer. She then said how he’d refused to talk to her for hours after she didn’t post a photograph of the two of them together on her Instagram account as he’d instructed. He’d also told her if she truly had feelings for him, she would be more supportive when he had a bad day. And he’d had a lot of bad days, apparently.

    With each manipulative scenario she shared with me, red flags exploded through my brain like fireworks on the Fourth of July. “This is how it starts,” I said, but what I found unfathomable was how soon the breakdown began. They weren’t even officially dating, and he had already shown the tell-tale signs of a potential abuser.

    I freaked out as memories from a life long ago filled the space around me. Had I passed a trait on to her that left her unprotected? Was she attracted to being controlled as I had been? Was it somehow my fault she’d entered into a dysfunctional relationship?

    I shook my head, vehemently telling her to walk away from him, that nothing good and everything bad would come from dating him. “You have to trust me on this.” She swore she did trust me, but she felt the need to confront him, to tell him how bad he’d made her feel. For hours, she listened to him promise he would change. He swore he would never hurt her and begged for another chance to make things right between them. And before the night was through, he’d worn her down and she gave in to his pleas.

    It was a move that left this mama on high alert.

    My heart understood her desire to give him one more try, but my brain and past experience warned her that she would be watched closely, that I wouldn’t hesitate to step in and end it myself if I deemed it necessary. I enlisted her brother and her best friend, asking them to watch her behavior; listen to what she said, but more importantly, what she may not have said. Her bestie, who already had a gut feeling the guy was no good, was more than happy to take on the task of watch-dog. And her very sensitive, even-tempered younger brother wanted to kick the dude’s ass.

    Every day for the next week, I observed my daughter’s moods and asked how things were, if he was following through with his promises to be a better person. She said he was and that things were okay, but when I asked again, she confessed that she was afraid of him. She felt like he tried to separate her from her friends, because according to him, she listened too much to them. She said he constantly touched her and hugged her, refusing to back off when she’d said it made her uncomfortable, and he wanted to switch phones during class to prove he wasn’t talking to anyone but her. But we both knew what he really wanted was to see who she was talking to and what was said about him. At the very least, the boy had major control issues.

    My hackles immediately raised and I was ready to defend my young to the death. I was determined to do my damnedest to keep her from traveling the same painful path I had, but I didn’t have the chance to. To my surprise, she did something I wasn’t capable of doing at her age. She told him she didn’t like the way she felt when she was with him, shut down his pleas, and blocked his number. I’d never been so proud of her.

    As we walked our little demon-dog that same afternoon, I told her how impressed I was with how she’d handled the entire situation from start to finish. She’d realized there was a problem, and she talked about it instead of hiding it. When she felt threatened, she took charge of her well-being and removed herself from the situation. I didn’t know many sixteen year old girls who were capable of analyzing an unhealthy situation as she had. I certainly wasn’t able to. But then she caught me off-guard again, saying I was the reason she knew something was wrong so early in the relationship.

    “I don’t always ignore you,” she said.

    And with those sarcasm-laden words, I did something that is super hard for me to do—I cried.


  2. BDSM 101 Tips for the Newbie Kinkster

    March 17, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Valentine's Day BDSM gift

    No matter how hot things start out, over time, your sex life with your partner can get a little stale. You form a routine, and then before you know it, you’re in a rut. But instead of subjecting yourselves to a mediocre sex life, why not try some kinkier moves to help heat things up again? Before jumping into the deep end, take a look at our guide to help you dip your toes (and much more, of course) into the BDSM pool.

    Bondage

    In their Kinky Sex 101 guide, the writers at Adam & Eve describe the act of bondage as “a simple form of dominant/submissive sexual behavior where one sex partner is bound either to themselves (wrists tied together) or to a piece of furniture.” When experimenting with bondage, you can make yourself privy to your partner’s every whim by strapping into some cuffs, or practice your dom play by tying them up. If you’re new to bondage/restraints, it’s best to start with comfort-fit toys, such as silk ties, padded cuffs, and binding that has size adjustable straps. If you’re uncomfortable, or your extremities start to change color, your restraints are most likely too tight.

    Paddling

    Spanking or paddling can help you and your partner awaken some of your most sensitive areas. When selecting your spanking weapon of choice, your options are limited to your imagination in addition to what you and your partner are comfortable with. Beginners usually opt for classic toys like wooden or leather paddles. Eventually you can move your way up to more advanced toys that provide a little more sting, such as riding crops and leather floggers.Just don’t make the mistake of limiting your play to your partner’s rear. According to the team at the Art of Submission, “the back of the thighs and the inner thighs are often very sensitive, so you can get some nice reactions from your submissive when striking these.” Keep them guessing by varying the location and the intensity.

    Blindfolding

    Blindfolding your partner can add a whole new level of excitement to your play. Guessing where your lips, toys, paddle, etc. will venture next will have them writhing in anticipation of your touch. She Knows notes that “a blindfold is also a highly effective method for banishing body shame and shyness.” If you’re feeling too bashful to get in the BDSM mood, try eliminating the visual distractions. Get lost in the moment and focus on what you feel, instead of what you see.

    Sexy Extras

    For many kinksters, a Wartenberg wheel has become an increasingly popular addition to their toy collection. It was originally designed as a medical device to test nerve reaction and sensitivity, but it can also be used as a stimulating way to tickle your lover’s skin. Additionally, you can experiment with collars and leashes, or even nipple clamps for added excitement. Once you get into the spirit of BDSM, your options for play are truly endless.

    Just remember: you should never do anything that makes you or your partner uncomfortable. Aways have a safe word, and be sure to have established boundaries in place before getting started. Communicate, communicate, communicate about what you want to do (and not do) before embarking on a new activity. BDSM can be an amazing journey into emotional intimacy if you and your partner are open about sharing your experiences together.

    Who knows, you may learn that your sex life isn’t so “routine” after all.

     

    my37j

     


  3. An Almost Threesome

    March 13, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Happy girl kissed by two young boys

     

    Ever since my friend told me about her experience with the pizza delivery man, my fantasies have run rampant with visions of sir tying me up and offering me to a stranger. I’ve had threesomes before, but they had all been F/F/M. I’m usually the wingman to the main couple (a male and a female) in the threesome, and I was comfortable in that role. Being the main dish, so to speak, had never been a fantasy of mine until the delivery man anecdote. That situation changed everything and gave my spankbank a jumpstart.

    I shared my ideas with sir, of course. We talked about my past threesomes and what I enjoyed about them and didn’t. The truth was that I liked orders, and when left to my own devices, I had a tendency to be reticent and observe. So having someone tell me to, “get on that dick” was really helpful to me. I also liked having a plan. Now I knew that sex didn’t need a map to every nitty-gritty detail, but I liked having an overview of activities for the threesome.

    What can I say? I’m a planner.

    My experience with “just let it happen” usually meant that nothing happened, or the orgy you hoped for evolved into something different entirely. None of that was wrong, and sometimes it was awesome when I got the unexpected. When it came to satisfying my personal tastes in the bedroom, though, I wanted someone else to be the boss who gave me orders and who followed a general plan negotiated upon the desires of everyone involved.

    The more sir and I talked about it, the more the fantasy threesome became something we both wanted to try in real life. He wanted to give me the gift of a M/M/F threesome, and I wanted to be his fucktoy to be shared and used. We discussed the details and negotiated the rules. We agreed that: I would be blindfolded the entire time, there would be no double-penetration (I was too nervous to relax enough for anal penetration), and I didn’t want the stranger to kiss my lips (on my face). And sir had a friend that he thought would be perfect as our third, because the friend had had previous threesomes and was sexually adventurous. Our stars had aligned.

    The night arrived and sir left me tied spread-eagle to his bed and blindfolded to answer the door. I had watched him light the cluster of votives on the bedside tables, and the lights had been dimmed before I was blindfolded. Music played quietly near my head, and to calm my nerves, I focused on my breathing. I thought I was managing rather well, all things considered. I could barely make out the soft murmur of voices through the closed bedroom door, and my heartbeat accelerated when I heard the scrape of chairs against the tiled floor of the living room. It was almost time.

    The bonus of being blindfolded was that I could focus on my other senses. I didn’t care if I found the friend attractive, and being unable to see helped reinforce the parameters of my role as a pleasure toy. You don’t ask your toy if they’re in the mood to play. You just play with it. And that’s what I wanted. I offered myself as a fuck toy to my sir, and he had seen fit to share me. I felt thrilled, and simultaneously, like there was a cloud of butterflies trying to break free of my stomach. Gross but true.

    It was sir’s hands that touched me first. He kissed me, and I recognized the feel of his lips and the scent of his skin immediately. I responded eagerly as his hands began to explore my body, and when they hovered over my pussy, I silently begged him to fingerbang me. I wasn’t disappointed. He made me orgasm several times in that position, and then the bed shifted beside me. I heard the clink of chain and recognized the sound immediately. Sir had a flogger in his hands. I struggled against my bonds, knowing that he was going to flog my thighs and pussy. Again, I wasn’t disappointed. There was the rush of air as it was thrown, and I squealed and thrashed as the strands landed on my most sensitive parts. At different moments I wondered when the friend was going to jump in. I thought that since he wasn’t into BDSM per se, that he might wait until we turned from the bondage aspect and toys to straight up sex.

    Sir didn’t give me much of a chance to ponder the situation. He stole my breath as he rode my body, his large hand squeezing my neck. I felt the keen edge of a blade scrape against the curves of my breasts, and then the stinging slap as he brought the edge of his palms across my nipples. I was buffeted by sensation and unable to anticipate any of it. Eventually he untied me and made me sit up. He snapped the leash on my collar and led me stumbling from the bed. I was ordered to bend over and present myself to the stranger, and I did so with my face burning. I couldn’t see the man, of course, but I could feel his proximity. My ass and pussy were on display for his approval, and the fine hairs on my body stood at attention, waiting for the feel of his skin against mine. Every particle of my being waited in anticipation for the stranger to touch me, but again, I was mistaken.

    Sir pushed me to the bed and thrust his cock in my mouth, and I was distracted from the question of our third by a trip down the spiralling rabbit hole of hypnosis. Sir painted a tale of wealthy men at an elite club, where I was the entertainment for the evening. After he brought me out of my trance, he put me on all fours and fucked me from behind until my arms were too fatigued to hold my body in position any longer. Briefly I considered the other man in the room with us, but my thoughts didn’t dwell on him. My body was being pushed to endure, and at that point, I only had enough energy to hold on tight for the ride.

    After sir had finished with me, I lay in a heap on the bed, not even trying to peek around my blindfold to see what the men were doing.

    “Stay,” sir told me. “Good girl.”

    I had moved beyond caring about the stranger. My body was spent and thoroughly used. I had fucked, sucked, and taken all the pain and humiliation that my owner had chosen to lavish upon me. I wanted nothing more than a shower, an extra thick cheeseburger, and a bunch of snuggles. And water. Water would have been nice too.

    I think I might have dozed off, and then sir was beside me again, tucking me into the crook of his arm. I asked if I could take off the blindfold, and he said yes. It took a moment for me to catch my bearings again, and then I inquired about his friend.

    The man had gone home without ever touching me.

    I met the friend the next night, and we all had dinner at a Turkish restaurant. He was humorous and gruff, and despite his reticence the evening before, I liked him thoroughly. I suppose we never know how we’ll act in a situation for certain until we’re actually in that situation. And I would be lying if I didn’t say that I was a teensy bit disappointed that the friend didn’t participate. Apparently we had blown his mind with the stuff we did in bed, and he had only wanted to watch. He told sir later, on an occasion when I wasn’t present, that he had felt like he was watching a sex show. I think that’s a compliment? Sir joked that he should have ordered the friend to fuck me while he went into the other room and watched The Walking Dead.

    Nah.

     


  4. When Sex Isn’t Consensual

    March 6, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    Sad sight

    I never went into town when I visited my dad in the years after I fled from my abusive boyfriend. I didn’t even drive through it. I was terrified of coming face-to-face with the man who nearly ended my life, and I didn’t dare risk running into anyone who may have asked where I’d gone. It was as if I had vanished, and I intended to keep it that way. But that particular weekend, my grandaddy needed vodka, and because his was a dry county and I was a good granddaughter, I stepped out of my comfort zone and into the Beverage Barn at the edge of town. Like a poorly played game of chess, the move seemed safe enough when I made it, but it was a mistake; the beginning of a chain of events that would go horribly wrong for me before the game ended.

    He spoke to me while I stood at the register holding two half gallons of cheap vodka in my arms—the most popular guy in town ever. He was three years older than me and I’d hardly known him in high school, but he sat at the very top of the social food chain, and I admit I was flattered he’d remembered me. I’d heard that a football injury had taken him out of the game and he’d come home to run his family’s business after college. He was heavier than I’d remembered and not particularly the type of man I was drawn to, but he was a charmer.

    His eyes never left mine when he asked how I’d been and where life had taken me. Then unexpectedly, he invited me to a party later that night.

    Memories of cruel games he and his friends played while in high school flashed before my eyes; faces of girls I knew whose reputations they’d purposely destroyed. They became punchlines at their parties and the reason for many fights. I’d studied them—their hunting tactics—and could smell their bullshit from a mile away. I wasn’t seduced by their attention, their popularity, or the dream of wearing one of their class rings. I was smarter than they were, or so I thought.

    “You should come with me. It’ll be fun,” he said.

    Every fiber in my being screamed at me to turn him down, that nothing good would come from subjecting myself to the same crowd who had once looked down their noses at me, but because I was a little starstruck, I went against my instinct and agreed to meet him there. Besides, we weren’t in high school anymore—we were adults.

    I’ll never know if it was an orchestrated plan or a moment of opportunity in their eyes, but before the night was through, a number of men—all of whom I’d probably known since childhood—had non-consensual sex with me. I didn’t know how many were between my legs, or even WHO had been between them. The only thing I was certain of in my drunken haze was that they’d surrounded the bed, watching as turn after turn was taken with me while I lay there, drunk and powerless. And I wasn’t restrained forcefully, I didn’t need to be. I was distracted by my date as he kissed me from the side of the bed. Hell, I have no idea how long it was before I realized he was not the one on top of me, and when I finally did, I was already drifting in and out of consciousness.

    When I woke the next morning, I was hungover, sore, and terribly ashamed as the night before tumbled back to me in fuzzy pieces. I blamed the copious amounts of bourbon I drank, and I blamed myself for letting down my guard; for thinking high school mentality had been left behind, when clearly, it hadn’t. They still played their games; people still got hurt.

    The thing is, I was a woman who enjoyed sex immensely. I didn’t always understand my desires as I do now, but even then, I thrived on them, even if it was only for a brief time. That morning, though, I didn’t feel the glimmer of power I normally felt after a night of sex. There was no feeling of satisfaction either as I climbed out of bed and over the carnage of sleeping bodies on the floor. I felt dirty; used. I gathered what was left of my pride, my blouse with missing buttons, and again, I fled town. And like I had done with so many of the traumatic moments of my life thus far, I buried the painful memory of that night where I prayed it wouldn’t be found.

    Twenty-something years later, Heather and I talked about her gangbang fantasy and how that was a big ol’ ball of NOPE for me. It was then that I shared with her a glimpse into that night so long ago, into what I thought was a gangbang gone bad. She listened quietly, as if she were digesting the details bit by bit. Then she spoke:

    “Sweetie, that wasn’t a gangbang. That was rape.”

    The realization I had been raped slammed into me like a freight train, blowing the hinges off the door that held my emotions safely in place. How many times over the years had I come face to face with the men who raped me? How many of my rapists was I friends with on Facebook? How many of the men who sexually assaulted me sat in the same church on Sundays as my father? How could I hate the men who raped me if I didn’t know who they were? The biggest question, though, was how did I not see that night for what it was?

    Part of the reason it wasn’t obvious to me that I was raped, I think, was because it wasn’t violent. And other than the bruises on the inside of my thighs, which I’d had many times before and after, there were no visible injuries. But even though it wasn’t violent, it was still rape. I was also an openly promiscuous woman who rarely uttered the word NO in a sexual situation, even when I wanted to. And believe me, there were times when I really wanted to say no but wasn’t quite sure how to do so. The word felt unnatural on my tongue, and in my mixed-up mind, I thought  wasn’t supposed to say no, so I never did.

    I still haven’t dealt with what happened to me; the emotional fallout. At this point, though, I don’t feel riddled with anxiety or full-blown pissed off. Should I be? Maybe, but I’ve already blown my life apart to piece it back together where my promiscuity and desire for rough sex finally made sense. I understand the reasons my abusive boyfriend was able to use them both to control me; hurt me in horrible ways. And I refuse to be crushed again. Have I come to terms, in a healthy way, with the realization that I was sexually assaulted? Of course I haven’t, and according to Heather, I only share a fraction of the pain I’m actually feeling. I always have. It’s how I deal with life. I know I give the impression that I’m an open book by sharing the most intimate details of my life, but I’m surprisingly private and guarded. Will I open the wounds and take a long hard look into them? Eventually, when I’m ready.

    I’m sharing my story now, because I know there are others out there like me. Women who didn’t report sexual assault because they didn’t realize what happened to them was indeed, sexual assault. Women who at some point in their lives chalked up a bad sexual encounter as simply circumstance or bad luck, whether verbal consent was given or not. Let’s be honest, though, most of us have found ourselves in sexual situations we’ve regretted. But if you ever have, or have had the need to ask yourself whether or not it was rape, look closer at the source of that feeling. And if the answer is not clear, please, ask for help.


  5. 5 Reasons Pornstars Hate 50 Shades of Grey

    February 28, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    Not long ago, these pornstars explained Net Neutrality in a way that made me love the art that is porn even more. And it had nothing to do with the cheesy bow-chicka-bow-wow music playing in the background. Not entirely. Seriously, though. Who doesn’t love 70s porn music?

    Anyway, the three beauties, with all of their awesomeness, are at it again with 5 Reasons Pornstars Hate 50 Shades of Grey, and it’s spot on.

     


  6. An Anniversary: Dominance and Submission

    February 20, 2015 by Heather Cole

    Fashion photo of handsome man and two women

    The end of this month marks an anniversary for Sir and me. It was our first date, and I cooked him homemade saag paneer (an Indian dish) and baked him a cake. Little did I know that we would sign our Master/slave contract three weeks later. I will have been his collared sex slave for two years, and ever since I saw his calendar reminder of our anniversary, I’ve been reflecting on the evolution of our dynamic. I’m accustomed to long musings, just look at my blog posts for evidence of this, but this year’s anniversary reflections are particularly interesting with the phenomena of Fifty Shades as its backdrop.

    It’s easy for people to recognize the stereotypical male Dominant/female submissive trope. Like the dude in the photo above, the stereotype is that the male Dominant has scantily clad ladies prancing around following his orders. I understand the allure of the fantasy. The alpha male swoops in, makes the woman hot and bothered, fucks her into many mutual orgasms, and all is right in the romantic world. It’s one of the reasons why I write erotica, and why Fifty Shades of Grey broke the box office. The reality of Dominance and submission is far richer than what can be communicated through media. It’s not always grand kinky gestures all the time, and it’s the day-to-day interactions with Sir that give our D/s depth and meaning.

    I don’t resent the FSoG converts flocking to Fetlife and snatching up handcuffs from Spencer’s. I used to be one of those people with a huge exclamation mark above their heads and eyes newly opened with titillating kinky knowledge. My catalyst was a dying marriage and the movie Secretary. And by the time I entered into a relationship with Sir, I had already been around the D/s block once. I don’t think either one of us would consider ourselves the stereotypical Dominant/submissive, but in the beginning of our relationship, we probably had some of those expectations. For example, the stereotype that a Dominant should always be in control and emotionally distant because of that control.

    I think it’s bullshit.

    A person might be able to meet that stereotype if they only wanted to role play for a specified amount of time within specified parameters. And in the beginning of our relationship, I think Sir felt that expectation—that he should be in control at all times. But the gift of D/s to me is that the authentic communication required to sustain a dynamic dissolves the barriers between partners. We’re not robots or actors. We expose ourselves through Dominance and submission:  physically, mentally, and emotionally. We reveal our true selves in order to deepen our connection and cross boundaries. I wanted Sir to tell me how he felt, especially how our interactions affected him. Dominance and submission together can be an act of trust, and it can be a gift for both the giver and the receiver.

    After we got together, I clung to my independence outside of fucking, and I told Sir that I didn’t want to be micro-managed. He assured me that he didn’t want to choose my clothing or tell me what to write. Gradually, as we shared more of our time and thoughts, Sir began to ask more of me. He pushed at those boundaries that I had erected, and I had a lot of feelings about it. Many of them documented here. He asked for more of me, and as our relationship deepened and trust grew, I gave him parts of me that I hadn’t shown to anyone. He became more than my mentor, he evolved into my protector. That “daddy” aspect of D/s that I swore I would never want became part of our play. And the games we created reinforced our roles. Even when I pitched a fit and resisted a task, I eventually complied, because in my heart of hearts, I needed to obey him to make myself happy and to feel complete.

    That’s a factor that I think fails to come through in books and movies. Submission can be about playing obedient on the weekends or in the bedroom, but living in submission, with a Dominant at the helm of your relationship means digging deeper. D/s can be a journey inward as much as it is being tied up and fucked. The trick to that is revealing your inner self to the other. Not sexy at all, right? It can even feel scary at times. Like, what if I reveal a jealous or angry part of myself that makes Sir not desire me? Or worse, what if he shuts me out because he doesn’t want to deal with irrational me?

    Like I said before, it’s an act of faith and trust. I remarked to a friend lately that traditional relationships are a challenge for me, because I prefer to live in the extremes. My passiveness, which can be a detriment in the role of traditional girlfriend, is an asset as a sex slave. On the other side of the spectrum, my brattiness can be a positive within the context of D/s too. The control that Sir exerts over me is as much a construct of his desires as it is mine. He calls it a “tight hug” and during our time together, I have wanted that hug tighter and tighter. Especially now that he lives overseas. Those activities that we call games–like sending Sir pics of two outfits every night so that he can decide what I wear and how to style my hair for the next day–are ways in which we tell each other that we’re committed to our dynamic, and that we love each other so much that we want to make that effort. Sir promises me that he will show up every single day to talk to me, and every single day I see his handsome face and hear his voice. I rely on him as I have never relied on anyone, and in correlation, my love for him is deeper than anything I have ever experienced.

    It’s not easy and fun all the time. You can read about parts of our journey on this blog, and it’s one of the reasons that I continue writing about us. There are tears, debates, and angry words sometimes. We both have moments of resistance at different junctions, and some days, we show up to our daily talk with a heavy heart. But we show up. Every single damn day, we show up to be Master and slave, partners and lovers. I have never felt so challenged and so loved, and I wouldn’t want it any other way.

    Happy Anniversary, Daddy.


  7. The Masturbation Monologue

    February 13, 2015 by Nikki Blue

    Suprised young woman

    I must have been only seven or eight years old when my mother slid open the frosted glass shower door, catching me as I explored my clitoris in the privacy of the tub. Her eyes flew open wide and she gasped as if it were the most horrific thing she had ever happened upon. She snatched me by my arm until I stood naked on the blue bath mat, my heart thumping wildly in my chest. I’m certain it must have stung at least a little when the palm of her hand connected with my wet thigh two, maybe three times, but what I remember from that moment were her words; the judgement on her brow. She scolded me, pointing her manicured finger at my face while saying I was to never EVER touch my privates again, that doing so was a sin and God would know if I did. The ‘God card’ is funny when I think about it now, because my mother is and always has been about as religious as my shoe.

    My mother never spoke of that incident again, and it was her reaction that sparked the feeling that something was wrong with me for my sexual urges. It didn’t stop me from evolving into a very sexual creature, but the feeling of defectiveness plagued me for thirty-something years. I don’t ever want either of my children to feel the sex or self-pleasure they choose is shameful and dirty. So the Saturday morning my teenage daughter sat cross-legged on the center of the kitchen island while I made coffee, I let out a breath and went for it.

    “If you haven’t looked at yourself with a mirror, you need to,” I said as I leaned against the counter across from her, drinking coffee from my pink ‘Queen of Everything’ mug. “And don’t think it’s weird to do so, because it’s not.”

    She nodded, surprisingly not mortified that her mother had just suggested she examine the reflection of her most intimate parts, so I took that as a green light to continue the conversation. From there, I slid gracefully into masturbation, making sure she understood it’s perfectly natural and something she should never let anyone make her feel ashamed of.

    “Look at it this way, if you don’t know what you like or don’t like, how are you going to tell someone else when that time comes?”

    “True. Do we have waffles?”

    And just like that, she took control, closing the topic without so much as a pregnant pause. I smiled inwardly, proud of the girl who is like me in ways she has yet to realize.

    My daughter is sixteen and the relationship I have with her is the polar opposite of the one I had with my mother when I was her age. Hell, the one I still have. I’ve worked hard to make sure she knows she can come to me with ANYTHING without fear of judgement. I don’t break a sweat or dance awkwardly around topics that make most parents, I assume, terribly uncomfortable. I talk openly with her about sex and safety, pubic hair options and the pros and cons of it, slut-shaming, BDSM, and the newest feather to my sex-positive parenting cap, masturbation. Some of my friends are horrified by the words that pass between mother and child, saying they would never talk with their children about such things. They judge me a little, but that’s okay because I know my kids will be equipped with the knowledge they need, and I’m pretty sure that makes me the best mom ever.


  8. Dave Barry Reviews FSOG

    February 12, 2015 by Heather Cole

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    A friend of mine shared an article that Dave Barry wrote for the New York Times last March, reviewing Fifty Shades of Grey. Barry explains that he wanted to read the book, because…

    “…as a man with decades of experience in the field of not knowing what the hell women are thinking, I was hoping this book would give me some answers. Because a lot of women LOVED this book. And they didn’t just read it; they responded to it by developing erotic feelings—feelings so powerful that in some cases they wanted to have sex with their own husbands.”

    Read the entire article HERE.

    Barry offers his review of the book, and it’s not favorable.

    “This is the kind of a book where, instead of saying things, characters muse them, and they are somehow able to muse them matter-of-factly. And these matter-of-fact musings cause other characters’ brows—which of course were already knitted—to knit stillfurther. The book is over five hundred pages long and the whole thing is written like that. If Jane Austen (another bestselling female British author) came back to life and read this book, she would kill herself.”

    He’s very funny about not liking the book (which one would expect from Dave Barry), but what I appreciated most about his article was that he brought up two interesting points. The first being that what women consider erotica (he used the word ‘porn’) is not what men expect from porn. I’ve been saying this to my sir whenever he edits one of my stories. His complaint is that the plot interferes with the fucking. I point out that it’s because he’s a man, and if I wrote a story for him it would be 95% sex and 1% dialogue. Thank you, Mr. Barry, for supporting my point.

    The best part of Barry’s essay, in my opinion, is his conclusion about why women loved FSoG.

    “Why was this book so incredibly popular? When so many women get so emotionally involved in a badly written, comically unrealistic porno yarn, what does this tell us? That women are basically insane? Yes.

    I mean no! No. Of course it does not tell us that. What it tells us is this: Women are interested in sex.”

    HOLD THE PHONE, people. Women are interested in sex??

    And here comes my favorite of this article, he explains that many men grow up being taught that women don’t want sex as much as men. Shocker, I know. That’s one of the themes of our little ‘ol blog, right here. I mean, that’s exactly why we started writing about our sexual adventures. We, the women of Vagina Antics, wanted sex as much as men wanted sex. Not our husbands. Obviously. But like other men who wanted sex.

    So despite my general disdain for FSoG (for poor craftsmanship on the author’s part), Barry’s article made me resent it less. If men can interpret it to mean that women like sex, then sally forth, gentlemen! Just be polite about it.

    ~Heather


  9. Kinklectic Blog Hop – Cupid did me right/wrong?

    February 9, 2015 by Heather Cole

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    I have to confess, I’m not a fan of Cupid or Valentine’s Day. Apart from the chocolate. But then, I think every day should have chocolate. It’s my aversion to the romantic holiday that made it so much fun to write the short story for Kinklectic’s new anthology, Cupid’s Secrets. Thirteen Cupid-related stories by thirteen, very talented authors, and you can get it for $0.99 on Amazon HERE.

    To celebrate this auspicious release, I’m hosting a one-day blog hop to highlight Cupid and our latest release, Cupid’s Secrets. Our theme is: Cupid did me right or Cupid did me wrong. Tell us about your exploits with Cupid!

    TELL US!

    Post your experience on your blog (or comment here), and then enter the url in the link below. Don’t forget to let all your followers know where they can find more Cupid’s Secrets and some of the authors’ secrets too.

    My Cupid anecdotes are two-fold: one in real life and the other in my Cupid’s Secrets character, Soledad the librarian. First up is my real life tangle with Cupid and his tricksy arrows of love.

    Two years ago, I hosted a poly dinner party for my partners and their partners. That’s right. I invited my two boyfriends (and his wife), my girlfriend (and her boyfriend and his other girlfriend), and a Man of Interest, now known as my Sir. Confused? Yeah, join the club. You can read about the experience here: You Think The Story’s Over. Looking back at that dinner party, Dr. Hammer was the only person at that table that I hadn’t slept with. In fact, that party was only the second time we had met, but the emails and texts we had traded were already sparking what was going to evolve into a full-blown, collared, D/s relationship.

    I imagine Cupid perched on my buffet, invisible to me and laughing about the arrow he was about to sling. I thought I had it all figured out that night, and meanwhile, he was plotting for me to fall head-over-heels for the man I knew the least at that table. Flash forward seven months, give or take, and only Dr. Hammer, my dear Sir, would remain at that table. Little did I know that the title of that blog post would ring truer than I ever imagined.

    You won that round, Cupid. And I’m really glad you did.

    My character, Soledad, in I Hate You, Cupid also has her issues with Love. It’s Valentine’s Day and Soledad, a librarian with a secret past, is trying to summon the courage to tell her vampire best friend that she has a crush. Cupid visits Soledad and makes a dangerous proposition, offering her an arrow of love if she aids him. Will Soledad help Cupid and win the heart of her favorite vampire?

    Here’s a snippet:

    “You’re not going to need the gun, Soledad,” the cherub said and relaxed into the chair.

    “That’s for me to decide.”

    Working with goblins and demons made me more likely to shoot first and ask questions later. I shifted my stance so that I stood solidly on both feet. If I was going to shoot him, I wanted it to count.

    “I’m here to make your love fantasies come true. Shooting me would be premature, not to mention the fact that it won’t kill me.” He batted his eyes, the thick lashes making it look like he wore eyeliner.

    The word ‘love’ rippled through me, making the fine hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I sank back into my desk chair, the leather creaking beneath me. I was dealing with someone far above my pay grade.

    “True. Silver bullets won’t kill Love, but I bet they’ll sting like a motherfucker. How long does it take to grow back a wing?” I asked, batting my eyes in return.

    He gave me a petulant frown. “How am I supposed to help you fall in love if you insist on maiming me? I’m a god, you know, and irritating a god doesn’t usually go well for paranormals. Even those pretending to be mostly human.”

    His shirt gaped to reveal the smooth chest of an adolescent as he reached behind his ear for an unfiltered cigarette. He lit it before I could protest, flicking the gold zippo shut with a sharp, metallic click.

    “Who says that I need help with love?” I asked.

    The cherub took a long look at me, his eyes traveling from the top of my head to my heels. “One doesn’t need to be the god of love to see that you’re in desperate need,” he replied, tossing his hair back with a practiced shrug. “I’m going to offer you an epic deal, although I’m not the altruistic sort. I need to use your magic and your special authorized library access.”

     

    Buy Cupid’s Secrets to find out what Soledad decides, and for only $.99 (free if you have KU), you can have twelve more romantic, erotic, sexy, fun stories full of Valentine’s Day love and Cupid antics. Be sure to check out our other Cupid’s Secrets authors and their exploits with the feathery cherub!


  10. It’s a Party for CUPID’S SECRETS!

    February 6, 2015 by Heather Cole

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    We’re having a party!

    And I’ve promised to behave myself. No, really. I can. I CAN BEHAVE MYSELF!

    *cough*

     

    The fabulous contributors to CUPID’S SECRETS will be throwing a release party on Facebook. There will be lots of prizes given away, free books, and fun contests.

    I’ll be hosting 12-12:30 CST! (Oh crap, I’m going to have to figure out time zones.) So stop on by and join the fun! You can watch me (mostly) behave, AND you’ll have a chance to win prizes and score a free book from me. SCORE!

    Right. Behaving…

    Here’s the party link:  See you there!

     

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