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  1. The “Do To Me” List

    October 9, 2017 by Heather Cole

    The “Do To Me” list arrived on a sweltering October day when I was irritated with a client and hating living in a place where it was hot and humid in the damn fall. The brain behind the kinky to do list came from a delectable man hundreds of miles away. We had flirted for years yet remained on opposite sides of the country. Words like “what if” peppered our conversations, but our physical paths had never crossed. Recently he reached out and asked, what if we actually did something about this attraction? He was in a relationship and our physical distance remained, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. What would we do if we actually got our hands on one another?

    Soon after that flirty text, I received the “Do To Me” to-do list.

    Some ideas to inspire you:
    – When we meet I want to fuck you, conventionally, just as a way to say Hello. Start with doggy and with missionary, pull the condom off my dick and rub my cum into your tits.
    – I want us to masturbate in front of each other, and I want to masturbate you with a vibrator.
    – I want to bend you over the hotel bed and spank your ass for being so dirty.
    – I want to tie your hands behind your back, put you in a spoon, and then slowly put my dick in your ass.
    – I want to choke you and slap you during sex.
    – I want you to blow me and I want to cum in your mouth.
    – I want you to give me a handjob and I want to cum all over your face.
    – I want to handcuff you to a bed and fist you.
    – I want to whip you
    – I want to take you to the beach and fuck you in public, but I don’t want you to scream.
    – I want to tie you down to a chair so that you can’t touch yourself and make you watch me blow and got blown by another guy, fuck and get fucked by another guy.
    – Then I want to untie you and let you join in.
    – I want gentle morning sex.
    – I want you to lick my nipples and touch my dick.
    – I want to whip you and teach me the best way to whip you.
    – I want us to be naked for 48 hours straight. After the clothes come off they stay off, and that time is dedicated strictly for pain and pleasure.
    – I want to lick your asshole.
    – I want to eat your pussy and fuck you with a vibrator.
    – I want to pull your hair.
    – I want to pee on you in the shower.
    – I want to wake up with you riding my morning wood.
    – I want you to date a woman and be happy, then bring her to me so so we can enjoy a threeway once a week.
    – At the end of the night I want to tie myself to you and cuddle, and kiss. I want to fall asleep inside you

    I had never received an email like this–so open, so full of lust and desire for me. It made my heart race and my pussy throb. I put my phone on silent and went directly to my bedroom to satisfy the aching need between my thighs. A masturbation break midday was exactly what I needed, and even though fisting was one of my limits, I read and re-read that list.

    I had always been a proponent masturbation, mutual and otherwise. This list of things he wished to do to me left me unsettled and needful. I felt greedy. I wanted to be touched like that, consumed with hands, lips, and mouth. I wanted the contrasts, tender, and rough. And I wanted it more than for a brief weekend.

    I wanted. No, needed.

    After much soul-searching, the idea occurred to me that I was enamored with this fantasy list because I wanted it in a real life guy. Perhaps it was time for me to be open to the idea of dating.

    *deep breath* No, I’m not panicking. You’re panicking.

    I had avoided any thought of actual commitment for the better part of a year. The idea of investing in someone to share this kind of raunchy, dirty, kinky sex and then the regular, everyday intimacies usually had me running for the hills. But this list… this list had me thinking of possibilities beyond the safe masturbatory confines of my four-poster bed.

    Maybe I was ready for something real.




  2. Pecan Pie and Old Patterns

    September 26, 2017 by Heather Cole

    Pecan Pie and an old Pattern

    Catsquatch inspect’s Guy’s handiwork. We both approve.


    Guy and I had a pattern. We engaged in fierce flirtation that would culminate into sex, and then he’d fall off the face of the earth. Most of the time the experiences together were blisteringly hot, but inevitably I would fall into quiet frustration when he disappeared. The first time I felt upset and disappointed when he went silent for weeks. We had made a rare connection during a dungeon session, and I had broken a bunch of personal rules to pursue the sizzling attraction.

    We were out to dinner to celebrate his birthday with southern cuisine and spicy bloody Marys when he brought up the pattern between us. He said that we had never really talked about it, and it took me a moment to pull up the memories of that first disappearance.

    “I broke several of my rules with you, to pursue something outside the carefully controlled parameters of the dungeon. And after a couple fantastic dates, you ghosted.” I didn’t elaborate on how hurt I had been by his silence. That going from an intense physical connection to absolutely no response had been a blow to my ego and confidence. But even though I had sworn to myself that there would be no further personal liaisons from work, I hadn’t wanted to write Guy off completely.

    That chemistry stuck with me. Eventually he would resurface, always unexpected and welcomed back into my orbit. After our third interlude, I realized over Texmex and margaritas, that we would probably always be exactly what we were in that moment. If I was smart, I wouldn’t expect him to change his behavior to suit my idea of “dating.” If I learned from the pattern, I’d enjoy what we had and leave it at that.

    The last time I saw him was the Texmex and margarita evening. We ended up in bed, of course, and I wrote about it here. He disappeared shortly thereafter, which I expected, but I decided this time that I wasn’t going to dwell on it. Then the summer happened where everything changed, and suddenly Guy’s unexpected appearances and disappearances were the last thing on my mind. We exchanged texts a couple times, but my responses were half-hearted. I couldn’t siphon enough energy to try and figure out what his intentions were.

    Two weeks ago, he unexpectedly messaged me about an Instagram photo I had posted. I had been cooking a lot, feeding my body healthy, slow cooking and whole foods as I learned to live with the grief about my mom. I snapped a pic of the shakshuka I had made, and a conversation began. Next thing I knew, he was ringing my doorbell.

    We both remarked how odd it was to be face-to-face after four months of no communication, and not once did I think I should pretend that I didn’t really, really want to fuck him. The spark was still there, and our glasses of wine were soon abandoned and replaced with hungry kisses and wandering hands. He pulled off my jeans and told me to turn around for a spanking. He had decided that he was going to top that night, and I could only laugh and oblige him. It felt good to feel his capable hands against my skin. It had been the better part of a year since I had been on a date with anyone other than Guy, and even longer since I had had a play session with anyone romantically. Even though it was only a hook-up, I felt greedy for Guy’s body on mine, his teeth grazing my skin, and his fingers digging painfully into my flesh. I dove headfirst into the experience, wishing to consume the muscular planes of his body like the richest chocolate. We were electric.

    We had two dates after that night, and during the span of two weeks, I was glowing. One rendezvous was unexpected birthday sex early on a Monday morning on the day he turned thirty-one, and the second was a handyman date where he hung a large, mirrored cabinet for me. We had discussed me topping him that Saturday, but he arrived horny and ready to play me.

    He was unshaven and dressed in jeans and a t-shirt that clung to his muscular frame. He carried his tools directly upstairs to my bedroom, and I couldn’t resist squeezing his perfect ass on our way up the stairs. Guy made it clear that my plans for our afternoon didn’t matter, and to my delight, he had me mostly naked and on the bed before I could pretend to protest. I wrapped my legs around him, welcoming the press of his jeans against my clit. He pinned my hands above my head with one hand and pinched a nipple with the other. Guy promised that I’d have his cock once the work was finished, but he’d make me orgasm with his fingers to tide me over the interim. I whimpered when he bit the curve of my waist and begged him to fuck me. We were sweaty with desire, and all my intentions to do something house-related fled. I wanted that man inside me.

    Guy prevailed and three hours later I had a new cabinet. My hands were all over him as soon as we had admired his handiwork properly, but we were forced to curtail our sex plan to make our dinner reservations on time. I had baked him a pecan pie to say thank you for the cabinet and also because it was his favorite. We would go back to my place for pie and sex later, but his question about how I was feeling had brought reality crashing into our dinner date. I hadn’t expected him to ask it, and I was unprepared with a response. I could talk logically about our pattern and the first time it presented itself. I was able to articulate how I had felt those many months ago, but now? I didn’t know what to say.

    He had been sweet, and funny these past couple weeks. We had talked about all sorts of things, laughed a lot, and talked more about our pasts. I would be a liar if I said that a tiny flame of hope hadn’t sprung in my heart that maybe Guy would stick around this time.

    He continued his train of thought and said that he was open to dating other people, although he wasn’t seriously looking, and he asked how I would feel if he went out with someone else. I tried to put my words in order.

    “I guess it would depend if she wanted to be monogamous and if you wanted that too. If it was serious between you and the other woman, I suppose I’d feel sad?” I fumbled around the realization that was slowly crystallizing in front of me.

    My heart sank. I wasn’t that girl. I wasn’t the one he really wanted to date. I was someone fun and sexy, someone whose kinks matched his and who he enjoyed fucking. I wasn’t the girl to date though.

    I fell into silence as I rolled the realization around in my head. I wasn’t good at feeling and explaining my feelings in the moment. I usually needed time to process before I could talk about them and be coherent. What I did know was that I was surprised at how much it stung. My ego didn’t want to be just a fun hook-up. I wanted him to want to be with me a lot more than he was comfortable, and a dark part of me suggested that I could make our hook-up into something better even if he wasn’t on board at first.

    Luckily I had had enough therapy to recognize my own patterns, and that was one of my more unhealthier ones. The idea that I could change a relationship based on personal grit and focused determination was delusional. All the emotional relationship work in the world on my part would not make another person love me more if they didn’t intend to.

    He wasn’t ready to focus on a relationship, and he was being honest about where he was. He was also being kind. The time we had shared was enough for him, and his honesty gave me a choice too. I could continue and hope for the next time or I could say goodbye once and for all, and close the chapter of our pattern for good.

    Dinner ended, and we headed back to my place. Great sex followed dessert, and Guy eventually left with the remains of the pie. I was left with feelings to sort through. In the morning light I sifted the tangle of my emotions to acknowledge the bittersweet position I found myself in. Guy had handled our conversation tactfully and with every attempt to avoid hurting my feelings. And when I got to the essence of it, I was emotionally OK with our odd pattern of fireworks and silence even if it wasn’t always comfortable. I could wish for more, but at least I knew that the chances of it happening were slim. I felt glad to know it. Ultimately I felt happy to have Guy in my life, however long that was.

  3. He Had Me At Clothespins

    September 8, 2017 by Heather Cole

    clothespin on nipple

    Today I’m pleased to host the beautiful, sexy, kinky Mia Adams and her clothespins. After hearing her wonderful story about how kink breathed new experiences into her sex life with her husband, I knew that she had to write for VA. I don’t think that kink is for everyone, but I believe that couples can try new things and explore each other in different ways to create a vibrant, living sex life. Mia inspires me, and it’s just one of the many reasons I adore her. Enjoy!


    It was a vacation we really hadn’t planned to take – a short, unscheduled trip to the Gulf Coast during one of the last fall breaks we would have with our teenage daughters.  Our rental was ideally situated for vacation sex, with the girls’ bedroom at the opposite end of the condo. Unlike at home, where busy schedules and the stress of everyday life could sometimes limit our romance, vacation sex was a given.  With a Kindle loaded with several deliciously kinky novels, I was already primed and ready for action.

    A few days into the trip, B and I rolled around on our king-sized bed, B’s hands gripping my ass as I writhed up against him.   As I reached for his cock, he flipped me over and asked, “How would you like some clothespins on your nipples?” I gulped, shocked speechless.  In a low voice, B ordered, “Get up, go grab some from the kitchen, and bring them back to me.” I jumped up and ran, naked, to grab a couple clothespins from open bags of chips, my heart racing and my pussy almost embarrassingly wet. It was a visceral reaction – I could feel my juices on my inner thighs, my face hot with a combination of mortification and arousal. I placed the clothespins in his hands and I watched, eyes wide and pussy throbbing, as B firmly pinched then pulled my right nipple and placed the clothespin on it.  Before I could gasp, the left nipple got the same treatment.

    I’m not going to lie – it hurt. A lot. Clothespins are not for the faint of heart, and unlike adjustable tweezer clamps they don’t have an “easy” setting without some form of modification.  But despite the throbbing in my nipples, or maybe because of it, my already raging libido went through the roof.  I couldn’t get enough of his hands, his mouth, his cock – everything was magnified, and at the touch of his fingers on my clit, I came, then came again when he fucked me. As B gently removed the clothespins from my swollen nipples, I moaned in a throaty mix of pain and pleasure.

    That day marked the beginning of a new chapter, not just in our sex lives but in every aspect of our relationship. In my mind, there was a clear delineation: pre-clothespins and post-clothespins.  Early in our marriage, we had fooled around with spanking and we had a fair number of butt plugs, anal beads, and vibrators.  But our youthful adventures had nothing on this new dynamic.  This had the distinct feel of D/s, and I was almost insane with desire.

    My sex drive had become that of a 16-year-old boy overnight. I thought about sex literally all the time.  I learned later that what I was going through was sub frenzy, but at the time, all I could think was “more please.” When I wasn’t actively fantasizing, I was cruising Tumblr, reading BDSM romance, or drooling over sex toy websites. I stayed continuously wet and horny, and discovered that the seam of my jeans could be both a help and a hindrance when I was in public. B and I discussed safe words, but in my mind, the words were really for him, not for me – because it was impossible for me to imagine something I would not want to do, or a limit that was too far.

    A couple of weeks after we got home from vacation, school activities were back at full speed, but so was my imagination.  After a particularly lurid fantasy conceived while traveling to and from afterschool activities, I could barely get in the door before I started touching myself.  B came home early from work to find me standing next to the bed with my hands down my pants, masturbating frantically. He bent me over the bed, spanked me thoroughly and finger fucked me to orgasm.  It was my best fantasy come to life.

    By the end of the month, the frenzy had eased a little, the need still constant but not so all consuming. On Halloween as the girls readied their costumes, B pulled me into the bedroom, locked the door, and handed me an oblong box.  I opened it to find a lovely crop, which he fiercely applied to my eager ass.  As I lay sprawled across the bed, ass red and welted, I could only marvel at the difference a month could make. Just by one simple suggestion, our sex lives had started a whole new chapter, and for better or worse, there would never be any going back.

    He had me at clothespins.

    Mia Adams is a sassy Southern girl and a lover of strong coffee, fine wine, and a firm smack on the ass.

  4. The Year That Everything Changed

    August 16, 2017 by Heather Cole

    I knew that 2017 was going to be THE YEAR. I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly or what precisely would make the year exceptional. All I had was a feeling in my gut. I remember telling my mama, “this year is going to be huge.” She and I talked every day about where we both were in terms of finances, personal growth, general health, our cats, and all the myriad of things you discuss with the person closest to you. Oh, the things we didn’t know at the beginning of 2017 could have filled a stadium.

    The year began with two big changes for me. I ended the most significant D/s relationship of my life so far, and this blog faltered as I scrambled around trying to figure out what I was going to do next. Did I want to keep writing here? Did I want to write more erotica? My writing was at a standstill, and for that space in time, I didn’t care. I continued to untangle the threads of my old relationship as I saved money towards the object of my desire. There was one thing I was certain of. I really, really wanted to buy a house.

    It had been my dream since divorcing that I would someday be able to afford a house as a single, self-employed woman. I was a homebody, a person who loved to nest. I enjoyed going out, but it didn’t feed my soul like cooking in my kitchen or curling up with Catsquatch in bed did. Home was definitely where my heart was, so I busted my ass cleaning up my credit, paying off my debt, and increasing my income so that I would be mortgage-worthy. I had no idea how it would work or how the puzzle pieces would fit together, but I knew in my heart that I wanted a house. It was the next stage in my personal evolution, and I knew I could do it. I didn’t know the details of “how,” but there was this rocket of desire pushing me to accomplish it this year.

    In April, on a whim, I began the mortgage application process to see if I could get approved, and by May, I was seriously hunting for houses. I couldn’t believe it, and I kept mentioning to Mama that it seemed impossible that my dream was coming true finally. She said that she was living vicariously through me, and we jokingly planned about how we’d arrange “her bedroom” which was officially my office. I began to plan our first Christmas in my new house with excitement, and a little anxiety, in my heart.

    The beginning of June launched a month full of inspections and repairs, and I became consumed by the house buying process. My end goal was tangible, and every day during our phone call, my mama asked for an update. She demanded to know all the details, but something was off. Her speech sounded slurred, and she was forgetting things more than normal. My brother and I had made plans to visit, and I reassured myself that I would haul her ass to the doctor once I got there.

    She told me it was the usual chemo side effects that lingered, and that she was fine generally speaking. I didn’t believe her and urged her to go to the doctor. For the first time, I felt like she wasn’t being honest with me. But I couldn’t make her do anything she didn’t want to do. She finally admitted that she was afraid to go, because doctors always told her bad news. I couldn’t summon the words for an argument, because since being diagnosed with cancer over three years ago, the medical news had almost always been negative. Worry settled into my stomach.

    A week after that, my aunt called me late on Tuesday night. She told me that it was time to come home and that my mama’s health was worse than anyone had known. My brother and I scrambled to make arrangements, and I told myself not to panic. There were too many questions still. I hadn’t talked to the doctors, and I didn’t know enough yet. I repeated out loud, over and over again, “we still have time.”

    The day after my aunt’s phone call, I stood at my kitchen sink with my cellphone clutched to my ear.

    “I need you to be my reality check. I know it’s a burden, but I need you to tell me the truth.” My mother’s voice sounded weak.

    “OK,” I said, biting back a sob. “I think that you can do this exactly how you want. Regardless of what the doctors say or what my brother and I want, you can handle this in a way that you want.” I couldn’t bear to name the thing that loomed at the edge of our conversation. This was death, and I couldn’t name it.

    “That’s good,” she said. “I think you’re right.” She went on to talk about an alternative therapy, but we both knew it would never accumulate into action. She was too weak and out of options.

    Mama had finally conceded to go to the ER to have tests done. She learned that she now had a brain tumor, and cancer had metastasized in her lungs. She had a mass in her liver, and her oncologist projected six more months of life if she was lucky.

    She didn’t want to tell me. In fact, she had asked my uncle to break the news to me. It turned out that her diagnosis wasn’t the only thing that she had wanted to hide. She hadn’t wanted to tell me that she had gone to church with her pants on backwards or that her “brain wasn’t right.” I ended up reading about it in her journal, and before you scold me about reading her personal writings, I felt desperate to discover what she hadn’t shared. The woman I knew and loved had gone to a place untouchable by me.

    I had spent my entire life confiding in my mother, and she had confided in me as well. But she had been unable to tell me the hardest things that she had to face alone. I think because she didn’t want to admit them to herself. Because she was scared. Because she didn’t want to die.


    I think about that conversation every day, and I think about the last time I saw her. She chose to die when I wasn’t there. She didn’t really want anyone there, but towards the end she allowed her siblings into her room to say their final farewells. I didn’t get to do that. I was already home. I had left with her smiling and hugging me. I had left with the promise that I’d return in a week.

    I had to close on my new house, and I wanted to pick up my daughter. I had every intention of going right back to mama, so that she could have some time with her precious granddaughter. My best laid plans, however, were not what mama had in mind.

    I think now that she couldn’t die with me there. That somehow I anchored her to this world, and she didn’t want to fight me about leaving. God knows, I didn’t want her to leave. I couldn’t entertain the idea that she would leave me even though I knew the odds. My heart insisted that we had six months, and that a miracle could happen in six months. But she was suffering, and her body had betrayed her. Her brain no longer performed the way she needed, and she was in a lot of pain from years of chemotherapy and radiation.

    On the afternoon that she died, I held my daughter close and we watched Moana. There was a part in the movie when the grandmother told Moana that she should pursue her quest, because “there is nowhere you can go that I won’t be with you.” I was reminded of the pact my mother had made with me when she was first diagnosed with cancer. We vowed to find one another that somehow the three of us, my mother, me and my daughter, would be together again. I don’t know that I believe in the heaven that my church preaches, but I believe that I’ll know her again.

    June and July have passed in a blur. I interred my mother’s ashes, worked with my brother to settle her estate (an ongoing process) and cleaned out her apartment. We found a good home for her cat, and I sat at her dinner table and sobbed about never sharing another meal with her. I wrote and delivered her eulogy and hugged a hundred people who knew and loved her. I closed on my house, moved my mama’s things, and then moved my own. And I did all this with a hole in my heart the size of the moon.

    I am the walking wounded. You just can’t see it.

    The oddest thing was that the world didn’t stop even though I had lost the second most important person in my life. The sun rose and set. I still had to work. I had to figure out meals and do laundry. I had to take care of my daughter.

    The weirdest thing about this messy life, my messy life, was that sunshine pierced my darkest days. I could cry every day, and still go to the dungeon and have an orgasm. The gift of human connection and the ability to write about it existed alongside my despair. I learned, and am still discovering, that there was no “right” way to grieve and that it wasn’t this straightforward process of stages like Wikipedia may have lead me to believe. An acquaintance asked if I had “bounced back” from my mama’s death after reading the previous week’s post, and the words slapped at my face. Does anyone truly recover from losing their mother? I didn’t believe that writing about an evening of pleasure negated the loss of my mama. This year so far had been full of dreams come true and nightmares realized.

    Every day I reached for my phone to call her. I didn’t delete her texts, but I couldn’t bear to look at them either. She had influenced my life in immeasurable ways, had been my protector, advocate, and sounding board. She had been my dearest friend, the best mother I could imagine, and a devoted grandmother. She had born witness to my life, and suddenly I was unsure of everything.

    Who am I without my mother? And most importantly, what was I going to do without her? Hand over hand, bird by bird, I am doing my best to figure that out.

  5. The Proposal

    August 10, 2017 by Heather Cole



    The luxury car roared up the hill, its engine’s vibration thrumming through my seat. I was full of expensive wine and gourmet food, and I couldn’t help but think about what I was going to do with the man beside me. The proposal danced through my mind. My silk skirt inched up my thighs as I settled back to enjoy the ride. His broad hand fiddled with the console, and I could feel his gaze flirt with the hem that had fluttered below the juncture of my thighs.

    “May I turn up the music?” he asked.

    “Yes,” I said and moved his hand. I placed it on my upper thigh, forcing him to choose whether to crank the music or keep his hand tantalizingly close to my wet panties. He didn’t know they were wet at the moment, but I considered allowing him to.

    “Would your proposal really work?” I mused out loud.

    “It’s a simple plan really.” His hand inched higher.

    I thought back to the stories we had shared over our five-star meal and the confidences we had traded. He knew about my broken heart and had promised to never hurt me. He swore that he would always be honest with me, but I didn’t necessarily believe him. What I did believe was that he thought we were perfect for one another with our compatible kinks and lust for sexual adventure.

    His proposal was to foot the bill and fly me to whichever city he was working in for the weekend. I would have time to sightsee or write if I wished while he was occupied with corporate concerns. My only task was to find a suitable man for our sexcapades. Then at night we’d meet that willing man who would fuck me while my friend watched. He might participate or he might not. His fantasy was to watch me take big cocks and have loads of orgasms. I couldn’t deny the appeal of the scenario. I did love taking big cocks and having a plethora of orgasms. I even had a swingers’ website in mind to use.

    My friend had brought a vibrating egg with him to dinner and had challenged me to insert it before the waiter returned with our chocolate soufflé. I accepted of course, and then spent the next hour blushing furiously as he increased the vibrations and a loud whir filled the space between us. I was certain that the waiter heard, but by then the wine had had its way with me and I cared less and less about the small humiliation.

    Accepting the challenge of the egg was simpler than agreeing to run away with him on the weekends to fuck strangers. But I was too horny and too tipsy to think any further about it. I wanted release. The vibration of the bass teased me through the seat, and I squirmed, pulling his hand closer to my goal.

    “I almost forgot,” I said with a sigh. I lifted my ass and pushed my panties down. Then I spread my legs with my heels braced on the dashboard.

    He groaned. “God, that’s hot.”

    “Am I the first girl that you’ve fingerbanged in your Ferrari?” I didn’t wait for an answer but pushed his fingers inside me. “Make me come,” I ordered.

    He didn’t disappoint me.

    I had two orgasms, my body mirroring the crests of the hills that we flew over. I didn’t know how I was going to answer him, and luckily my body didn’t care. His fingers swirled inside me, muting my thoughts.

    Did I want a Daddy, a man happy to take me traveling and feed my voracious sexual appetite—protecting me while nurturing my kinks? It sounded too good to be true even though he swore there was no downside.

    Despite those incredible orgasms, I’m still deciding.


    Interested in reading my other anecdotes for Swingtowns? Check them out here:

    The Pink Unicorn

    5 Tips For Your Dungeon Experience

  6. Lending a Hand, a masturbating one

    June 6, 2017 by Heather Cole


    May was International Masturbation Month, and I hope everyone celebrated appropriately. I certainly did, and I meant to have a post up to talk about why I love masturbating for others and with them. In fact, it’s part of my duties at the dungeon. I guess you could say that I end up masturbating quite a bit, so of course I should be writing about it. And now I’m thinking about it… dammit!

    Even though we’re into June, there’s no reason why we all can’t continue the party. I was asked by the lovelies at Unbound to write about the topic of mutual masturbation, a subject near and dear to my heart. Mutual masturbation ranks pretty high on my list of fetishes. Frankly, the only way masturbating could become even more amazing is if you add friends.

    Unbound is a women’s sexual wellness and empowerment NYC-based start up with an overarching theme of women’s sexual liberation, to quote them specifically. And to read about my latest adventure with Guy and the last time I saw him, click on over there. I haven’t seen him since which is par for the course, and I’m not complaining. It just seems to be the way my life is going lately. The men breeze in and breeze out, and somehow, I’m really OK with that.

  7. Circumcised or Uncircumcised, that is the question… On ASK HEATHER

    May 19, 2017 by Heather Cole


    Dear Heather,

    I had two questions for you:

    1. How important is circumcision status of sexual partners to you when choosing an erotic and enjoying (pleasurable/enjoyable) sexual relations?
    2. In your personal life, do you prefer men to have been circumcised?

    Thanks for writing a great blog. I look forward to reading your reply.




    Dear J.F.

    Thanks for writing! Before I launched into my personal opinion, I decided to do some quick research on the internet about circumcision.

    “Circumcision removes a substantial part of the penis, which is not just ‘a piece of skin.’ The foreskin is a specialized, retractable sleeve of erogenous tissue that protects the head of the penis, can be manipulated during sex and masturbation, and amounts to about 50 square centimeters in the adult male.”

    To read the entire Huffington Post article by a Danish doctor in favor of leaving penises intact, click here.

    “…circumcision rate in newborns has declined from 83 percent in the 1960s to 77 percent in 2010. (The overall rate among U.S. males age 14 to 59 is 81 percent, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.)

    Additionally, the data suggests there is a racial disparity driven primarily by access to procedure and cultural and educational factors. Circumcision rates over the last decade reached 91 percent in white men, 76 percent in black men and only 44 percent in Hispanic men.”

    To read the entire CBS News article promoting male circumcision, click here.

    What I gleaned from an hour of perfunctory research on the internet was that there are supporters on both sides, the circumcised and the uncircumcised. There were doctors who claimed that circumcisions should be as accepted as vaccines for infants and others who claimed that those health benefits were overblown and that the procedure was painful and unnecessary. But none of that really answered my reader’s questions, now did it.

    I’ve had sexual experiences with both types of penises, and honestly, I never formed a preference. When I lived in South America during my senior year of college, only one of the men I had slept with was circumcised. All of my college boyfriends in the US had been up until that point, even the African exchange student that I had deflowered. So I was surprised when I encountered my first uncircumcised penis but not alarmed. And after we began fucking, it didn’t seem to affect anything one way or another as far as my pleasure was concerned.

    Flash forward to the years after my divorce, and I had serious relationships with two uncircumcised men. It was the first time I really took note of the joys of an intact penis. This probably was due to the fact that I was beginning to hit my stride with oral sex and blowjobs. I finally had gained an appreciation for how a penis tasted and felt in my mouth. It was also around this time that I realized that penises possessed their own unique scent as well.

    I loved B very much. He cooked incredible Brazilian dishes, and he played with my toddler daughter in gleeful abandon. During our nights alone we drank caipirinhas and had sex all over the house. Before we got down and dirty, however, he would slip away to the bathroom for a quick penis cleanup. He was the first man to explain to me that he preferred to freshen up his uncircumcised penis before sex. I told him that it didn’t matter to me, but I respected that he felt more confident doing so. At any rate, my attraction to him and the pleasure I received/gave during sex never suffered for it.

    The other uncircumcised boyfriend who happened after B was a different story. Generally speaking, his penis was large and he knew how to use it. I loved having sex with him. Blowjobs, not so much. My sensitive sense of smell did not jive with his penis scent. I didn’t know that there was anything he could have done to change it. It was biology or pheromones or whatever, and just like some guys didn’t cotton to some vaginas, the same thing happened with women and penises.

    In my experience, being circumcised or uncircumcised didn’t impact my sexual experience significantly. The most important aspects of sex to me were the chemical, physical reaction between us and our sexual, energetic connection. Sight, taste, touch, and smell all fed into that. Looking back, I don’t know for certain that the funky penis smell had anything to do with being uncircumcised. The boyfriend in question and I had way bigger problems than that, and sometimes I think that our clash of biological differences was the first sign that we were incompatible. At any rate, the part most important thing to me was, and still is, the quality of man who’s connected to the penis, be it circumcised or uncircumcised.

    I hope that satisfies your curiosity, J.F. Thanks again for your question!

    *boob smoosh*


  8. The Sex Unicorn

    May 1, 2017 by Heather Cole


    I’ve been talking a lot about unicorns and sex these days. OK, I talk about sex all the time. It’s the unicorns that keep popping up. (So many dick jokes running through my head right now. Focus, Heather!) Just last week I had the opportunity to write a yummy post for SwingTowns about this one time at the dungeon when we made a willing submissive into a sex unicorn. What the heck is a sex unicorn?? Well, my friends, click here and find out.

    Happy reading!


  9. The Fallout of a Breakup

    April 27, 2017 by Heather Cole

    This post has spent a long time in utero. The seed of it took root during the weeks after I ended things with LH. I dissolved our contract around the holidays, and in the first weeks of that freedom after our breakup, I felt reborn. A weight had been lifted, and I could be myself without rules or restrictions. I knew in my heart that I had done the right thing even though re-reading our entries on this blog brought me to tears. The LH/Heather duo that we had been was nothing like where we ended up. I remembered those events, but they felt far removed from the people we were now—almost as if they happened to someone else entirely. The breakup, though, was new territory in the breadth and depth of its pain. I had never experienced a D/s breakup so gut-wrenching.

    LH and I didn’t stop talking right away, and as the strands of our relationship began to further unravel, I saw exactly how entwined we had been. Our communication became strained as we debated until each call and text felt like an exercise in breakup masochism—deliberate cuts to my heart with each word we spoke. But I was reluctant to cut him off. All my old protocols were there waiting to leap into action. It was ironic that a long-distance D/s dynamic had such a hold on me. The tendrils of our power dynamic had sunk deep into my psyche until it was a part of my emotional make-up. There were few parts of my life where I didn’t take him into consideration in some way.

    I spent a lot of time on this blog talking about my independence as a facet of my submission. I had a list of things that showed how independent I was, but when I emerged from the role of lifestyle submissive, I couldn’t help but feel how dependent I was on LH and our roles. For a long time after the breakup I was in denial about it. After the rush of freedom wore off, I turned once again to the man I had called “Daddy.” It was more than a habit that had worn its grooves into me over the years of our togetherness. The Little part of me, that girl that desperately wanted to believe that her daddy would take care of her, wanted to run back into his arms for reassurance.

    It killed me to know that I was afraid to be without him. I woke up in a panic every morning that our shared photos and files would be gone, that I would be blocked from his social media accounts, and I couldn’t bear to look at Fet to see if he had deleted me from his profile.  And those were only surface things. The real hold was that I had bought into the idea of being “his” so wholeheartedly, that I couldn’t imagine myself as anything but his submissive.

    What a galling position to find myself in. I played a role so well, and consented to play it, that it became my identity. And I wanted it. It felt good to me. I was naturally submissive, and with all my heart I wanted to be his. For years I had decided that no matter what happened I was determined to make things work. The man moved halfway around the world, and I insisted that we could continue a healthy dynamic. I convinced myself that a visit every three or four months was enough, and when those visits plummeted in quality and intimacy, I made myself be OK with it. It took me over a year to admit that I was miserable and then longer to muster the courage to change it.

    I spent a lot of time since our breakup questioning my reactions and memories. Didn’t we agree that his needs came first as the Dominant? Wasn’t it my place to serve? When I signed our contract, didn’t I agree to give him control? And I know what you’re thinking. That contract wasn’t anything legally binding. I could have protested and stood up for myself at any time. You would be right, but I wanted so much to be cherished, loved, and taken care of. I thought that if I gave enough of myself to him, that he would reciprocate in equal measure. When he didn’t, I told myself that I could make it enough.

    That’s when I had the big wake up call. With 2016 coming to an end, I took a trip down memory lane and leafed back through my journal. I wrote about the same heartache, the same emotional challenges, the same bullshit over and over again. Then I looked back even further at my serious relationships over the years and saw this string of selfish, manipulative partners. And then I said to myself, holy fuck Heather, DO NOT MAKE THIS YOUR LIFE STORY. I didn’t want to be on my deathbed and think, “Damn, I wasted a lot of time trying to convince emotionally unavailable people to love me.”

    The scales fell from my eyes. It eventually clicked in my brain that when someone said to me, “this is the best I can do,” without changing a blessed thing about their behavior, it meant that it was time for me to get out. It was just another way to let the entire emotional responsibility of a relationship slide off one person and on to another while pretending that it wasn’t a cop out. And when that same person chose to stay out all night drinking with random strangers rather than come home to me waiting in bed, it was a bigger more definite sign. All those signs and it felt like it took forever for me to do something about it.

    Now I’m doing all the things you’re supposed to do after a major split. I got back into therapy. I’m taking better care of my physical self, sleeping more, reading, and allowing myself the space to be alone. The thing is… it takes so much fucking time to recover. That whole annoying analogy of peeling away layers like an onion is irritatingly apt. Odd things will trigger a barrage of emotions, even after thinking that I had processed it and was feeling solid with whatever piece of our past I had dissected. Those patterns of thought where LH was the center of everything… I have to change them. I catch myself ruminating along the well-worn paths, and I have to consciously stop myself. Yet they creep up like insidious friends with false reassurances. Habit does not equal love.

    I do go on the occasional date, and I’ve had some tentative negotiations about playing with various people. None of it feels right to me yet. I probably see Guy the most and that’s sporadic at best. He has his own shit to work out, and we established early on that there are no expectations between us except honesty and authenticity.

    There was also a guy who wanted to explore my confessional fetish, but he failed to get the approval of his wife even though he said he had it. Even after several attempts to make a potential scene work between them, I had to say no. He did me a favor though. I now have a personal rule of no more married poly men or married men in an “open” relationship (unless I’m unicorn-ing, and they’re dear friends first). Then there was a primal guy who wanted a (human girl) pet while on his quest for the love of his life. Plus the super-intense vanilla guy who wanted three dates in a week, so he could judge my “level of engagement.” Not bad men necessarily, but they didn’t fit. I want more than what they offered, and as awesome as I am in and out of the bedroom, I deserve to get what I want.

    I know I’m not the only one in the history of D/s to hurt after a D/s dynamic has ended. I know that dominants hurt too and can find themselves just as fucked up. I guess what I’m trying to say in all of this is that what you’re feeling is real, and it’s a challenge to sort through the wreckage of your heart and head to find a place to begin healing. It’s possible, though, and that last person you fell in love with doesn’t have to be the pattern of the person you love in the future. Be patient with yourself and forgiving. Allow yourself lots of time to feel stuff and listen to what your gut is saying. How you did D/s the last time, doesn’t have to be the way you do D/s down the road. You’re going to be OK, and so am I.

  10. Do’s and Don’ts of Unicorn Hunting

    April 9, 2017 by Heather Cole

    The label of “unicorn” brings up a lot of feelings for people, and I’m not referring to the magical horse-with-a-horn that poops rainbows. I mean the magical creature, male or female, who enjoys joining a couple to make a sexual threesome. I like the label personally, but everyone has different expectations of what it means to be one. There are challenges on both sides, for those couples searching for their mythical third and for those of us who are searching for a suitable couple to fuck.

    Not so long ago I was interviewed for a a New York Post article about being a unicorn: The Search for the Elusive Threesome Unicorn  Thank you, EJ Dickson, for the great conversation! (Yes, she gave me a top secret fake name to protect my identity.) The article is great, because she interviewed three women with different experiences being a unicorn. Like I said, everyone has their own personal expectations about it.

    So, if you are considering a unicorn quest of your own, or would like to be a third for a couple, here are my top tips to start you off on the right hoof:

    (I crack myself up.)

    For the Unicorn Hunters

    Choose the appropriate site – I mention in the article that as soon as you put on your dating profile that you’re into open relationships and are bisexual, the couple emails start to arrive. But guess what! You can be a single, bisexual person who’s into open relationships and NOT want to unicorn. Slow your roll, unicorn hunters. Consider the website you’re searching. Is it a database focused on alternative lifestyles? Is there a search option for threesomes? Joining a site like SwingTowns will exponentially improve your odds of a successful search.

    Read the profile – Regardless of whether the unicorn of your naughty dreams is listed on FetLife or SwingTowns, don’t skim over her profile. Read. Every. Fucking. Word. Does she say specifically that she’s open to threesomes? If not, is there some clue in her profile that invites your interest? If it specifically states at the top of her profile in italics that she is “not looking to be anyone’s unicorn,” don’t ignore her statement and message her anyway certain that you will be the one to change her mind. *eye roll*

    Don’t copy/paste – Look, people aren’t stupid and most can tell a copy/paste message from the get-go. Unicorns know how bait-casting works, but even though she’s not the only one you’re fishing for, you need to make her feel as though she is. Theoretically we unicorns know that you’ve probably been messaging lots of women, but please don’t be obvious about it. Mention something that you read in her profile and liked, and tailor your message to that woman specifically. Otherwise, if you’re not willing to make any effort at all, why should she even bother to answer?

    Prepare for rejection – It happens, and in this case, silence speaks volumes. If days pass and she hasn’t replied to your message, she’s not going to, so don’t send another asking if she’s given any thought to a sweaty meeting. Don’t ask for her email, her phone number, or anything else highly personal. Just move along down the road.

    Timing – Unicorns need time to prepare for a sexy romp with a couple–they need to feel safe knowing their limits will be respected. Don’t make plans to meet for an introductory drink with the assumption she will get naked with you an hour later. It rarely works that way.

    Most importantly, be respectful, be patient, and don’t be a douche.

    From the Unicorn Perspective

    Yup, I like complementing a couple as a willing third in the threesome. True, I was *this close* to being the filling of a man-meat sandwich, but that was unusual for me. I’m most comfortable in a supportive role to the main couple. And this brings me to my first piece of advice:

    There are Different Breeds of Unicorn – We all have our different definitions of the label ‘unicorn,’ which typically corresponds to the qualities one is hunting for. “I’m dreaming of a unicorn who is ____ and has _____ and who is totally into _____.” The trick is finding that unicorn who also desires the qualities that you possess. The mythical part of the equation is that the unicorn will always give/contribute to the threesome without asking for anything in return, like emotional or physical gratification. Sweeties, that is a myth. Unicorns want to get off too. The truth is that we come in all genders and sexual tastes, and guess what, we unicorns have our own personal preferences about who we cavort with. A guy I used to date told me that I wasn’t really a unicorn because I wasn’t sleeping with ALL the couples I knew. Riiiiiiight. I think someone was mad that I wouldn’t do him and his wife. Sometimes you luck out and can find a tasty third to your twosome on a hookup site. Everything can look perfect, but understand that the unicorn may be scrutinizing you as much as you’re checking out them.

    Just Because You Found A Unicorn, It Doesn’t Mean They Have to Fuck You – Hey, Mr. Married Guy Who Wants a Chick to Seduce His Wife, I’m talking to you. And everyone else. But mostly to you. You may have a boatload of unspoken expectations regarding the unicorn you found, Mr. MGWWaCtSHW, but that doesn’t mean she has to comply with your irritating unspoken/sort of articulated plans for her and your wife. CONSENT is a huge, important part of unicorning. It’s an important facet of relationships in general, but in this specific scenario—and I can’t say this enough—unicorns don’t have to fuck you if they don’t want to. Even if I slept with you and your partner just last week, there is no written rule that says I have to do so again. And if you attempt to manipulate me into complying based on the fact that I ‘did it before,’ I will knee you in the balls on my way out of the door. No means no, and if it seems like I’m teetering on the edge of a rant, it’s because this has actually happened to me and it PISSES ME OFF.

    Communicate and Be Safe – I talk about this in the article. If you’ve started a dialogue with a unicorn regarding the possibility of a threesome, be clear about your expectations and what you want from the encounter. Everyone should discuss their limits, the things that are OK to do and those that are out of bounds. It’s really important for unicorns, regardless of gender, to feel safe in a situation. They may be saying positive things leading up to the big night, but if for any reason they don’t feel safe or don’t want to continue, they should bail. (see #2) There are ways to do this politely, and the sooner you, the unicorn, know it’s not going to work, the faster you should notify the other party. But there is never any time when it’s acceptable to coerce or threaten someone into compliance.

    A Gentle Approach – Why do you think medieval literature insisted that only a virgin could lure a unicorn out of the woods? Because we are special! If you go clomping through the forest with your armor, a pack of dogs, and 30 knights from the round table, I can promise you that every unicorn within miles will be hiding from your loud ass. In other words, if you are a M/F couple looking for a F-unicorn, for the love of all that’s holy, DO NOT have the M of your couple approach the F-unicorn first. Even dudes with the best of intentions come off as sleazeballs. And your message shouldn’t be titled: “I’m looking for a playmate for my wife.” Bring your computer over here, because I’m gonna barf on it. Your rates of success will increase if the female part of your couple reaches out to the female unicorn first. Even if the woman doesn’t really know what she wants, or if it’s her first time with another woman, her saying exactly that will be better received than a man reporting it second-hand.

    Sometimes Things Don’t Work Out Like You Thought They Would – Oh group sex… you are such a wily and capricious activity. The more people you add to a sexual situation, the more chances you have of things going differently than planned. Sometimes this is totally awesome. Other times, not so much. Just keep in mind that your “unicorn” is actually a human being of flesh and blood. They’re there to participate in your fun, but that’s no guarantee that everything will be rainbows and cupcakes. Sometimes it doesn’t work out that way. But if everyone communicates about what they want and how they want it, your rate of success will be even better

    Remember: be safe, communicate like crazy, and keep an open mind. Some day, your unicorn will come. Er, you’ll come with a unicorn. Wait…