RSS Feed

‘Heather’ Category

  1. Friday is Boobday!

    June 7, 2013 by Heather Cole

     

    Heather Boob Day

     It’s Boobday at A Dissolute Life means… ~ Heather

     

    I’m a huge fan of Hyacinth over at A Dissolute Life Means… and every Friday I go and ogle the beautiful breasts that are proudly bared. Boobday has become an essential part of my week, and I love discovering the words and women behind the beautiful boobies.

    I’ve been debating about participating for awhile. I had never been particularly proud of my breasts. In my opinion, they were on the small side and out of proportion with the size of my nipples. However, my lovers have convinced me otherwise. So I thought maybe Hy would think they were Boobday worthy. She agreed rather emphatically. And I quote…

    Heather, I’m glad you’re doing this!  The little titties are sorely under represented on Boobday!

    If you’re not already reading A Dissolute Life Means… you really should. Hyacinth is an amazing writer. She often leaves me with soaked panties or with tears in my eyes from the power of her words. Her rockin’ body doesn’t hurt either.

    So here are my tits, y’all. Happy Boobday!

     

    adissolutelifemeans.com/boobday/

    Category Heather | Tags: ,, | 9 Comments

  2. The Meaning of Kinky

    March 2, 2012 by Heather Cole

    This post is dedicated to my friends, new and old, who have helped me, through their own journeys, see mine more clearly. Thank you.

     

    When I originally conceived of this post, I planned on starting with a basic vocabulary of kinky terminology. Nikki and I toss around kinky words like popcorn, but for much of our readership, there’s confusion about what it all means. In response, I made a page with a list of basic terms AND some resources that I found very helpful when I was figuring out what kinky meant to me. You can find it here.

    So why did my writing plans change? Well, because this morning I’m going for a biopsy. It will be a ten minute procedure at the doctor’s office, but the implications of what it means have been impacting my life for weeks. I’m not afraid. I know that whatever the doctors find or don’t find, I’ll deal with it. I’m strong and healthy and I have a great support network. The catalyst that spurred my spate of introspection was a comment made by my mother. Under the guise of caring and concern, she implied that the anomaly in my pap smear was a result of my lifestyle choices. I love my mother, and we’re very close, so these words were like a sledgehammer to my heart.

    Not so long ago, my mother asked what “being kinky” meant. I believe I gave her the worst explanation ever, because she didn’t want to know specifically what it meant to me. She didn’t want to know what got her daughter off, about the leather collar and the floggers and the man who dominated her. She wanted a generalized description, so I stumbled through an explanation of what I knew other kinksters enjoyed. It was a disaster all around, and I ended the call knowing that for the first time in my life, my mother was afraid for me. Afraid of my choices.

    This is the kick-in-the-nuts truth about being kinky: THERE IS NO HARD AND FAST DEFINITION OF WHAT BEING KINKY MEANS. There are as many versions of kink as there are stars in the sky. What does it for me may not do it for you. And just because we may be different, I would never say that you are or aren’t kinky. I’m beginning to agree with the Dom that Nikki referenced. Why call it kink? My sexual practices are perfectly “normal” from my perspective.

    This acceptance is sometimes hard to find in other people. It’s even harder to find within ourselves. That’s what I’ve been grappling with over these past weeks, my mother’s judgment only brought it to my attention. As much progress as I’ve made with accepting who I am as a submissive pain slut, that definition is evolving and it’s uncomfortable to feel uncertain. There’s no denying the fact that I’m a different woman today than I was even three months ago.

    I resist labels, because they’re stagnant. They work as a general, all-purpose shortcut in a conversation, but they’re not dynamic or flexible. I call myself a slave, but I have more freedom than many other submissives do. Other Doms wouldn’t tolerate my bratty mouth or my insistence at independence, but M says that I’m perfect for him. I’m a powerful human being whether I’m negotiating a writing contract, taking my child to the park or kneeling at my Master’s feet. No matter what I call myself or the toys I use, no matter who I choose to fuck and how I choose to fuck them, my sexuality is beauty, and power and joy. I engage my partners with love and respect, and I try to give as much as I receive.

    I don’t know if my mother and I will ever talk about kink again. I will answer her honestly if she asks, because I know myself and I will always try to speak my truth. Calling me kinky doesn’t really explain anything except to say that I’m different. And sweeties, that difference gives me some earth-shattering orgasms.

    Category BDSM, Heather, Kinky Sex | Tags: ,,,,, | No Comments

  3. What I Didn’t Know Was A Lot

    February 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    When did I realize that I truly was a masochist? The day I spanked myself thirty times with a thick wooden spoon, of course. I was alone with M on the phone, his voice at its smoothest and most polite. The tone that told me my ass was grass. Or in this case, black and blue. I was bent over the back of a plush chair, my skirt bunched around my waist. The wooden spoon was the biggest size they sold at Williams-Sonoma and I had originally purchased it to stir giant pitchers of sweet tea at family picnics. Until that exact moment, I had no idea it would be an instrument of torture on my pale skin. I also didn’t know that I would be inflicting the strikes myself per the instructions of the dominant voice on the phone. This, my darlings, was the beginning of my relationship with M. At one point not so very long ago, he was my eDom. A man whom I had never met in person yet trusted with my body and soul.

    True to the nature of online relationships, our courtship was a lightning strike. He singled me out of a group tweet with Nikki as we bantered back and forth about our kids. Watching M and Nikki tweet back and forth was like watching a knife fight. They fought dirty, and after a few half-hearted thrusts, I retired to the sidelines to watch them duel. When M sent me a direct message, I couldn’t fathom his intention. He told me I’d make a good submissive, and I almost spewed coffee all over my laptop. My response was, “I don’t think I’d make a good sub. I’m usually the aggressor.”

    As I read back over the emails we traded, M came across detached and in control. I called him by his first name, and I was bratty. Brattier than I am today, if you can believe that. I told him that he’d have to “earn” the right to the title Master, and to my surprise he agreed. He explained that my submission to him was a gift and that it was his intention to earn my respect and the right to be called Master. We didn’t discuss “ownership” and he didn’t throw around a lot of kinky terminology. We eased into it together, it seems, in a way that I can only describe as organic.

    What amazed me about that first conversation was that once I accepted my submissiveness, I assumed there would be pain as well. I slipped into the role as if it were an old coat, well-used and comfortable. It was like finding the key to a mysterious lock I had been carrying around for years. Suddenly, everything seemed to fit. I wrote, “have you ever had a moment where you hear something and it’s exactly what you’ve been waiting to hear, but you never knew it? Reading your last message I just had one of those aha! moments.

    “So now I’m a quivering mass of…everything…”

    eDoms conduct their submissives and play partner relationships electronically, and it’s the perfect way to learn the ins and outs (pun completely intended) of a potential partner. M and I were a couple that needed the next physical step to real life. We knew from the start that we would have to meet. I ached to feel his hands on me, his breath in my ear as he commanded me to my knees and punished my body. Email only took me so far. Even now I need to taste, touch and fuck him to be completely satisfied. However, our online Master/slave interactions allowed us the time to explore each other in a completely safe manner.

    We traded pictures of what we liked and wrote erotic scenarios back and forth, but the big test came when M told me to fetch the wooden spoon. At one point I seemed to watch myself from an outside perspective and had the thought, “what the holy fuck am I doing?” The slave in me responded with certainty that M knew what he was doing, and that he was steering us in the direction that we both needed. Sometimes I’m a helluva better slave than independent woman, but don’t quote me on that. I don’t want M thinking I’m too pliable.

    I feel extremely fortunate that my online relationship with M was able to evolve into something dynamic and fulfilling in our real lives. But without that foundation to our relationship, I don’t think we’d be half as amazing as we are together. I know M and trust him in a way that may have been impossible if we began in person. There are as many versions of kink as there are stars in the sky, and I realize that the way we developed wouldn’t work for everyone. I’m grateful, though. Grateful to the bottom of my greedy, bratty, little slave heart.

    Category BDSM, Heather, Kinky Sex | Tags: ,,,, | 1 Comment

  4. Sins of Our Past

    February 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Nikki and I had similar experiences in high school health class. Pregnancy was the biggest threat in my mind, and for awhile, STD’s didn’t enter my sexual vocabulary. That changed when the media began reporting HIV/AIDS cases. For the very first time, health class became relevant. I can remember Mr. Schneider drawing red circles on the chalkboard to explain a crucial point.

    “This is you and your boyfriend/girlfriend,” he said to us and drew two circles that almost touched. “He says he has only slept with two other people, right? And you? You’re a virgin.”

    He rolled his eyes a little, but the sarcasm flew over my head at the time. I was too busy watching more circles go behind the Circle Boyfriend.

    Mr. Schneider turned to face the class and poked a chalk-coated finger into the air. He coached football and enjoyed stabbing motions. “Now who can tell me how many people those two slept with? What if they’re lying? Even if they only slept with one person that doesn’t guarantee that they don’t have an STD. Without a condom, every person from that point of contact going forward will get their STD too. ”

    I watched in horror as the chalkboard filled with red circles. At that point I had only slept with two people, but Senior Week and a trip to the beach loomed on the horizon. I didn’t know it, but I was going to triple that number over the next three weeks. Even with a low number of sexual partners at that point, I didn’t feel that I could be honest about it. It was common knowledge that my boyfriend took my virginity in a cloud of Coors Light fumes on Mike Caroll’s bedroom floor. The ex-bf told everyone about those sixty seconds of infamy, and even now, as his profile pic pops up on my Facebook page, I question my sanity.

    I took that condom lesson to heart as my tally of sexual partners grew. I had no qualms about insisting on protection, but if the guy asked about my previous experiences, I broke out in a cold sweat. Even my girlfriends stared at me askance if I whispered the number. Eventually, I gave up keeping count and decided that if asked, I slept with eight people. Eight was enough to indicate that I could have fun and knew my way around a penis, but that I hadn’t taken up residence in the Land of Whores. I don’t know where that land is, but apparently, women who sleep with more than eight people own condos there.

    As I’ve matured, sharing my sexual history has become an act of trust. Up until meeting my Master, I had never told anyone the entire fucking truth, even the prudish, judgemental man I divorced. M gradually pulled the stories from me, and like Pandora’s box, they came tumbling out amongst a flood of embarrassment and chagrin. To my everlasting amazement, he didn’t condemn me. Despite twinges of jealousy, he relished them and asked for explicit details. They became woven into his fantasies that eventually involved him, me and someone(s) else. Instead of using my sexually adventurous past against me, he used it to celebrate the person I am now. Regardless of how others may feel about it, without those experiences, good, bad and horny, I wouldn’t be me.

    When I came up with the title for this post, I hesitated at using the word sin. I didn’t choose it because I’m ashamed, but because many people think I should be. Or they’d make snap judgments that I wasn’t worth knowing because I fucked eight (or so) people. What is the precise “weight” of a previous sexual experience? How does it or should it effect the relationship you’re in today? My point is this: if you’re with the person you want to be with, why do you give a flying fuck about their past?

    I promise you that I don’t, but baby, you still have to wear a condom.

    Category Heather, Sex | Tags: , | No Comments

  5. The Twitter Hook-Up: Part 2

    February 3, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Heather

    I’ve written this post a hundred times in my head and deleted it just as many. I even imagined speaking the words to you over the phone so I could hear your voice one last time, but I knew I’d cry. I’m a fool in a lot of ways, and I see my mistakes like a neon yellow brick road stretching behind us. Hindsight being so fucking clear and all. My heart is bruised and my ego in tatters, but at least the anger is gone. Now I can sit down and put these words to paper. This is what I wish to say to you while staring into your gorgeous blue eyes, my hand cupped against the scruff of your cheek.

    Twitter was still new to me when you sent me a Direct Message. We had a few back and forth jokes to boast about on our Time Lines and some light flirting, but I was still surprised by your message. You’re a witty man. You think fast on your feet, and our conversations were playful and fun. Our banter was a beacon in the dark days of my disintegrating marriage.

    We swapped war stories about our exes, and I called you more than once in tears over some new hurt and the worries for my child. The uncanny part was our mental connection. You filled my thoughts, and my phone would vibrate moments later with a text from you. We were tender, raunchy, funny and generous with each other, and it took no time at all for my Twitter crush to shift into overdrive before I could find the safety brake.

    You were one of the first people I told about M. I was a nervous mess before I revealed this secret part of me and held my breath as I waited for you to return with a verdict. You hinted that we needed to have a serious talk. As the days stretched into weeks, your silence spoke volumes. I watched my phone obsessively, waiting for the text or call when you would finally communicate with me about it. About us.

    There’s no point in dredging up every moment, every step where I knew something wasn’t right but didn’t want to look too closely. Despite my disappointment, you continued to make me laugh. I soaked up your attention like basking in sunshine, a glimpse of light peeking through the clouds. You felt right in my heart, and I leaped into the feeling without a glance at the rocks below me. I can’t apologize for that part. I loved you. In fact, as I’m typing this, I still feel love for you.

    The promises you gave me that I was the “only one” were unnecessary. Freeing myself from the cage of my marriage meant that I wasn’t about to plunge into another commitment. I didn’t care if you were dating or fucking other women. What I asked for was honesty. So when I found out that your trip to see me also included fucking two other women, I was…

    I was standing in my kitchen, staring out the window without seeing a thing. I was crying, but it was in relief. Relief that I could let go of your judgment of me. Finally we were on equal footing.

    Then the anger arrived like the hot blast from a furnace. I called Nikki at midnight and left her a twenty minute message about what I had learned about your other relationships. Let me be very clear about this. I wasn’t pissed that you sandwiched my visit between two others, I was pissed because we didn’t use a condom. My only partner had been my husband, and you swore that you didn’t have any others. I was too excited about oral sex and an impending orgasm of epic proportions to insist. THAT is inexcusable. I’m at fault too, and I’m still kicking myself that I jeopardized the people I love the most with something so careless. When there are multiple partners, my dear, you use a fucking condom or show me the goddamn test results that you’re clean. I’ll gladly show you mine.

    Even after the emotion had washed away, I didn’t want to let you go. I think it was the vision of our potential that kept pulling me back to you, and the fact that you appreciated aspects of me that had gone unnoticed for years. Never mind that we could set a bed on fire by orgasms alone. So I stalked your TL like an obsessed detective, trying to piece together subtweets and imagined context. I combed through your mentions to scrutinize the avatars, remembering a time when you used to respond to my comments. I was unable to let go, so I made myself suffer the connection in true masochistic fashion. Until now.

    Nikki’s advice was to punch you in the nuts, and at one point, I would have delivered it with ninja-like accuracy and maniacal glee. Luckily for everyone involved (especially your future lovers) I’m not in that place any more. Instead, I wish you the best. I see you for the amazing man you are, and at the same time, see that I can’t afford to be entangled in your lies. I hope you find whatever it is that you’re looking for on your TL and the women that flock to it. Since I know for certain that you’re not looking for an STD, use a condom next time. The next vagina thanks you.

    Category Heather, Sex | Tags: ,,, | No Comments