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  1. My Mother

    August 21, 2016 by Heather Cole

    Mother mortal coil

    I wanted to return from my travels with a fresh post about my time in Italy and how it had surpassed my expectations. My time with sir in a country rich in art, steeped in history, and incredible food far exceeded my most passionate vacation fantasies. The reality of Italy proved almost dreamlike at times. Did I really sit and ponder Michelangelo’s David? Had I gazed upon Botticelli’s Primavera amidst a crowd of people and wished I could physically press myself into its flowery details? I drowned myself in art and food while I basked in sir’s attentions. Other than daily correspondence with my mother, I was out of touch with everyone. It was surprisingly delightful. I arrived home full of foreign sights and sounds, buzzing with love and wine, only to find that life hadn’t stilled during my absence.

    I came home to a sick cat who needed a trip to the vet, and my car needed new breaks. My daughter had a dentist appointment, and I used that hour in the waiting room to frantically search for a cat sitter who could come twice a day to give Catsquatch his medicine. Meanwhile I fielded emails and texts from my brother and both sets of parents to coordinate our visit the following week. Oh yes, I was leaving town again in less than seven days for a roadtrip to the motherland. There was packing to be done while I tried to catch up on work, and the buoyancy of Italy couldn’t compete. Especially with the latest news regarding my mother.

    Sir and I were in Rome when I received the email. My mom had sent an update to the family, telling us that the chemo wasn’t working. A scan had showed that it wasn’t having any effect on the nodules of cancer on her lungs. Her doctor recommended switching the chemo cocktail and perhaps applying for an experimental drug trial. She had said that she remained hopeful in her message, but I knew better. I could read how she actually felt behind the sunny missive, so I choked back my fear and planned a trip north with my daughter. It had turned into the most inconvenient time to leave home when I had barely caught my breath from Italy, but I had to go. My little brother was going to meet us there, and I couldn’t postpone our departure without fucking up everyone else’s timetable. The worst part was the fear that I couldn’t shut out. 

    I’m running out of time.

    My mother looked older than her seventy years. She was physically fragile and her movements slow. She used a cane to walk around her small apartment and sometimes a walker when she thought we weren’t watching. The chemo was a poison that killed cancer cells and seemed to be killing the rest of her too. It affected her skin, her joints, hair, and nerves. We referred to her lapses in memory and problem solving as “chemo brain,” and I silently recited my mantra of patience, patience, patience. Patience as I waited for her to slowly make her way across a room, patience to explain again what we needed to do, patience with the long list of chores that had to be accomplished before we left. I snapped at her, feeling irritated when she instructed me for the hundredth time exactly how she wanted her dishwasher filled. But beneath that bubbling anger was fear, a fear of what I will do without her. It was a pain so keen that it stole my breath.

    She asked us to clean out her cabinets, so my brother installed new shelves in her pantry as I pulled out boxes and cans of food. She sat at the kitchen table with a blanket around her shoulders while my brother and I moved expediently around her, sweat dripping down into the collars of our shirts. The summer heat and humidity failed to warm her, so we didn’t turn on the air conditioning but silently melted into puddles in our shoes. We teased her about the exploded can of sweetened condensed milk that coated one spot, and I scraped away at the blackened, sticky surface. Eventually I asked her what had inspired her thorough clean-out, and she shrugged.

    “Oh, you know. I don’t want to leave with all of this stuff still …” She gestured at the expanding trash bag.

    I swallowed hard. She had finally mentioned the shadow that had ridden me hard ever since reading her email. I felt cracks appear in the shields around my heart, and I struggled to control the overwhelming tide of emotion. My brain refused to process the implications of her unfinished thought. I distracted myself with another task to focus purely on physical labor even though the denial was slipping from me with each moment we spent together. My heart beat with a throbbing ache in my chest. I couldn’t breathe. With some flimsy excuse, I fled the room.

    I hid in the spare room with the excuse of completing some urgent work. Sir called me soon after, and beneath his gentle questioning, my armor dissolved. I related the conversation, tears streaking down my face. The scales had finally fallen from my eyes, and for the first time since she had come out of remission, I admitted to myself that my mother might never recover.

    Our unspoken family motto is: if you put enough effort and energy into something, it will work. And if the thing isn’t working, put your head down and work harder. The older I got, the more I realized that this motto was not without its flaws nor did it serve every situation. Until that moment with my mama, I had been applying it to her recovery from cancer. I had believed, mostly unconsciously, that if I prayed hard enough and believed fervently that my mother would recover, then she would. That to entertain any thought of the contrary was counterproductive. So when she came out of remission, when the first kind of chemo didn’t work; these were signs that I wasn’t trying hard enough. I know it seems ridiculous that this was somehow my responsibility, or perhaps its conceit that my personal thinking would have that great an impact, but some part of my internal reasoning thought to make her better through sheer will on my part.

    I can’t, of course, and with the crush of my disillusionment came a startling gift. Sir told me, “at least you know that your time is limited.” It took several days for that to sink in, and at first, a feeling of resentment swelled at the seemingly harsh observation. He’s right, though. I can see now, and more importantly accept, that there is an end to the timeline. Logically we all know it. No one lives forever, but feeling that truth is something else entirely. Feeling that truth for someone that you love with your entire being… well, it’s fucking shitty. And terrible. And somehow freeing too.

    Sir’s advice was to take advantage of what I could finally acknowledge, and that I should wring every possible moment from the time we have left together. I know he’s right, and at the same time, my brain refuses to imagine a life without her in it. I’m surprised by how hard it is to sit with the feeling that our time will end and to somehow be OK. I’m striving to accept that these are the moments I have now. None of us really knows how much we actually have but we like to tell ourselves that there’s always tomorrow. I can’t keep saying that. Instead I tell myself to hold tight and love hard. It’s the best I can do.

    When my daughter and I finally arrived at home, it felt like I was walking with a bubble of sadness encompassing me. It has taken the better part of a week for me to find my footing again, and running has really helped with that. I’m still processing, still crying and sad, but I’m functioning better and can feel happiness through the miasma of grief. I was on the trail the other day, pondering the universal process of coming to grips with our mortality, and a scene from Moonstruck popped in my head. I had to laugh. If you’ve never seen it, you should. It’s one of my favorite movies of all time, full of messy relationships, long-lasting love, and of course, life and death.

    One of the storylines is that Cosmo is having an affair, and his wife of many years knows it. Part of the movie is Rose trying to figure out why Cosmo felt compelled to cheat, and she asks different characters why they think men cheat on the women they marry. Finally she comes to her own conclusion and tells Cosmo. (At this point in the movie, Cosmo doesn’t know that Rose knows about his infidelity.)


    Hold tight and love hard, my friends.


  2. Birthday Girl

    June 12, 2016 by Heather Cole

    This birthday girl loves cake!

    This birthday girl loves cake!


    Last month I had a birthday. Not a big milestone in the chronological sense, but a huge one in a personal sense. I’ve been slowly renovating my life with small improvements, baby steps if you will. It has been a slow change, and many times challenging (like in this post), but I’m so happy to be here.

    To celebrate my birthday this year, I decided to focus on my body and celebrate this “earth suit” that I so often ignore or criticize. I don’t have a model-like bod. I have bulges, scars, and freckles in ridiculous places. This body, though, has treated me well.

    I have relied on it to see me through dark times, as well as the joyful, and it has taken me to far away places to explore. Without my body, I wouldn’t have the daughter I have today. Nor would I be able to run on the trails I love or type out the stories in my head. Sir wouldn’t have a fine ass to spank, and my dungeon friends would miss their willing demo bottom.

    I’m changing my relationship with my body to one of love and respect, but I still have to remind myself to say, “I love and deeply accept myself in this moment, exactly as I am.”

    A very talented friend of mine, who is also a professional photographer, took photos of my birthday celebration with the help of his yummy assistant. He didn’t even mind when Catsquatch climbed into his tripod bag to shed white fur all over the black interior. I could have splurged on a new dress or shoes as a birthday present, or a well-deserved manicure. Instead I got mostly naked in my bedroom on a very hot day and asked my dear friends to snap photos.

    I can’t say that I loved all the results. Not because of D’s skills with a lens but because of my struggle to accept that this is how I look. I have a tummy that sticks out and cellulite on my upper thighs. Do I want y’all to see that? Nope. *I* don’t want to see it either. But while I may see them as imperfections, I also acknowledge the strength there too. I love good food, and I love cooking. The evidence is in my tummy and my thighs. I could not eat and exercise every day and rid myself of those things, but I wouldn’t enjoy my life as much. Been there, done that, was miserable.


    Birthday cupcake and a fine ass

    Birthday cupcake and a fine ass

    I’m in my early forties now, and I’m finished trying to meet other’s expectations (or what I perceive as their expectations). That goes for the unattainable cultural idea of beauty that’s splashed across our media too. I no longer wish to feel bad about myself for not measuring up. I’m pretty kickass just as I am, and I think you are too.

    I want to celebrate now. Here. This moment today.

    I will never be in this exact place again, and I want to remember this birthday celebration. Happy birthday to me!

    Happy ____ day to YOU!

    Let’s celebrate all our bodies!

  3. Say Goodbye to 2014

    January 1, 2015 by Heather Cole


    Happy New Year, y’all!

    I must confess that I’m not sorry AT ALL to usher 2014 out the damn door. Last year was a real bite in the ass for me in significant ways. The spring of 2014 brought my mama’s diagnosis of uterine cancer. Then in July, my daughter underwent successful open heart surgery. August was burned into my brain, because my sir left for a three-year work contract overseas. The three most important people to me all suffered. Hey, 2014, KISS MY ASS!

    The year wasn’t all bad, of course. I published three books, one of which went into an anthology with incredible authors, and I have even more expected to be published in 2015. Last year meant broadening my writing horizons and making new friendships in the blogging/author world. I also had some amazing sexual adventures with my sir before he left, and to my surprise and delight, those adventures didn’t cease when the geographical distance between us increased. Don’t worry. Y’all will hear all about them. Well, most of them. This girl does need her secrets.

    In case you missed them, here are three of my favorite posts of 2014:

    H is for How – A post written by my beloved sir in response to a reader’s question. I swoon all over again reading his words. *blissful sigh*

    She Stabbed Me, and I Bubbled – My first experience with needles. Reading this again makes me grin. It was SO MUCH FUN!

    Heather Orgasms in Public – I did! While hypnotized! In front of university students! (I’ll stop exclaiming now)

    Looking back at the year behind us, I’m able to see the growth and the gifts that arrived on the heels of heartache and worry. I was tested in ways that I couldn’t have foreseen, and I think I’m now in a better place than when the year began. Thank you, dear readers, for coming along for the ride. There are so many good things to come. Heh. Come…



  4. Porn Stars Explain Net Neutrality

    November 15, 2014 by Heather Cole

    The words “net neutrality” have been bandied about a lot these days. There’s a current smear campaign by Senator Ted Cruz sweeping across social media and the media in general. This tidbit came from Twitter: “‘Net Neutrality’ is Obamacare for the Internet; the Internet should not operate at the speed of government.” But if you know anything about this issue, then you know net neutrality is about the control of bandwidth which, in turn, controls content.

    Here’s my favorite post so far explaining the ins and outs. Heh. In and out…

    DEAR SENATOR TED CRUZ by The Oatmeal

    Comcast bullying Netflix into paying them millions of dollars to grant their viewers access to view Netflix content was surreal. And they got away with it! Now the issue is in the spotlight again, because people like Senator Ted Cruz want to base how the net operates on money. Those who pay the most, like Comcast, get the best speeds and unfettered content. Low income families, on the other hand, will be shafted. In the daily struggle of existence in poverty, do you think high internet fees are a priority?

    The beauty of the internet is that it’s a great equalizer. People come together that normally would never have met in our physical reality. The internet doesn’t care what your household income is or if you’re in your mother’s basement. The internet is this swirling mess of freedom and chaos that’s accessible to everyone, and I really want to keep it that way. You should too.

    Just in case you were still confused about why this applies to your life, let these lovely porn stars enlighten you. *giggle*


  5. M is for Mouth

    June 13, 2014 by Heather Cole

    My mouth gets me in trouble on a regular basis. I’m sassy, sometimes bordering on bratty, and words are my trade. If you can’t bandy words with me, chances are you won’t get in my pants. A friend joked recently that I always seem to carry a shovel with me. Meaning, I can dig my own grave with my words–a hole I can’t escape. My mouth often speaks before I can think through the repercussions which is one of the reasons sadists love me. I can’t help it so I’ve stopped trying.

    My mouth is central to my submission. I get spanks when I mouth off, among other things, and my mouth is a necessary tool when it comes to cock worship. I don’t give mere blowjobs. I worship, and my mouth is an essential part of this. It’s an intimate connection of taste, scent, and sensation. Until I met sir, I never realized how much fun cock worship could be for the giver. For that moment I’m in control, the architect of his pleasure. I’ve learned how to ply my lips and tongue to incite specific reactions in his body. BJs have become an integral facet of our dynamic, and I’m grateful for all the opportunities he gives me. Even the 3:00 am ones… ok, not those so much because SLEEP.

    Mouths are also a big part of the fiction I write, here and in my novels. Below is an excerpt from “The Professor’s Pet” in Tales of a Filthy Good Girl. (Buy it on Amazon! Pretty please!)


    She could always tell when he had a great class: his mood was buoyant and his gestures expansive. He entered the house with a broad smile, and she could feel his body practically vibrating with satisfaction when they embraced. She also recognized the glint in his eye and watched him warily. In these moods he reminded her of a tiger, lazy and lolling on his back one minute, his jaws around her throat the next. They may have been discussing dinner plans, but she could see the wheels turning in his head. It gave her an odd combination of nerves and happiness. It was her favorite kind of game, but as his pet, she never knew what would trigger the switch that would catapult them into a scene. He wanted her on edge, focused and watchful, and that’s where she remained. Until he said otherwise.

    Today was one of those times. He asked her about the roast which she had failed to start in the crockpot. She had a list of excuses, but as they tumbled out in defense, one of his hands came around her throat. The slight pressure stopped her mid-sentence, and she went completely still. He pushed her backwards until she hit the refrigerator, the magnets falling away as collateral damage.

    “I’m not mad, pet,” he said, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin at her throat.

    He captured her mouth and pushed his tongue past the defense of teeth and tongue. Her body responded instantly, betraying her desire. Her arms went around his waist and she tilted her head to give him better access, a flush blooming across her skin. She had the fleeting thought that if she pressed against him she would be able to absorb him into her body. At times like this, her entire world dwindled to the point of pleasing him, and she returned his kisses eagerly.

    “I have better plans than the roast. Go get cleaned up and wear your favorite dress.” He gave her an affectionate pat on the ass.

    She opened her mouth to ask him about the evening’s activities, but his fingertips dug into her neck just enough to halt her words. Blue eyes met hers.

    “I’ve had twenty-somethings in heels and business casual dress striving to please me all day with correct answers and insightful observations. I’ve enjoyed being obeyed at lecture. Are you going to please me now that I’m home?”

    “Yes, professor. I wish to please you more than anything.” It was a truth she felt in her soul and her body, the cleft between her thighs already wet with anticipation.

    “Good girl. Now go get ready.”


  6. L is for Learning

    June 12, 2014 by Heather Cole

    If there is one thing I’ve learned in my life, it’s that I will continually learn new things about myself. I thought my sexual awakening in my late teens was “the big one.” Little did I know that I would have a second, more profound, sexual awakening in my late thirties that would literally rock my world. I thought I knew everything I had to about sex, and I thought, for the most part, that the rest of my life was going to be the occasional, after church, missionary, twenty minutes for the rest of my days. I learned that missionary didn’t have to be the rule, nor did monogamy, and I learned how to find happiness in and out of the bedroom. I’ve learned the my sexuality is fluid as is my sex drive, and I strive to learn more about my partner in order to be a better partner.

    The L-word coincides nicely with June being Adult Sex Education Month. And if you immediately retorted, “Heather, I already know everything I need to know about sex,” then YOU in particular need to read more and explore. Especially if the core of your sex education came from the public school system. Get thee to a sex education blog! Quick!  The more you learn and discover about your own sexual self and sex in general, the more you realize there are holes in your education. And IN you. Heh. Holes.

    Personally, I’m striving to learn more about gender equality. I’m a fan of Laverne Cox, a trans person on Orange is the New Black. (She also made the cover of Time Magazine–and dayum!) In a recent interview, Katie Couric asked her “when you think about the ideal scenario for the trans community, what would that look like?” Cox replied, “I think it goes beyond the trans community. It’s for everyone to have spaces for gender self-determination. I think the idea that one is always and only the gender they were assigned at birth–that idea needs to be challenged. So that we’re not stigmatizing, objectifying, sensationalizing, or criminalizing transgender people, but celebrating them. And celebrating everybody who has the audacity to be themselves and to live authentically.”

    Laverne Cox makes my heart go pitter-pat, and she’s brought the trans community more front-and-center for me. I realize that some people are still struggling to accept gay marriage. Well, sweetums, gender equality should be the next thing on your To Learn List. It’s definitely on mine.



    As a sex-positive blogger who is a single parent of a teenage daughter and a son who is on the cusp of hormone hell, I’m learning that I have to communicate about sex in a whole new way. It’s a super huge responsibility and awkward at times, but it’s my job to make sure they’re properly educated about all things sex. I have to choose my words wisely, though, because they will be the ones that form their opinions. Like the time the teen brought up the topic of anal sex. I’m still learning how to answer their questions on a level they can understand and sometimes I fuck up, because I’m human.



  7. F is for Fart

    June 6, 2014 by Heather Cole

    I know. I know. Ladies don’t fart.


    It happens, though. Let’s all admit it and get over it already. The more sex you have in various positions, locations, conditions… the human body makes noises. Our physical selves have reactions to a myriad of stimuli, and it’s natural to respond. Take deep throating, for example. Have I puked on sir? Yup. I don’t advise shoving a cock into the back of your throat after indulging in Taco Tuesday. Just sayin’. I wanted to be good at deep throat which meant practicing enough that I conquered my sensitive gag reflex. Well, a fart is to your anus like puke is to your throat. YES, THAT MAKES TOTAL SENSE.

    I realize that sir and I have reached a place in our relationship where body secretions and noises are par for the course. He takes things in stride, knowing that my body can’t help its responses. And I do the same for him. For heaven sakes, I have to high-five the man when he rips a really good one in bed. So that should mean that I can do the same, right? Well, no.

    Because ladies don’t fart.

    Here’s the hysterical story of one woman who did.



    Okay, I’m going to dispel Heather’s statement about ladies farting– I don’t fart. Like ever. That’s impossible, you say? Well, it’s not. I’m a southern girl and we’re just not allowed. I’m fairly certain the ability to fart is stripped from our DNA in the womb. I do, however, burp. A lot, and loud. Because I’m fucking classy.

    Moving on…

    Mr. K has a thing about farting in front of me– he’s embarrassed to do it. And in the course of our two year relationship, he’s farted in front of me once. ONE TIME, y’all. But that doesn’t count the nights he’s farted in his sleep.

    Shhhhh, don’t tell him I said that. He would DIE.

    Recently, though, he had an epiphany, if you will. I have hearing loss and Tinnitus in my left ear from way too many years of way too loud rock music. Also, it’s genetic. That means that unless I’m watching your lips move when you speak or if your voice is a certain tone, chances are I’ll miss a lot of what you’re saying. But Mr. K has finally realized the advantage here and has decided he’s going to start farting in front of me– I won’t hear it anyway.



  8. E is for ejaculate

    June 5, 2014 by Heather Cole

    Welcome to the Spanking A-Z Blog challenge created by! Yes, we’re late, but that’s completely Nikki’s fault. She had a book to release and all that. You’ve bought it, right? RIGHT? So forgive us for missing A is for Anal, B is for Bisexual, Breasts, and Blowjobs (preferably all together), C is for Cunnilingus, and D is for Dominant Dicks. Just kidding about that last one. Today we’re on E, and ejaculate happens to be one of my most favorite things…

    Let me be more specific. The ejaculate that belongs to the man I love is my favorite thing. When I was dating more than one man, I loved all their jizz. Yup… all y’all. I guess I need an emotional connection to the penis in order to love the ejaculate. (And there goes my career in bukkake.) But once I develop feelings for the penis(es) and the man(men) attached to it(them) I willingly and enthusiastically take that come anyplace/anywhere which explains why I sometimes take it in the eye and in the marble bathroom at the ballet (Holy Echo, Batman).

    Most recently I was in the bathroom with sir… I was on all fours with him behind me. I could tell he was close to orgasm and a tiny part of my mind was anticipating where he’d finish. The rest of me was preoccupied with how euphoric I felt and the sensations that surrounded our joining. Suddenly I felt his fist wrapped in my hair, and he hauled me up on my knees. I gasped as he came, the warmth of his ejaculate coating my back. It felt raw, almost primitive. And I felt completely owned.

    Although we climbed into the shower and he soaped my back, we missed a little bit of ejaculate at the base of my neck. I got to wear it under my clothes for the rest of the day, smiling and remembering the incredible morning.

    Pro Tip: I relish wearing come, but for those of you that don’t, SCRUB it off immediately with soap and water. Otherwise it’s sticking around, and you won’t notice it until it’s dry and flaking off. If that happens to be on your face… well, expect some comments. Just sayin’.




    Ah, sweet, sweet semen… I mean ejaculate.


    Studies show that the average man produces anywhere from .01 to 10 milliliters of ejaculate when he comes. If that’s true, Mr. K is above average– WAY above average. And I try my best to swallow it all when he ejaculates in my mouth, but it’s hard. Heh. Hard. He comes so much that it runs down my hand and it gets into my hair. Hell, it even comes out of my nose.

    Come bubbles are totally a thing.

    I love everything about Mr. K’s ejaculate– the smell, taste, feeling, and the sheer volume of it. He loves the taste of it too, especially when I feed it to him from my pussy. He didn’t love it, though, when it got all in his eyes as I sat on his face, and do you know why? Because that shit burns, y’all.



  9. The Only Certainty is Uncertainty

    May 22, 2014 by Heather Cole

    “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger is no safer in the long run than outright exposure. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”  –Helen Keller


    If you follow me on social media, you already know that my mama is one of my best friends and my life-long rock of support. Three weeks ago she had an emergency hysterectomy and was diagnosed with Stage 3 uterine cancer. Her oncologist called the cancer aggressive, and in the span of six days, all of our plans for the future and her life as we knew it fell into disarray. I felt like a fish thrown that had been thrown on to the bank of a river; I lay there gasping, unable to catch my breath or my bearings. The entire landscape of my life had changed in the blink of my eye.

    Next week, my daughter will have surgery for a heart condition that she has had since birth. She certainly doesn’t act like a kid with a heart problem, but doctors have advised that we need to fix it now to avoid bigger problems down the road. We live near one of the best research hospitals in the US, and everyone’s hope is that this surgery will be her only one. Despite all the good that will come of it, the anguish I feel watching my baby undergo this process makes me want to rant and rave at the unfairness of the universe. Mama was supposed to make the eight hour trip to be with us during the surgery, but now it will be me and my beloved sir keeping vigil while Mama says her prayers from home.

    Most days I consider myself an optimistic person, but this trifecta of challenges (my mama’s cancer, my child’s operation, and my sir’s imminent departure) have knocked me low. Like that stranded fish, I feel like I’m flopping every which way to try and find my way back into familiar waters. The things I drew comfort from in my various roles as daughter, mother, and slave now feel as if they’re in jeopardy. On my darker days, I fear that everything lies on the precipice of disaster.

    If I could, I would take my mama, and child, and sir, and bind them all tightly to me so I could keep them with me and safe. Why is it that the three people most important to me are all undergoing huge life challenges while I can only sit beside them, hug them tight, and tell them that I’ll be there no matter what? Thomas Moore coined it “the dark nights of the soul” and let me tell you, darling readers, it is dark in these parts.

    Being in this dark place makes it challenging for me to reach out to others. When someone asks how I am, the honest answer would be “well, I’m crying for the third time this morning, and my life is changing so fast I’m getting seasick.” Who wants to hear that? I certainly don’t want to hear those words AGAIN, so I shut my mouth tight and wrap steel bands of control around myself to keep everything in place so I can work, be a good mom, and a decent partner. Trying to keep the tidal wave dammed up never works for long, of course. I find myself acting out with sir; being willful and bratty. And the slightest unexpected change to my schedule sends me into a tailspin. The worst part is feeling insecure in my relationship with him. I’ve never felt so raw or vulnerable, and I begin to jump at shadows, thinking that every approaching person or potential play partner will be the undoing of our relationship. Logically I know that I’m being irrational, and yet, I can’t stop the feelings rolling through me. I would like to get off the emotional roller coaster now please, but I don’t think my ride is over yet.

    I used to be confident about the path my life was taking, but now I’m afraid to trust the ‘everything will be all right in the end’ sentiment. Happiness is now distilled into single moments:  my child’s voice lifted in song, my mama’s laughter on the other end of the phone, the strength of sir’s arms around me at night. Love fiercely, I tell myself. You have this moment now. Through the tempest of these changes, I will know my heart at least. I know who it belongs to. And my love for my mama, my daughter, and my sir shines as its own guiding light. Of that I am certain.


  10. It’s a Boobday Anniversary!

    March 23, 2014 by Heather Cole

    I’m a big fan of Boobday. I love the curves of the ladies who participate and the various boob themes that Hyacinth creates with her sexy awesome mind. So when Hyacinth over at A Dissolute Life Means asked me to submit a boob photo for her anniversary edition, I was all OH HELL YEAH!

    The theme for the anniversary post was Hyacinth, and I concocted two different poses that were reminiscent of Hy’s photos. One involved holding my grumpy cat to my cleavage which he was thrilled about. THRILLED. He’s probably going to eat my face off some night in revenge. The other pic is all boob in one of my favorite Hyacinth photos. So go on over and admire all the ladies and Hyacinth, of course.

    Hurray for boobs!