RSS Feed

‘Randomness’ Category

  1. 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.


  2. 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.

     


  3. 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!


  4. Say Goodbye to 2014

    January 1, 2015 by Heather Cole

    2015-2

    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…

    KISSES!

    ~Heather


  5. 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*

     


  6. 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.”

    A2Z-Logo-C1-300x198


  7. 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.

    ~Heather

    **********************************

    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.

    ~Nikki

     A2Z-Logo-C1-300x198


  8. K is for Kissing

    June 11, 2014 by Heather Cole

    The first thing he does when he comes home is hold me. His arms envelope me in strength and security, and he rests his cheek on the top of my head while I settle myself against him. Our time together has taught me where I fit best, and my body instinctively moves so that I can touch as much of him as possible. The excitement of his arrival smooths into contentment as my breathing slows, his heartbeat strong and sure against my ear. My hands meet at the small of his back, and I sink into the moment. His lips brush my forehead, my ear, and he kisses the curve of my neck. His lips brush my skin like butterfly wings, the sweetest of kisses. As I press the length of my body against his, I wish that I could hold our moment in my hand to keep forever. Time slows, and we arrive in the moment together.

    I am home.

    ~Heather

    A2Z-Logo-C1-300x198

     


  9. J is for Jump

    June 10, 2014 by Heather Cole

    You’re probably wondering how Van Halen fits into the A-Z Spanking Challenge, but trust me, it totally does.

    Big hair, tight pants, and a lot of jumping around in the back seat of a beat-up Camaro… that would be me, not David Lee Roth–he had a tour bus. OK, so my hair wasn’t very big despite my best efforts and a small fortune in Aquanet. I also lived in the country where cows and pigs were my closest neighbors which didn’t help my social life. I yearned to be cool.  No matter how much I listened to Motley Crue, I was thwarted by an uncommonly wholesome upbringing. I wasn’t an openly rebellious wild child. I was the good girl next door, but I learned that I couldn’t resist a bad boy. Add some Van Halen and a muscle car, and my panties were history. (Yes, smartasses, at one point in my life I wore panties.) Hair Bands will always have a special place in my heart, because they remind me of that time when every boy offered a new sexual frontier to explore. Parked on a dirt lane with only the moonlight as a guide, I began to discover my sexual self.

    ~Heather

    A2Z-Logo-C1-300x198


  10. G is for Gray Pubic Hair

    June 7, 2014 by Heather Cole

     

     

     

     

    Before I met sir, I was more devoted to visiting my aesthetician than I was the dentist. My ponynose was near and dear to my vagina (obviously) and my heart. I loved being bare down there. When I became sir’s slave, one of the first things he wanted me to do was grow out my pubic hair. Boy howdy, did I resist. I hemmed and hawed and threw a hissy. I had yet to learn that the more I protested a particular suggestion, the more sir became enamored with it. So I agreed on the surface that I would comply with growing a bush, but secretly I trimmed and shaved when I was alone. It was growing… but really reaaaaalllly slowly.

    Everything was going according to my plan until I accidentally snipped my labia with a pair of scissors as I tried to tame this one extra-long pube. You can imagine my phone call to my bestie. There was a lot of blood and shrieking (me), and I’m pretty sure she laughed through most of it. I had to tell sir. There was no way I could have vaginal sex (it would rub with every movement) until the cut healed. Sir didn’t laugh, but he told me I could no longer be trusted with scissors. I cried, but he was resolute. My carefully coiffed pubes went from barely there to retro bush in just a couple weeks. And that’s when I saw it…

    A GRAY FUCKING PUBIC HAIR

    I don’t see it now though. In fact, I went into the bathroom only moments ago and checked for absolute certain. And no, there’s no gray pubic hair. My bush is silky and dark blond. It was probably the light hitting a particularly luxurious strand or something. Maybe I was drunk. At any rate, I’ve decided that I don’t believe in it. It’s like the fabled Sasquatch of my bush. A mere rumor to spook explorers in the area. There’s no scientific evidence of the alleged gray pubic hair exists. Seriously.

     

     

    A2Z-Logo-C1-300x198