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  1. I ran a half-marathon

    November 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Pic for VA

    Fifteen years ago I bought a book about how to run a marathon, and I began to run almost every day. But then I stopped. I justified this up and down and sideways, but the bottom line was that I lacked the self-confidence to see my dream reach fruition. Around that time I met my ex-husband and got married, and my running dream was pushed further away as I tried to become the wife I thought I was supposed to be.

    It turned out that my ex-husband wanted to run triathlons, and he set out to do so. I stayed home, though, because in his eyes I was too overweight to even attempt training for one. And since my self-esteem was already shaky, every critical word my ex spoke was like a nail in the coffin of my self-worth. He spoke aloud the secret thoughts I whispered to myself, so of course it had to be true.

    If you have ever lived with a critical person, then you know what I’m talking about. Those ugly, belittling words became a part of how I viewed myself. As our marriage was ending, I thought my ex was right. I was overweight, unattractive and the choices I wanted for my life would always leave me alone, but some part of me knew that I had to get out if I was ever going to have a chance at living a life as myself.

    At that point, I didn’t think about my running dream at all. It was buried with all the other things I figured I would eventually get to once I moved past the day-to-day-just-managing-to-hold-my-shit-together stage that many of us go through in the aftermath of divorce.

    Two years later, my running dream returned front and center when two different men entered my life. I had mentioned my running dream in passing, never thinking that they would push it front and center again in my life. Although they had different approaches, they were my loudest cheerleaders. They both became part of the catalyst that made me pull on my running clothes again, and as I pieced together my self-esteem, they bolstered me with their confidence that I could DO this. Even when I thought running a half-marathon was impossible, both of them were absolutely certain I could accomplish this. And some days I believed them more than I believed in my abilities.

    This past weekend I found myself awake at 5 a.m. and eating a Power Bar as LH made himself coffee. I felt giddy as I fumbled three times to get my timing chip tied in place on my sneaker. We watched the sun rise as we drove to where the half-marathon would start. It was perfect running weather, chilly and sunny with a slight breeze. I felt a mixture of excitement and anxiety and anticipation. I’m certainly not the fastest runner, but I don’t give up easily. I felt prepared, but I was also apprehensive about the last couple miles of the race. Miles 12 and 13 were uncharted territory for me. Although I had been hypnotized to help me break through a mental block I had about mile 10, I didn’t know what to think beyond that mile marker. I looked at LH and he repeated the words he had been saying since the beginning, “you can do this.”

    In the television series Walking Dead, there’s a scene in the first season when a ‘herd’ of zombies comes shuffling down the highway. That’s kind of how it felt when the race started. I began towards the back of the pack. The fastest runners and those running the full marathon started at the front. Even after the shot goes off to start, it takes a little bit of time for everyone to get moving. And at the start, you’re shuffling around slower people to find your pace. At some point further along the race, someone had made a sign that said “RUN LIKE ZOMBIES ARE AFTER YOU.” Apparently I wasn’t the only one with zombies on the brain.

    LH met me on the other side of the finish line to take pictures and congratulate me. I think my first words were, “that was the most terrible thing ever.” I was stunned and loopy at the same time, and part of me couldn’t comprehend what I had just achieved. It was later, after I had showered and devoured a plate of eggs and bacon, that it began to sink in that I had run 13.1 miles in an organized race. I had this uncharitable moment when I wanted to call my ex-husband and say, “Fuck you–I am more than you ever imagined. I am more than I ever imagined.” But the race wasn’t about him or his bad opinion. It was about me and making a dream my reality.

    I know now, more than I ever did before, that I can do anything I put my mind to. Whether it be lose weight or sell a hundred books… I can do it. I’m only limited by my beliefs, and I’m through thinking I don’t deserve it or that I’m unworthy. I’m done living a limited life based on others’ perceptions of me. I have this one life, this one shot, and I’m going to do my damnedest to live it to my full potential. Watch out world, here I come.


    January 4, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Our first donuts together.

    Our first donuts together.


    January 3 was our official anniversary, and VAGINA ANTICS is now one year old. Can you hear me squealing with delight? ONE YEAR OLD! And in that short time we’ve hit some heels-over-our-ears goals, like being #26 on THE TOP 100 SEX BLOGGERS OF 2012. Dammit, I’m going to throw confetti all over again to celebrate. *breaks out vacuum*

    Looking back at our first month of posts in January 2012, I had to laugh at some of our hijinks. I’m also a bit nostalgic for those two women beginning this adventure. We had no idea what was in store for us, and we’re still wondering… looking back, laughing, and then thrusting ahead. Heh… I said “thrust.” I don’t know that Nikki and I are any more skilled at relationships now than we were then, but we certainly know more about ourselves (and our vagina’s) than we did. We’re also looking forward to sharing another year of shenanigans and blunders and the dreaded feefees! (that’s “feelings” for those of you not afraid of them)

    Read our first post

    Then and Now – Some of our 2012 Highlights


    Then: Jan 2012 – Dubbed High Priestess of Sexual Blunders by Nikki for my rookie mistakes in bed.

    NOW: Um, yeah… so… sigh… I still wear that crown. I got jizz in my eye just the other night. IT WAS DARK! There was this unexpected last shot that just took my eye by surprise. Stop snickering and hand me an eyepatch. Also, I want an apology chocolate cake. NOW!

    Then: Feb 2012 – I met Liri and she popped my lady cherry!

    NOW: Her guest post, The Art of Cunnilingus, is still one of our most viewed pages. We began officially dating in the summer and typing that still makes me blush. She’s my touchstone. My world isn’t right unless we’re in sync. We interact a lot on the Twitter if you’re into lusty cheese references. No really. Cheese. Because cheese is the best food of all. Stop rolling your eyes, Nikki!

    Then: March 2012 – I had a biopsy and talked to my Mama about being kinky for the first time. (Reading this still makes me cry. Damn the feefees!)

    NOW: I’m perfectly healthy and out to my Mama and little brother about being kinky, bisexual and polyamorous. Or as Mama likes to say, “I’m livin’ crazy.” Yes, I still love her something awful.

    Then: July 2012 – I left the service of my first Dominant and Master. It was the most devastating break-up of my life, but after he and his wife trashed me publicly on Twitter, I swore I’d never write another word about him. I also ended a polyamorous relationship with B. Thankfully we’re still in contact, still friends and can still wax nostalgic about the moon and the most horrible movie ever made.

    NOW: I’m currently “under consideration” for a new collar from the Boy Scout. I received a custom-made collar and cuffs for Christmas (along with a pretty pink butt plug) although I haven’t earned the right to wear them yet. I’m also discovering other Dominants in the community that wish to use their sadistic talents on this slave’s pale flesh. Plus, my kickass girlfriend is a sadistic cunt in her own right. (And I say that with all the love in my heart.) My other partner, Zen, can deliver a fantastic spanking even though he considers himself the “conventional” one in the group. My cup runneth over with beatings and bruises and orgasms! BLISS!

    Then: August 2012 – Nikki and I went to our first BDSM club! I had my first rope scene! I melted into a puddle at the talented hands of Master Cecil!

    NOW: On my next trip to visit Nikki you bet your sugar britches we’re going back to The Woodshed. I’ve kept in touch with one Dominant in particular from that night who wants to “host” me for a couple days. I’ll be a live-in slave for a short stint… oh holy Moses, will that be a helluva good time and blog post.

    Then: November 2012 – We made the list! Nikki and I hit #26 on The Top 100 Sex Bloggers of 2012!! Many thanks to Rori from Between My Sheets for placing us there and our fans who voted. Spanks all around!

    Now: I was laying on my living room floor with Zen, tucked into the crook of his arm. He placed a kiss on my forehead and murmured, “you’re the best find of 2012.” I grinned, kissed him back, and said “I’m going to steal your words for the end of my blog post!” 2012 brought amazing people into my life. People who I still talk to and love and cherish. I’m grateful to be a part of their lives, for the abundance of love and respect that surrounds us, and I’m looking forward to seeing what adventures we get up to in 2013. And the sex. Oh heavens, am I looking forward to the sex.


    Then: February 2012 – I expressed my exceedingly low level of bullshit tolerance in an open letter of sorts to any Dom, eDom, or wanna-be who mistakenly assumed that just because I was submissive, I was submissive to everyone.

    Today: I dare anyone to try.

    Then: April 2012 – The Switch was a hot little fiction piece about the awakening of the dominant inside when her partner expressed the desire to wear her anal plug.

    Now: Okay, I lied. There was nothing fictitious about it. It was totally me, my boyfriend, and my plug in his ass. Since then, we’ve graduated to bigger and better *snicker* things, but my stainless steel plug is still put to good use from time to time. Now, though, my favorite place to put it is in his mouth, after he’s told to remove it from my ass.

    Then: April 2012 –
    The search for the perfect strap-on was exhausting, but the emotions of topping my boyfriend for the first time damn near did me in. Part of me was still clinging to the notion that I was a submissive. I didn’t know if I could take my boyfriend with a strap-on. Or if I even wanted to. And the other part of me was secretly worried how unsexy I would look while trying to put the fucking harness on.

    Now: The doubt I once had makes me giggle. Not only do I enjoy fucking him with a strap-on, I crave it. And hearing him beg is an incredible high. Also, Santa failed to bring me the La Femme harness I asked for, but no worries, my boyfriend is perfectly happy with our recent Feeldoe acquisition. And if he decides he isn’t, thanks to the Kegel’s required to hold the damn thing in, I’m pretty sure I could snap him in half with my vagina.

    Then: Heather crowned me Queen of Anal in May, which was a title I took very seriously, because I loved buttsex. Really loved it. And my boyfriend loved it just as much. We were an anal loving couple. And a couple who loves anal together, has many orgasms together. Or something like that.

    Now: Yep, still love anal. And ass worship. Oh, did I forget to mention my boyfriend worships my ass? Huh. Maybe I should write about his ass fetish.

    Then: I met my soulmateclone for the very first time in August 2012. It wasn’t poetic, it wasn’t overly dramatic, and it damn sure wasn’t a Mary Tyler Moore moment. It was so much better. There was booze, lots of booze. And upside down corsets, power ballads, and videos of my boyfriend’s cock. Oh, and dungeons and cheeseburgers, because we’re fucking classy.

    Now: We’re still soulmateclones, we still drink booze and we still eat cheeseburgers. And sometimes the wrapper, because we’re still fucking classy. (And there are still pics of her boyfriend’s cock. We have a scrapbook! ~Heather)

    * * * *

    Nikki and I both want to say how much we value you, our readers. Without your comments, feedback and interactions here or on Twitter and Facebook, we would be sad vagina writers indeed. You make this all doubly worth the effort. Thank you from the bottom of our sassy southern hearts, and we can’t wait to hear from you in 2013. Happy New Year, y’all!

    A Sexy Vagina Surprise… Er, Surprise from our Vaginas? Oh hush and read!

    To help celebrate our wildly successful first year, we’re offering a gift card to Eden Fantasys worth $75 of sinful sexiness. Just leave a comment at the bottom of this post, and at the end of the month we’ll be selecting a commenter at random as our winner. Speak now or forever hold your orgasm!

  3. Photos of My Bum

    August 29, 2012 by Heather Cole

    It was during a visit with my mother that Master Cecil, the Dom who topped me in my first rope scene, challenged me with “pics or it didn’t happen!” The bruises from our scene were just beginning to turn a beautiful shade of bluish-purple, and my ass and thighs looked like a twisted version of connect-the-dots. Being the good girl that I am, not to mention a proud masochist, I waited until my mama took a trip to the farm stand then I locked myself in her bedroom to take some photos with my phone. I felt giddy and scandalous to be in mama’s bedroom. Twelve blurry photos later (I fell over several times in various contortions) I posted three of the best results. Naturally I was tweeting the entire process in its hilarity, because who else am I going to share my ridiculousness with but a thousand of my dear internet friends.

    The following morning as I peeled peaches with mama for peach cobbler, she asked, “why on earth would you take photos of your bum?” For several moments all I could do was stare at her, dumbfounded. Turns out that mama had been stalking my Twitter timeline after I had gone to bed. I carefully sliced through a peach and tried to formulate a coherent response through my brain paralysis. I replied that Master Cecil wanted to see his handiwork. While that was true, the unspoken part was that I enjoyed showing off the results. After years of disliking my body, I’m finally finding it beautiful.

    A year and a half ago, I refused to have my picture taken. I was ashamed of my weight and felt completely undesirable. When my ex-Dom asked for a picture of me, an innocuous headshot, I had a panic attack. My self-esteem had been slowly pulverized through the course of my marriage to the point where I thought any sane man would take one look at me and keep walking. I felt lumpy, bumpy and forgettable. I sent the photo and held my breath. When he told me that I was gorgeous and sexy and demanded more pics, I thought that maybe I was being too harsh. Maybe.

    Early on in my marriage when my ex-husband expressed that he found me unattractive, I lost forty pounds and was surviving on cucumbers and yogurt. I was miserable, and he didn’t suddenly find me desirable because there was less of me. Fitting into that size 8 didn’t miraculously improve my life or solve my problems. I now wish that I had been kinder to myself instead of obsessing about a flatter stomach. I needed to address the issues at the “unattractive” core of the conflict between us, and my ex needed to be married to someone else.

    The truth of the matter is that I’m still working at shedding the last of my baby weight. I have stretch marks on my lower abdomen and cellulite on the back of my thighs. My breasts aren’t perky either, and sometimes I still cringe at a photo that catches me in an unflattering angle. However, when I finally accepted that I was kinky, I also began accepting my body. Having lovers tell me they desired me helped a lot, but even more importantly, becoming whole in my sexuality cemented the fractured relationship I had with my body. I know who I am, and I accept who I am. That confidence is more attractive than thousands of dollars of plastic surgery. And I won every ounce of it through emotional work and life experience. Therapy helped too.

    When I look at my body I still see the flaws, but I also see the beauty of its strength. I fell in love the curve of my waist where it dips down to my hips, and my full ass is perfect for spanking and caning and all sorts of things. My pale skin shows every mark, and my height gives a Dom a lot of canvas to work with. I tweeted once, “I bake. I sew. I’ll fuck your brains out.” Yes, my body enables me to do it all very well. And so much more.

  4. How Does Your Garden Grow?

    August 7, 2012 by Heather Cole

    My poor mama has been through a lot with me these past couple years. I moved further away from her loving arms, my marriage went south into hell followed by a nightmarish custody battle. Then I came out about being kinky and having not only a Master at that time but a second boyfriend. Phew! So the fact that my ladygarden is bare…well, she shouldn’t bat an eyelash. Right?

    During a recent visit, she was in the master bathroom helping my daughter brush her teeth. We were all getting ready for bed, and I wanted a quick shower. I walked from my bedroom past her at the sink and then into the shower. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her do a double-take at my ponynose, but she would have preferred to kick Jesus in the shins than question my shaving practices. The more I thought about it, the more I understood why it was such a shock to her. She was a young woman during the sixties, those glorious days of free love and copious body hair. My dear mama believes in bush.

    Scrolling through my tumblr, almost all the women are shaved or waxed. It’s the popular trend these days, and I must confess, I’m hooked on that smooth, soft-as-a-pony-nose feeling. Apparently this doesn’t apply to red-haired women, because they’re supposed to retain some pubic hair as evidence that they’re natural gingers. You’d think it was like finding a unicorn or something. Look! It’s a natural ginger! Grab her quick so we can make wishes!

    It’s almost time for me to happily submit to my aesthetician for my monthly brazilian. I became a disciple of the wax after discovering that I had hair growing in my ass crack. I mean, how cruel is it that we grow hair there where we can’t see it unless we randomly squat over a mirror? I uncovered this devastating truth a month before I moved out of our married home, and I was in the shower masturbating. My ex-husband didn’t approve of masturbation or any activity within the vicinity of the ass. (I think he secretly thought there was a sphincter monster or something.) The shower was my one escape where I could explore and enjoy my body, but when my hands wandered from my vagina to my ass…HOLD THE PHONE, PEOPLE. It was like discovering the Black Forest was actually growing in my ass crack.

    What did I do? I marched my hairy monster ass into the grocery store and bought hair remover. The extra sensitive kind that promised to give me the hairless, toned ass of a model. According to the commercials, all I had to do was smooth it on my skin and the hair would just wash away. I locked myself in the bathroom and called Nikki for a pep talk. Then I applied the thick, foul-smelling stuff around my ladygarden. I called Nikki minutes later and the conversation went something like this:

    Me: “I need bandaids for my vagina!”
    Nikki: “What?!”
    Me: “I’m bleeding! I need a vagina first aid kit!”
    Nikki: “What happened?”
    Me: “I spread it on and left it there like the directions said. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD IT’S LIKE A BRUSHFIRE DOWN BELOW!”
    Nikki: “Did you wash it off?”
    Me: “Yes, but it won’t stop burning! My hooha looks like a lobster bake gone horribly wrong!”

    I don’t remember the rest of our phone call because Nikki was laughing too hard to be coherent. (She just emailed me that she’s still laughing.)

    Thankfully there are coping mechanisms for people like me. A recommendation from Liri sent me to a six foot, tattooed woman at a spa. Ms. AJ is wonderful, and I have no problems with modesty as I contort my body so that she can rip all the hair out of my crevasses. I make sure not to go the week before my period, because of the heightened tenderness in that area. Also, caffeine beforehand is a no no. I swallow a couple ibuprofen and go for the gusto. I have some swelling and redness for 24-hours afterwards, but the results are worth it.

    I’m not alone in my love of the brazilian. Dudes are doing it now too. It’s called a manzilian, to be exact. Yes, men can go have hot wax placed on their tenderest of bits and have their pubes pulled for that professional stripper feeling.

    Having said all that, I have nothing against people like my mama who prefer an au natural landscaping scheme in their gardens. When I polled my male friends as to their preferences, every single one replied that when they desired a partner, they could care less about the texture down there. It’s all part of the glorious scenery. It came as no surprise that not one person said that they wanted to see chemical burns. Still, I really think vagina bandaids need to be a thing.


  5. Porn and Me

    March 13, 2012 by Heather Cole

    My first exposure to porn was during my sophomore year of college. The guy I was seeing suggested it at dinner, I think more as a test of how I would react than because he actually liked the idea.  We rendezvoused at his dorm room, the two of us plus his roommate, his roommate’s girlfriend and her best friend. But I wasn’t scandalized. I wasn’t even titillated. I was bored. After ten minutes I had enough of the huffing and puffing on screen and started kissing my guy. This was also the night that I first had sex in front of other people. I can’t remember a single thing about the porno, but I sure as hell remember my explosive orgasm and how amazingly hot it was to fuck in front of an audience.

    For years I assumed something had to be wrong with me when I didn’t find traditional porn satisfying. It wasn’t until I began talking to B that I stumbled upon what I liked. He had a similar meh feeling about traditional porn although I didn’t know it at the time. He sent me a DM with a link to a black and white tumblr pic, and I was hooked. I loved that moment caught in time, his fingers lightly pressed against her jaw, the second before they kissed captured on camera. I liked suggestion. Just enough to let my mind and fingers do the rest. I like women and men of different shapes and sizes, and sometimes, it’s the setting that does it for me more than the people in the photo. Our tumblr correspondence was a revelation.

    The truth of the matter is that I need room for my brain to connect with the fantasy. A picture captures just enough to start my mind humming and lets me fill in the blanks. It could be a fragment of conversation, an email, a text about how you want to kiss me. It could be a story I wrote about you, me and a stranger in a hotel room, or the ex-lover you dumped but who wants to meet me. All of that is fuel for my masturbatory fantasies, I just need a picture to light me on fire. And if it’s a pic of someone I know? Oh honey, call the fire department, I’m setting the bed alight.

    My attitude regarding porn isn’t about a particular moral or religious position. Naturally I have an opinion about what I think is well done or not and what appeals to me as a woman with a brain. My ho-hum feeling is mostly due to the fact that I’m not a voyeur. Watching others fuck doesn’t get me off. I like fucking in the same room while other people go at it or being in a situation where we’re all participating. But what really rings my chimes is when they’re watching ME fuck. My lovelies, I’m an exhibitionist. I don’t want to look at porn. I want to be in the middle of it.

    And here comes a deep, dark secret: some of my favorite porn pictures are of me. *blush* Not because I think I have the perfect body or the best O-face. I enjoy seeing the evidence of a great fuck. One pic that I like best was taken in low light, and the cum on my face gleams in the dimness. Another one is of my ass after a beating, when I was laying there, feeling rapturous and in subspace. Looking at the photos of my private collection transports me back to that moment, those feelings of being consumed yet connected by sex and my partners.

    At heart I’m a good girl. I wear dresses with pearls and vintage aprons when I bake. I pay my taxes and go to church. When the camera comes out, though, you can expect the best oral sex of your life and some crazy hot fucking. In my humble opinion, that’s the best kind of porn there is.