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  1. 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.



  2. 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.



  3. 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.


  4. 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!



  5. 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.

  6. We Picked Pics on Sinful Sunday!

    October 31, 2013 by Heather Cole

    The beautiful and talented Molly at Molly’s Daily Kiss asked me (SQUEE!) to pick five sinfully delicious photos from the participants at Sinful Sunday. If you’re not familiar with Sinful Sunday, you should be. Every week there are amazing photos that will make your Sunday yummy. And any other day, for that matter.

    Yes, I was over-caffeinated and horny as hell, but I was committed! I did it. Yes, IT. And after a series of frantic phone calls (from me) and lots of reassuring from my bestie, I picked five favorites. Although for the record I could have picked ten at least.

    CLICK HERE to go to Sinful Sunday and enjoy the view.

    You can thank me later.





    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!

  8. 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.

  9. 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.


  10. 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.