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‘Sex’ Category

  1. Location, Location, Location

    July 5, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Oh how I love me some sweet Jenny Lyn. If she’s vanilla, I swear I could eat soft serve every damn day. And she’s funny as the dickens too. *huge sigh* If y’all missed her post yesterday, git yer ass back there and read. After you fall in love with her, you’ll realize that we have to fight over her. Preferably in chocolate pudding with lots of “breaks” for…you know…resting and stuff.

    But I digress!

    This post is supposed to be about all the crazy places I’ve had sex and well…I haven’t been that crazy with location. Jenny Lyn with her wild vanilla ways has me beat hands down!  In fact, you’ll read my list and be amazed at how decidedly humdrum it is. Just don’t fall asleep.

    1. In a 4Runner outside a bar – The man in question was a chemist. We hung out at the same neighborhood pub, and he was wingman to this horribly awkward guy who hit on my roommate. Later I learned that Mr. Awkward humped like a bunny which just added insult to my roommate’s vagina injury. Mr. Chemist and I hit it off as we commiserated over the impending disaster of his friend and my roommate playing tonsil hockey. One thing led to another and we ended up in the back seat of his truck, LL Cool J blaring on the stereo. It was cramped and messy and amazing. Every time I hear Back Seat I get a smile on my face.

    2. Pay-By-The-Hour Motel north of Quito, Ecuador – I studied abroad my senior year of college, and I studied a lot: the men, salsa dancing, the men. I lived with a host family, so any shenanigans had to be conducted apart from my bedroom, only a few steps away from where mami and papi slept. In hindsight the motel was probably a bad choice, or a tacky one at the very least.

    There were a string of motels north of the city that charged by the hour and catered to the dozens of prostitutes that lined the streets of the tourist district. I ended up in such a motel with a date. The bed was circular and could easily have accommodated the entire Ecuadorian soccer team. And bonus, we had the convenience of ordering off a long menu of items: food, condoms, lube, toys, booze etc. He simply marked what we wanted on the order slip, shoved it through a slot in the door and then a buzzer sounded when our order was ready.

    And that’s all I’m going to say about that.

    3. Camper Outside My Parents House – Maybe my list should be called “Stupidest Places to Have Sex.” Mom and Dad, my apologies for what you’re about to read.

    It was the first time I had anal sex. I had recently graduated college and was dating another recruiter from a rival college. He met my family and we went out for dinner. He and I got tipsy and I had the BRILLIANT idea of having sex in the family camper, because no one would know we were having sex. Because I was a jackass and thinking with my nether regions.

    Anal sex was phenomenal! However, I didn’t realize that my ass wasn’t the only thing being pounded. One side of the camper was completely off the ground because of the force of our fucking on the other side which sunk the supports into the ground. We didn’t even notice that we weren’t level. Over the breakfast table my father asked, “you guys have fun last night?” and nodded to the window where everyone could see the lopsided camper.

    I’m going to go die of remembered mortification now.

  2. Anal Sex – Part 1

    May 22, 2012 by Heather Cole

    This week is my birthday, and I love celebrating it. Which naturally makes me think of anal sex. BECAUSE IF YOU CAN’T GET ANAL SEX ON YOUR BIRTHDAY THEN WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT?!

    Just kidding.


    I like anal sex. I’ve had good experiences and bad. When they were good, they were fucking phenomenal. And when they were bad….oh geez….you *never* forget a bad experience with a cock up your butthole. I have yet to meet one person who is ho hum about anal. One man I know hates it and described it as, “some tightness then a whole lot of nothing.” From what I read on many Twitter timelines, anal will never feel pleasurable to some. Then for others, it’s the holy grail of all sexual encounters.

    Nikki and I discuss anal sex a lot, mostly because it’s a regular item on the sex menu between her and her partner. In my eyes she’s the Queen of Anal, and I bow to her expertise. After weeks of talking about it amongst ourselves, we’re devoting this week to anal sex and discussing the many facets of the anal sex encounter. Whether you like it or not, the conversation is an interesting one.

    Tips for Exploration

    1. Know Thyself – If you’ve never stuck a finger up your butt…the time is NOW. The next time you’re in the shower, gently probe your anus. This is a good exercise because A.) The better you understand your body, the better you’ll know what you like and don’t like, and B.) This is a simple way to begin preparing for anal sex with a partner.

    There are two different muscles that surround the entrance to the anus:  there’s the internal sphincter and the external sphincter. The anus is the brown flower at the center (or bleached, if you’re into that) that you can see and the internal and external sphincter muscles encircle it.

    The external sphincter muscle is a voluntary muscle. It’s what you clench when you’re trying not to fart in front of your partner, and it’s possible to strengthen the external muscle with exercises. Like kegels but for the butt. Heh… The internal sphincter muscle, on the other hand, is completely involuntary. Some of us were born with a strong internal sphincter muscle, and others not, and we can’t do a damn thing about it either way.

    Beyond the anus and the sphincter muscles lies the rectum. If you look at a diagram of this system, and trust me I most certainly did, the rectum looks big. What I’m trying to say is…you really can be full of shit. And darlings, this is what leads me to Number Two…

    2. Clean That Shit Out – Believe it or not, this is the perfect application for douche. YES, your great-grandmother wasn’t 100% wrong when she bought a bottle of douche, she just used it incorrectly. For those that don’t possess vaginas or who aren’t aware, douching upsets the natural pH balance of the vagina, and is a big no-no. However, it’s perfect for cleaning out your rectum and anus. Take that douche marketing campaigns!

    Nikki prefers to empty the solution and use the douching bottle with water. In her words, “no one wants to lick an ass that smells like vinegar.” The applicator is really handy in the shower, and if you’re sensitive to chemicals, you might prefer to go the soap and water route. A gay friend, on the other hand, prefers to use an enema before date night.

    I admit. I haven’t always cleansed beforehand, and my partner ended up with fecal matter on his cock. Embarrassing but true. To be completely honest sometimes the moment is so hot and intense that it doesn’t even cause a hitch in the play. But remember this, no matter how well you clean your poop chute, there will always be fecal matter present even if you can’t see it. Which means…

    3. Don’t Cross Streams – Take it from the Ghostbusters and girls who know, do not place a cock or toy from the ass directly into a vagina! Take the time to clean the cock or the toy before continuing in a different venue. The bacteria present in the anus and rectum will cause a bacterial infection in a vagina faster than you can say “double penetration.” An easy solution is to keep antibacterial wipes in the nightstand or in your “fuck me” kit along with condoms, lube, Visine and chapstick. Wiping down everything with wipes ensures that all play is sanitary, and you and your toys can utilize all the holes safely.

    4. When You Think You Have Enough, Use More – There is no such thing as too much lube during anal. I’ve done it without and it has been amazing, but I prefer to use lube in copious amounts. K-Y brand is my favorite for anal.  I think lube is especially crucial if you’re anxious about the pain. Because hear me when I say this, if it hurts and you don’t enjoy it…STOP.

    Enjoying anal sometimes means working your way up in size, getting familiar with what feels good and what doesn’t…in other words, experiment. If you don’t like how something feels, stop and try something different. Sometimes changing position helps. Sometimes stopping and waiting a couple days works. Was it something you ate? Maybe your mood?

    My advice is to start with a finger then a toy, like a butt plug, then a dildo or your partner’s cock. If my approach seems overly scientific, it’s because I believe in trying something a lot of different ways before rendering judgement. Let’s face it, you might try anal sex in a hundred different configurations and still dislike it. Or love it. Either way, at least you’ll know your asshole better. BWHAHAHAHAHA! How’s that for a silver lining?

  3. I Was His First

    May 15, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Bashiru had the most beautiful skin, as dark as coffee, and his body was composed of long stretches of lean muscle. Whenever we stood in close proximity my hands inevitably found their way underneath his shirt to make their way over the satin ridges of his abs. He smelled of shea butter and laundry soap, and when we kissed his thin dreads tickled my cheek.

    We met my freshman year of college through mutual friends. He studied business and took English Literature classes for fun. The first time he visited my room we sat on my decrepit couch and discussed Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness. Bash was articulate, intelligent and completely off limits sexually. Not only was he a devout Muslim, but his parents had sent him to the US for an education; he was not to be seduced by an alcohol-consuming, sexually active, American blonde girl of questionable morals. He was a man on a mission, and he devoured textbooks and intellectual debate with a fervor that I admired. He possessed the academic discipline that I did not, and it was his good example that inspired me to finally settle into my studies. (My mother still thanks him.)

    I first noticed a change in my feelings during one of our college soccer matches. I was bundled up against the fall air, perched on the edge of frozen metal bleachers as I watched the players sweep up and down the field. Bash ran the entire game, every step fluid yet calculated. It appeared effortless to me, and I found my gaze focusing on him more and more. I recognized the signs, those feelings stirring deep within my gut. I wanted Bash, but I immediately pushed the thought away. He was too innocent. Too pure.

    I must confess that Bash has been the only man that I have ever tried to resist. Oh, in my dating life I’ve questioned whether or not it was a smart move to have sex with someone. But my attitude has always been that once I decide to have sex with a person, then I’m going to fuck them. Skip the coy games and let’s get to it is my motto. I’ve also never had sex with anyone I didn’t desire except for my ex-husband. How about that for some irony?

    While I had been tossing and turning over Bash, fighting my feelings, he had made his own plans. He kissed me one random night as we were studying, his lips full and warm against mine. I didn’t hide my surprise. I gave him a moment to flash a self-conscious smile, and then I literally jumped on the man. Books slid to the floor and shoes were kicked off as we got horizontal. As I stroked and teased him with my hands and kissed my way over every inch of exposed skin, I silently wondered when he was going ask me to stop. He returned my kisses with enthusiasm and ran his hands over my breasts, but not once did they wander below my waist. We spent an interminable amount of time kissing and caressing until I was a throbbing, needful mess. I was ready to scream with frustration.

    “We need to stop or I’m going to take your virginity,” I said and pulled away, panting.

    “Take it. I love you.”

    I didn’t give him a chance to reconsider, and I never regretted it.

    We dated for a year and a half until I left to study abroad. We had a terrible breakup preceding that, and it still makes me cringe when I think about it. Enough time has passed that we’re able to be friends on Facebook. I can’t help but wonder how he thinks of me. Does he remember that night with fondness or regret? Is he happy with the things I showed him or does he wish he had waited for someone else? I’ll never know for certain, so I try to focus on the positive aspects of our shared past. I’m honored that he chose me to be his first, and a part of me will always love him for it.

  4. Penis in Public

    May 3, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Anna’s fantastic piece of erotic fiction made me reflect fondly over my experiences of sex in public. Most of them were thoroughly enjoyable, hurried but intense. Except for the first time. I’m wincing at the memory. I cringe in sympathy for my high school self, when I was a bundle of hormones and inexperience. And the poor souls I experimented with! Dear boys, you have my heartfelt apologies. Except for you, Mike. I will forever hold a grudge about how crappy it was when you took my virginity. Two minutes? REALLY??? (He has since friended me on Facebook. I can say these things.)

    But I’m thinking specifically of a different boy. I was a senior and he was a junior. Brian was active in his youth group, the president of student council and an all-around nice guy. We shared a study hall, and he enjoyed scooting his desk next to mine under the guise of needing tutoring with his English Lit class. He was sweet and funny, and I knew that dating him would be a mistake. My mind had already fled the halls of high school and was permanently fixated on the summer before I entered college. I wasn’t good girlfriend material, and commitment was not part of my vocabulary.

    My parents had a maroon Dodge Caravan that was an eternal source of embarrassment for me in front of my girlfriends. However, it was spacious, a fact that I felt needed repeated testing. Brian was my willing accomplice, but his mother stayed at home and was extremely vigilant about her youngest son’s activities. I was not on the approved youth group list nor in parent-sanctioned after school activities. She knew where my mind was better than Brian did.

    I, on the other hand, lived in the middle of nowhere. My family tree consisted mostly of farmers, and growing up, I lived down a twisting, unpaved road that was popular with local teenagers who wanted to make out unmolested. (Until my grandpa appeared by their rear window toting his shotgun. But that’s a different story.) Both my parents worked, so we decided that if we were going to use the minivan to its fullest capabilities, then we should go to my house.

    I parked the minivan in the driveway an hour before my parents were due home. It was winter, and it was already dark. I was feeling adventurous and naughty (probably a permanent state at that age) and decided to give Brian a treat: a blowjob in a car! He sat in the back seat, and I knelt between his knees. To my credit, I applied myself vigorously to this task, and to his credit, he was very appreciative.



    I used my teeth. Not in a biting kind of way, but still…

    I can practically hear the shrinkage happening as you read those words. I’M SORRY!

    Here’s my one point of rationalization and then I’ll go back to apologizing: I didn’t know any better, and at the time, Brian said it felt amazing. We were both caught up in the scandal of oral sex a few feet from my front door, our hormones racing, out in public (as close as one gets to “public” in farm country) under a canopy of stars. He orgasmed minutes before my father drove up and parked behind us.

    I didn’t know it, but that night began a love affair with me in the outdoors. Not necessarily fucking outside, but the joy of me and another naked body exposed to the elements. There’s nothing quite like the tension between fear of discovery and lust. It can be a heady and intense combination, although they’re somewhat tainted with regret now. I will forever feel bad about hurting that boy’s penis, even though it was purely unintentional. Should I post a belated apology on his Facebook wall? Or is there some statute of limitations on penis apologies?

  5. Prepare to be Amazed by the Clitoris

    March 8, 2012 by Heather Cole

    It looks like something from space, doesn’t it? This is actually a picture of your friend (and mine) the clitoris. I know what you’re thinking…WHAT THE FUCK! I thought it too. Well, my exact words were, “HOW COULD I NOT KNOW THIS?!” Yes, there was a lot of shouting going on in my head. Turns out that not only are there 8,000 nerve endings in the impish clitoris but women have as much erectile tissue as men. Ours is just internal. Damn! Put that in your sex pipe and smoke it!

    This article blew my mind, and Ms. M might be my newest bedroom hero. She should be yours too! Read: The Internal Clitoris

    Since today is International Women’s Day, I think we should all be honoring the clitoris and the amazing woman it’s attached to. With permission, of course.

  6. The Meaning of Kinky

    March 2, 2012 by Heather Cole

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  7. The Art of Cunnilingus

    February 22, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Welcome to our second guest post here at VAGINA ANTICS featuring the gorgeous and talented, LifeOfLiriope. After she gave me the best oral orgasm ever (say that five times fast) I begged her to write a post about how she did it. Yes, I’m utterly self-serving! But honestly, who doesn’t need tips on eating pussy? After reading this I wouldn’t be surprised if you grab the closest woman, please get her consent first, and start practicing. Now I just need to wrangle an in-person tutorial. Any volunteers?  –Heather


    I love pussy. I don’t know how I really lived for the first 27 years of my life before discovering my passion for it.

    My introduction to lady love happened a year ago. I had long considered the possibility of such interactions, but had not been graced with an opportunity. I made the acquaintance of two lovely ladies last spring, and could tell I might finally get my chance. I started doing research, and approached my study of cunnilingus with the same precision and fervor as my professional science research. I asked a few lesbian friends for advice, and thought about the skilled male partners I’d known. I contemplated the methods I used when I masturbated.

    Nothing can substitute for hands- or mouth-on experience, though. One night, socializing with said ladies naturally developed into a chance for me to get down to business. They knew my situation: recently divorced, bi-curious, and no real experience with women. We confirmed our shared interest and got naked. One of them took me by the hand, pulled me down, and told me to lick her pussy. No prelude, no pretense, like I’d performed oral sex on women hundreds of times before. Like most other “firsts,” I know it wasn’t a stellar performance, but the feeling of making another woman orgasm was a heady experience.

    Since then, I’ve been introduced to a variety of other pussies, and I love them all. It pains me to talk to other women who are interested in becoming involved with a woman but find the thought of pleasuring women intimidating. It is for this reason I prefer the approach of my initiation: act like everything is normal. Understand the basic anatomy and relevant nerve hotspots, perhaps even think about a few tricks. But be prepared to observe and respond to your partner.

    A quick web search reveals prolific amounts of advice for performing cunnilingus. What approaches work for me? First, just spend some time looking at pussy. Not for masturbatory purposes, but to learn the breadth of variety. The color, the shape/size of labia, relative size of the vaginal opening, size of the clit and hood, exertion of the clit from the hood. Most vulvas are asymmetrical. All are interesting. Next, embrace the fragrance and moisture. This point is vital, because it expands your possible techniques for increasing enjoyment for your partner. I’ve been told I have a nice, firm tongue, which makes sense given I personally prefer consistent, fairly heavy pressure when receiving oral. Strong, fairly long tongue strokes are a good way to acquaint yourself with a pussy and start testing the “waters” for that particular woman’s preferences.

    You should watch for signs of increased arousal: increasing wetness, engorgement (i.e., swelling and reddening) of the vulva/clit, muscles tensing, verbal feedback. Some women have extremely sensitive clits, and do not like direct stimulation. Think about the myriad ways you can use your mouth, ranging from least to most intense: blowing air, light to heavy licking, sucking, and even nibbling. This continuum can be applied to any pussy part. Combine multiple methods in a steady rhythm, like alternating between long and short strokes. Be prepared for what might be a steady, consistent building of tension until orgasm. I’ve been with women who take at least half an hour to orgasm; others only take a few minutes.

    I feel obligated to share a quick discussion of penetration. Some women do not want it during oral. I almost always require at least a finger inside my vagina to orgasm. While eating pussy, I adore the feeling of the muscles in the vaginal wall contracting around my fingers when a woman orgasms, so that is a standard component of my repertoire.

    That about covers the basics! There are many other aspects of cunnilingus, including incorporation of toys (vibrators, butt plugs, etc), application of pain (I like biting inner thighs, brutalizing clits, and pinching nipples), different ways of positioning bodies, and manipulating genital piercings, but those are outside the realm of fundamental cunnilingus. Just remember: learn the pussy, try a variety of approaches to see what works, find a rhythm, and be prepared for a long session.

    I suspect Heather asked me to write this guest post so she would have a cheat sheet for herself. I’m quite pleased with her level of satisfaction from my popping her lady love cherry, as it was quite a lovely experience myself. I just hope I do justice to the tutelage of the amazing women who first taught me lady love. I’ll never reach their level of expertise, but that won’t stop me from practicing!

  8. Down With The Lady Lovin’

    February 20, 2012 by Heather Cole

    The truth is that I have had very little experience with vagina, my own notwithstanding. I’ve kissed candy-sweet lips and caressed the swell of a breast or two, but I’ve never sunk my face in between a woman’s legs and feasted. My oral sex experiences have always been male/female and when I was married, there was no oral sex at all. To say that my cunnilingus account is in a severe deficit is a tragic understatement.

    Don’t get me wrong. The current men in my life are stellar in regards to oral sex. Fan-fucking-tastic, to be precise. They spoil me with spine-bending pussy worship. While having these delicious adventures, there has been the idea humming along in the back of my brain that I wanted more lady loving. Full-blown, my tongue on her clit, my fingers inside her, mutual vaginal adoration. And true to my nature of being a hot mess of contradictions, I was absolutely positively nervous about doing it. Then I met Liri.

    You may know her from Twitter, @LifeOfLiriope, or from her Tumblr of the same name. Nikki suggested that I follow her, and in short order I was admiring her skills with a ukulele (not a euphemism). We discovered that she lived nearby and set up a coffee date. I was thrilled, eager and about to vomit. It wasn’t that I envisioned lunging at her crotch and taking her down like a ravenous lioness after a gazelle. I’m better behaved than that! No, I just felt a delicious spark of possibility.

    Liri is tall with some of the hottest legs I have ever seen. They go on forever, and as I followed her into the piercing shop almost four weeks later, I couldn’t help but imagine kissing my way up the back of her thigh. She has a thick mane of hair, beautiful tattoos and piercings, and don’t get me started on her breasts. But one of my most favorite parts of the beautiful Liriope is her giant scientist brain. Listening to her scientific vocabulary about how my nose was going to heal made me so wet that I had to excuse myself to the bathroom for a panty adjustment.

    After my nose was pierced, we ended up at a nearby bar for celebratory drinks. I was giddy with the pain from a piercing and the company of Liri and M. I confess, I was only half-listening to the conversation when M began his machinations. Moments later my piercing afterglow dissipated as M’s plan became crystal clear. I was going to be stripped and bound and left to the mercy of two sadists. I should probably mention that Liri is not only a bisexual switch but a sadistic cunt. She said so herself.

    That night was full of firsts for me. It was the first time someone other than M beat me, and the first time a flogging drew blood. They had a contest to see who could hit me hardest with the paddle and then systematically used the crop to turn my entire back and ass into a mess of red. No white skin allowed! Liri was also the one who suggested using the crop on my clit. It was one of the most intense scenes I’ve had yet, and by the time M loosened the straps, I was a quivering mass of jello held together by bruised, burning skin. Then she sweetly and politely asked M if she could make me orgasm.

    My bedspread felt like sand against my back, but all I could focus on was Liri’s face lowering between my thighs. With delicate flicks of her tongue and a finger, she brought me to one of the most intense orgasms I’ve ever experienced. I can’t remember specifics, only that what she did with her tongue was fucking amazing. I don’t remember how many times I came. It felt like one undulating flood of sensation punctuated by wave after wave of orgasm. I knew I loved cunnilingus, but Liri elevated it to an all-out obsession. She popped my lady cherry with style, sadistic grace and a devastating understanding of vagina.

    I can’t thank you enough, lovely Liri, for one of the best nights of my life. I gaze at my bruises fondly and remember your mouth and wish, very much, to kiss it again. Well, kiss and everything else. *blush*

  9. Sins of Our Past

    February 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  10. The Twitter Hook-Up: Part 2

    February 3, 2012 by Heather Cole


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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