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‘Sexuality’ Category

  1. Sex and Aging

    July 15, 2014 by Heather Cole

    This blog was conceived at my dining room table on the eve of the demise of my almost decade-long marriage. I was near 40, and I was preparing myself as best I could to start my life all over again. This time with a child in tow. I remember being on the phone with a friend and saying, “there have to be other 40-ish women like us who want to have active and fulfilling sex, and there have to be other people like us who want to read about sex, kink, and the real life that goes with it.” Age was a main theme in my writing before I published my first post. It was a theme that ran through my sexual evolution as I created and discovered my sexual identity again and again, and through this blog and the many other sex blogs out there, I confirmed that women “of a certain age” are still getting it on. Let me state for the record, hot and dirty sex didn’t stop at 40. Hell, it doesn’t have to stop until you choose to. According to a New York Time’s article in January of this year, “between 2007 and 2011, chlamydia infections among Americans 65 and over increased by 31 percent, and syphilis by 52 percent.” There are lots of people choosing to have sex (gasp!) as they get older. The saying is true, it ain’t over ’til it’s over. But women over 40 aren’t the focus of porn or the media when it comes to sex or desirability. We’re shown images that equate good sex with youth even though many of us acknowledge that better sex comes with age and experience. (Need evidence of that? Read this blog.)

    Sometimes it feels like according to society at large, a woman goes through menopause and her sexual self simply falls off the map, as if her sexy, desirable self becomes invisible as her hair grays and wrinkles appear. The older you become, the more invisible you become in some ways. And I think that’s utter bullshit. If men are generally viewed as more distinguished as they age, then why can’t we recognize that women are too? Recently I’ve become more and more aware of older women in the media, because some day not that far away, I’m going to be her. What is dating going to be like in my 60’s? What is sex going to feel like after menopause? How am I going to adapt as my body ages? They’re questions I’m unable to answer until I’m having the experience, but one thing I know for certain. I want to feel healthy and at home in my skin, and I want to have a fulfilling sex life, even with wrinkles.

    The other day I read this blog post by Robin Korth, a 59-year-old author and professional, about her dating life. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Reading the words, “your body is too wrinkly,” uttered by her 55-year-old love interest made me aware of the double-standard between older men and older women all over again. Do you think Metallica is getting that sort of dating feedback? I sincerely doubt it.

    In case I thought the Korth experience was a fluke, the Universe pushed this Esquire article, In Praise of 42-Year Old Women, into my mailbox. I thought, I’m only 41, I should be psyched about this! And then I read: “There is simply no one as unclothed as a forty-two-year-old woman in a summer dress. For all her toughness, and humor, and smarts, you know exactly what she looks like, without the advantage of knowing who she is.” In other words, we can see your body, but we can’t get past the wrinkles unless we know how great your personality is so that we can pretend your body isn’t, um… old. <headdesk> Obviously the author thinks he’s complimenting women in my age bracket, but he’s actually delivering a slap in the face. (And not the kind I enjoy)

    Thankfully, Ann Brenoff penned this response to the Esquire article in the Huffington Post, and I wanted to give her a standing ovation. She articulated many of my instinctive reactions to the piece. “You are wrong when you suggest that it was the women’s liberation movement that made it possible to find a 42-year-old woman appealing, or that 42-year-old women flock to yoga and pilates classes to be appealing to men. It isn’t that at all. We’ve been beautiful and smart and ambitious forever. You just can’t see it.”

    I’m more than a 41-year-old woman in a sundress. I’m a fucking awesome woman in a sundress. To those people who choose only to see the physical signs of a woman’s time on this planet and count them against her, I feel sorry for you. You’re missing out, because we’re “beautiful and smart and ambitious forever.”


    Sex and the Single Senior. New York Times. 18 of Jan 2014. web.

  2. ‘Curve’ on Boobday

    November 15, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Hyacinth’s theme for this Friday’s Boobday is CURVE. What is Boobday, you ask?

    Hyacinth at A Dissolute Life Means… explains:

    “Boobday is a place for us to honor breasts of all shapes and sizes belonging to all types of folks. All of us who are the owners of breasts know their magical powers, but not everyone gets to hear it. I hope this will become a place of support and praise.”

    I participated back in June, and I submitted another photo this week. They have similar themes: me feeling self-conscious about my body. Last time I mentioned my lovers convincing me that my breasts were beautiful. This time, though, the focus was all mine. There’s beauty in the curves, y’all. Even the smaller curves.

    So hustle on over to BOOBDAY and mind the curves.

    *naked boob smoosh*


  3. Celebrating our Ladygarden

    November 1, 2013 by Heather Cole

    The Ladygarden Project is 2 years old!

    Anna asked me to help her celebrate the 2nd anniversary of her wonderful project. CLICK HERE to see our congratulatory messages (and photos). The Ladygarden Project is an evolving exploration of sexuality that continues to grow as Anna pushes boundaries and helps other women reconnect with their sexual selves.

    When I started Vagina Antics, it was Anna who reached out and connected with me as a fellow explorer of sexuality. She’s brave and charming and writes damn good erotica. She’s one of those people who’s spirit and kindness just shine from within, and although we live far away from one another, I can’t help but bubble with joy every time we correspond. But you don’t need to hear my gushing to become a devoted fan of The Ladygarden Project.

    Here’s why you need to start reading The Ladygarden Project:

    1. Anna has great suggestions for reconnecting with your sexuality whether you need to find it, expand it or just revel in it.

    2.  You can receive a FREE erotic story.

    3. There’s a picture of vagina cupcakes in the celebration post.

    VAGINA CUPCAKES! C’mon, y’all. You don’t need any more motivation to visit than that. Now scoot!

    Happy Anniversary, Anna! We wish you many, many more in the future.

    *boob smoosh*


  4. Friday is Boobday!

    June 7, 2013 by Heather Cole


    Heather Boob Day

     It’s Boobday at A Dissolute Life means… ~ Heather


    I’m a huge fan of Hyacinth over at A Dissolute Life Means… and every Friday I go and ogle the beautiful breasts that are proudly bared. Boobday has become an essential part of my week, and I love discovering the words and women behind the beautiful boobies.

    I’ve been debating about participating for awhile. I had never been particularly proud of my breasts. In my opinion, they were on the small side and out of proportion with the size of my nipples. However, my lovers have convinced me otherwise. So I thought maybe Hy would think they were Boobday worthy. She agreed rather emphatically. And I quote…

    Heather, I’m glad you’re doing this!  The little titties are sorely under represented on Boobday!

    If you’re not already reading A Dissolute Life Means… you really should. Hyacinth is an amazing writer. She often leaves me with soaked panties or with tears in my eyes from the power of her words. Her rockin’ body doesn’t hurt either.

    So here are my tits, y’all. Happy Boobday!


  5. The Sex List

    March 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I burned the list the week we moved. I was packing my journals into a cardboard box, and rediscovered a diary that I had kept since elementary school. It was a shock to see it after so many years. Behind the childish scrawl of Victorian nannies falling in love on the moors (oh hush, I have a soft spot for melodrama) I had a list of all my sexual partners since I lost my virginity at seventeen. I stared at the list of numbers and names, memories flowing through me like water.

    #3 through 5 – the Brians *I will never have sex on the beach without a blanket again!!!!
    #9 – J with the cock that was so big it almost didn’t fit (my vag has super powers!)
    #13 – first bathroom blowjob
    #25 – Javier in Otavalo, futbol y sexo
    #31 – M upstairs at the Greek restaurant (note to self: stop seducing my employers)
    #41 – H and sex in office stairwell–incredible echo!

    I had forgotten some of the men completely, and I was appalled that seeing their names in print didn’t shake loose any memories. As I sat there reading, I felt like I was looking at the past of a woman completely separate from me. I was reading the sexual adventures of a woman who was exploring herself as much as she was fucking others, someone sexually vibrant and alive. Like some exotic animal I could read about but would never be able to touch. That woman wasn’t me any more. I had buried her a long time ago just as I had hidden away the journal.

    The list was damning evidence. If my husband had found it, the lies I had cast to cover my sexual experience would be blown to pieces. I would be outed as a slut, and my life made more miserable for having lied for all the years of our marriage. When we were first dating and in our twenties, he had asked me how many sexual partners I had in the past. I replied with what I thought was a socially acceptable number. I told him eight men, because I figured ten would be too far from his number of four. Eight sounded plausible and less like a lie. Not too low and not too high, and it was easy to remember.

    In my exuberance for wanting to make our relationship work, I mistakenly thought that I could teach him a few things in the bedroom. Unlike the men who had gone before him, my husband wasn’t one of the sexually corruptible. No, he held firm to his belief that sex was something to be embarrassed about, and after one Sunday of convincing him to have sex three times, he told me that I was out of control. And still I was determined to marry him.

    Silly, silly Heather…

    The topic of the sex list sparked several conversations with my current partners, and I realized that none of them had ever asked for my list. Part of it is maturity, I think, and part of it is living in a sex-positive environment. I’m not afraid to give a ballpark number these days, but the good girl inside still gives me a kick in the gut when I do. Despite all my open partners and incredible sexual experiences, part of me persists in thinking that it’s shameful to have that many notches in my stilettos. And sometimes my good girl needs to shut the fuck up.

    I’m trying to reframe the information the list provided. Instead of making a judgment, I’m trying to look past the black and white and see the young woman that I was. I learned so much about myself in that time period, and without the blanket of condemnation obscuring it, I’m able to feel her fire and passion and love. I see her mistakes and failings. I remember being scared of the desires I was exploring, the spankings and teeth marks I began to crave. And I see her loneliness, her fear that she really was out of control and somehow a bad person.

    I also see the woman I was when I burned the list, and I weep more for that time in my life than the crazy sexual adventures that preceded it.

    I know that my past doesn’t create the summation of my totality now. I may still contain pieces of that promiscuous young woman and the unhappy wife, but my adventure for this stage of my life is only beginning. I still consider myself a slut, but I say that with love and acknowledgment of my powerful sexuality. These days I’m a discerning slut, mind you, but I have the sex drive to rival a seventeen-year-old boy. I also love like a wildfire and am fiercely loyal. And I refuse to be ashamed of any of it. The details of my sex list are unimportant really. What counts is that I know who I am.

  6. Authentically Me

    September 4, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Last Thursday I told my mama that I was bisexual. I had been dancing around the subject for months. She knew about Liri as my closest friend in my new city, but I stopped short of telling her the complete truth. Each time that I bit back a word, I told myself that it was to protect her. This past year has been chock full of major life revelations for me: divorce, Master/slave relationship in BDSM, polyamory. Oh yeah, I hit all the high notes. I’ve told mama about them, and she has stood by me through it all. On top of my own challenges, though, my brother just announced his divorce which rocked the entire family. I thought that the last thing mama needed was to know one more thing about me that was nonconformist, nontraditional and different.

    I spent weeks giving myself a pep talk about how to have “the talk.” My stomach was a mess of butterflies every time I heard mama’s voice. After everything I had told her about my sexuality, I didn’t understand what was making me balk. I suppose it boiled down to what every child worries about; I hated disappointing her. I hated upsetting mama and being a cause of her worry. Then on Thursday morning, after we discussed her cat, my dog, my daughter and the weather, I took the plunge.

    “Mama, I have something to tell you.”
    “Do I need to grab my bottle of whiskey?” she asked.
    “It’s ten o’clock in the morning, but probably yes.” I replied.

    The truth is that I have no fucking clue what I’m doing when it comes to women, and I said as much to mama. I’ve been bi-curious since elementary school, but I never had the courage to act on my desires. Well, except for making out with Crissy in the woods behind her parents house when I was twelve. Aaaaaand I may have gotten a little fresh with a drunk friend at a party in high school. It was the first time I felt boobs other than my own, and the next day she didn’t remember me copping a feel. I felt guilty but also elated. I had touched breasts!

    It wasn’t until Liri popped my lady cherry that I had my first taste of what it felt like to be physically intimate with a woman. I remember telling Nikki that now was the perfect time to explore my desires, and being the supportive soulmateclone that she is, she said “DO IT!”. I would be foolish to remain lusting on the sidelines while a beautiful, intelligent woman like Liri beat me with a flogger. So Liri and I flirted, kissed and talked about all sorts of things. We were becoming close friends, but the crucial difference was that I wanted Liri naked.

    If she was a man I would have had the confidence to boldly make my move. I would have recognized the signs, known the steps to the courtship dance that I’ve performed over the years and engaged in it instinctively. Liri is not a man, thankfully. She is tall with legs that go on forever. Her hair is wheat colored and long, and her breasts are full and gorgeous. She’s incredibly intelligent, funny and can out-belch any frat boy. When we’re together, I have an excruciatingly delicious combination of feelings: nervousness, lust, love and frustration. I’m working with no roadmap, and for my Type-A personality, the cluelessness is maddening.

    I know the exact moment when I realized that I wanted something more with Liri than the occasional scene at a party or an evening at my place. We were at Frisky Business checking out the sale on Aslan leather strap-on harnesses. We wore dresses and heels and were riding the high of having devoured a bag of Cheetos before our shopping expedition. We held up different sizes of silicone cocks and debated the sizes and shapes. After some discussion we asked the clerk to unlock the dressing room so we could fit the harness on Liri.

    The dressing room was large and square, and what I really wanted to do was slip to my knees and run my hands up Liri’s bare legs. I wanted to lift her skirt and bury my face between her legs to have my way with her for as long as I could before we attracted notice. But I didn’t. I was too shy. Too unsure. Too inexperienced. Dear God, I felt like I was seventeen again. We exited the dressing room without sexual incident, and Liri made a quick trip to her car for a coupon. As I waited at the counter, the clerk commented that we made an adorable couple. She said that they didn’t get many “fems” in the store, and she thought we looked really pretty together. My heart soared as I thanked her. It was that moment. That second when I thought, “holy fuck, I want to be Liri’s girlfriend. I want to be something more with her.”

    I didn’t give any of these details to mama. I sketched the barest outline; I’m bisexual and finally exploring what that means to me. I’m dating Liri, and she’s amazing. I’m being thoughtful and responsible. There were tears shed on both sides of the conversation, and surprisingly, mama said that she thought it was common for people to have same-sex desires. In her opinion, lots of people have them, they just don’t act on it. Later in the day, she wrote me an email. She wrote that she had been journaling and wanted to share some thoughts, and at the end of her message, I was crying again because of my love for her.

    As a therapist, she helps people discover their authentic selves, their true selves. Growing up she gave the message to my brother and I that living a life as your true self was more valuable than going through life living in fear of rocking the boat. So here I am, discovering my authentic self, and even though she’s worried, she’s also proud. I’m doing the exact thing she teaches others to do. I’m my mother’s daughter. I am me. And mama will love me no matter where my journey takes me.

  7. Like Mother Like Daughter

    May 10, 2012 by Heather Cole

    It took me a long time to get pregnant. Years. When I finally did, I wrote long letters to my baby girl full of all the hopes I had for her life. I wrote over and over again that she could achieve anything she wanted for this world if she worked hard enough at it. I still believe that, and if you could see my three-year-old today, you’d have no doubt that she believes it too. She’s a firecracker, ready to do anything you suggest if it doesn’t require “cleaning up.” She’s also a nudist.

    Those naked tendencies are genetic. I passed most of my early childhood sans clothing as well. My mother laughs at my naked child anecdotes and swears this is karma in action, the payback for my own nudist beginnings. More often than not, the old family polaroids show me standing with my cousins, grinning ear to ear without a stitch of clothing on me. I even had my nursery school interview naked. (I was accepted, by the way.)

    My three-year-old also loves breasts, mine especially, and she’s not averse to squeezing the breasts of her grandmother or my girlfriends. She likes nipples too, and with summer just around the corner, our excursions become fraught with the peril of public embarrassment. Trips through the grocery store turn dangerous.

    Inevitably she will point and yell, “look, mama! NIPPLES!”

    Sure enough, there they are, poking in our general direction. Someone didn’t care to wear a bra, and my girl noticed. Then she had to gleefully announce it to the rest of the store.

    For right now she’s very young and oblivious to any sexual aspect related to nudity. She’s innocent yet enthusiastic about appreciating the female form. Honestly, I can’t fault her. Hell, I love to enthusiastically appreciate the female form. Let’s not throw stones, shall we?

    I try to curb her exuberance without associating any judgement or shame with enjoying her body or admiring others. I’m acutely aware of how I view my own body and know that any negative comments I may make will impact her opinions of her body and others. Like a lot of other parents, I can’t help but worry about how her self-image will develop.

    My biggest fear is how my ex-husband’s criticisms will influence her self-esteem. Now that we’re living apart, I can’t shield her from his stony silences or cutting words. I worry that he’ll watch everything she puts in her mouth like he did me, or pinch her waist to measure any extra inches. I’ve tried to address his vocal criticism of overweight people, or the people he finds “ugly,” and how that might affect how our daughter views herself. He was deeply offended, of course, that I implied that he would impact her negatively. He still doesn’t understand how his disparaging words hurt me, so how could he possibly understand his influence over a child? It’s an unsettling thought that her biggest challenge in developing positive body image may be her own father.

    But fostering healthy body image is only one of the parenting challenges ahead of me. I realize that it’s easy to get caught in the trap of ‘what if’ as a parent. I have years (I hope) before we have to talk about sexual intercourse, but the future is a minefield of ‘ifs.’ What if she’s kinky like me? When will the questions start about my bi-sexuality? Will she question the poly aspects of my life? The list of questions may be a long one, and if I think about it too much I start to hyperventilate.

    Someday it will be me perusing the search history on the computer and calling Nikki on the phone to yell about chastity belts and garage imprisonment for my daughter. At the moment, though, she’s wearing only a diaper and painting at her easel. The rest may happen or not. I love her regardless.