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April, 2013

  1. Sex on the Battlefield: A Heart Project Post by Anna Sansom

    April 23, 2013 by Nikki Blue

    This post was written by the fantastically amazing, Anna Sansom of  The Ladygarden Project and has been reblogged from Eat the Damn Cake with her permission. This is Anna’s contribution to our Heart Project to promote positive body image and we can’t thank her enough for participating. 

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    I was 15. I was horny. And I knew I would never have sex. I knew I was doomed to stay celibate forever because no one – man or woman – would ever find my body worthy of love.

    The evidence stared back at me from the mirror: my body was ugly, misshapen, alien. At 15 my body was covered in angry, red stretch marks from puberty’s overnight arrival. My sacrificial body hadn’t stood a chance. Puberty had roughly torn my skin apart wherever it could: my hips, breasts, upper arms, the backs of my knees, my upper thighs.  It wasn’t just my skin that failed to keep up with puberty’s rampage: my breast tissue ballooned, the ligaments strained, gravity won the day, and the result was long, stretched breasts. I never had pert, round, youthful breasts.  My nipples always pointed down, my breasts sagged: pendulous.

    Puberty dealt me another cruel blow: acne on my chest and back that left me with white polka-dot scars across my shoulders and in my cleavage.

    I was 15 and my body looked like a battlefield.

    I was 15 and I weighed over 200lbs.

    And yet, at 15, I was horny.

    Fast forward two and a half decades and I can reflect on a series of lovers. Each one found me beautiful and desired me. Each one respected me and treated me well. How did that happen?

    This isn’t a story of miraculous transformation. I wasn’t the ugly duckling who became the swan.I didn’t have an epiphany that suddenly made me see my own, internal beauty (‘cos it’s what’s on the inside that counts, right?). My body will always wear her scars. I currently weigh over 200lbs.

    This is the story of a horny 15 year old who knew that sexuality was important to her. The 15 year old refused to accept a lifetime of celibacy (or being non-discerning about who qualified to be a lover because anyone would be better than no one).

    The 15 year old who thought she’d never get laid lost her virginity at age 18. By age 18 I’d become aware that it wasn’t the sex that was important; it was expressing my sexual self that was key. It wasn’t just about feeling horny; it was about knowing that this sexual part of me was an important part of me, and a part that should not be ignored or stifled but rather explored and celebrated. By the time I was 18 I couldn’t bear to hide and deny my true self any more.  I took a deep breath, looked past what was in the mirror, and stepped out onto the path that led me straight to my needs and desires.

    I now realise that my acute awareness of the importance of my sexual expression was (and continues to be) a gift. When I unwrapped the gift and peered inside, I saw body acceptance.

    Sometimes I forgot I’d been given this gift. I put my body through punishing diets and exercise regimes in an effort to change what I saw in the mirror. I berated it and called it names when it was too slow, too fat, too different from how a woman’s body was supposed to look.

    But each time I undressed for my lover, each time I caressed my own skin, each time I made love, I remembered the gift. I remembered that I only have one body and that I can be thankful for that body and all it enables me to do. I remembered that there is nothing wrong with me: I am perfectly and uniquely “me”. And when that is good enough for me, it is good enough (more than enough) for my lovers too.

    I’ve never lost my fascination and passion for sexuality. The 15 year old has matured and developed into a woman on a mission to support other women to enjoy their own bodies and their own sexuality. I want women to celebrate their sexual selves and I promote this through my blog The Ladygarden Project. I also want women to enjoy sex and their bodies now – not deferring it until sometime in the future when they feel slim/beautiful/sexy/worthy enough, or to relegate it to something that only exists in their past. I encourage women to be Sexy at Any Size through my website and workshops – supporting women to feel sexy and sexual whatever the size and shape of their body (this goes for age and stage of life too).

    The gift of body acceptance is not time-limited. It’s not dependent on being a certain size or shape, or of looking a certain way.  And it is a gift that multiplies. The more we use it, the more we share it, the more it grows.

    One lover beautifully described the lines on my belly as being like the ripples on a pond when a pebble has been dropped in. Body acceptance has a ripple-effect. The more we accept our own bodies, and enjoy them just as they are, the more those around us accept their own bodies too.

     

    I Heart my Belly

    Bellies are supposed to be smooth and flat. Unblemished. Youthful. But by age 16, puberty had left me with deep, angry red stretch marks that criss-crossed my belly.

    For as long as I have been a sexual adult, my body has been scarred and my belly has had its characteristic roundness. And I am perfectly happy with that.

    “Tiger stripes,” said one lover as he traced my lines. “You’re a tiger.”

    “Like when a pebble’s been dropped into a pool,” said another as she kissed my belly button.

    I heart my belly. 

     

    Anna belly heart

     

     

    I Heart my Boobs

    For my 26th birthday I gave myself the gift of nipple piercings. I’d had an uneasy relationship with my breasts: bad PMT meant they’d always caused me more pain than pleasure. The piercings heightened the sensitivity in my nipples and helped me to enjoy my breasts much more. I designed jewellery for them and wore it with pride.

    I took the piercings out two years later – it was simply the right time.

    Now, with or without piercings, I heart my breasts.

     

    Anna boobs heart

    Category Guest Post | Tags: ,,, | 7 Comments

  2. Opinion: Sisters and Slaves

    April 18, 2013 by Heather Cole

    I love Dan Savage, so when Zen sent me this link today, I eagerly read to see what Dan had to say in this letter regarding a woman’s sister and her new slave:  SAVAGE LOVE Letter of the Day

    Clearly the focus of Dan’s response was about the sister’s assertion that her coming out as a Domme to her family was similar to someone of the LGBTQ community revealing their sexual orientation. In this regard, both Dan and I are in agreement. I don’t think it’s the same thing at all. In my experience, it was a thousand times more difficult for me to tell my mother that I was bisexual and in love with a woman than it was to tell her I was kinky. Maybe at some point down the road I will choose not to be in a M/s dynamic. I can never not “choose” to be bisexual. It’s my fervent wish for public tolerance when I hold my girlfriend’s hand at a concert, and I hope that someday our government recognizes our rights as a couple some day. I don’t expect that sort of recognition from the law for my BDSM lifestyle. (Although it would be nice for my state to acknowledge and honor that I’m consenting in writing to a caning.) But contrary to what Dan wrote, I’m not looking for permission from the general public to have sex in front of them.

    That’s where Dan and I disagree. I don’t think that a Master/slave dynamic is all about kinky sex. Of course it’s a huge part, and naturally, there are dynamics where that is the primary focus of activity. What lies at the heart of a M/s dynamic is obedience. Some of us hope for love, trust and loyalty as well, but above all there is obedience and submission. Humiliation can play a part, sometimes a big part, but all of the Masters and slaves that I know act like traditional couples everywhere. Because here’s the kicker, the power exchange exists in every day life in all sorts of couples, kinky AND traditional. As much as we get off playing our roles of Master and slave, we also want to have a life beyond our play space and that means complying with society’s rules, not to mention the law.

    What’s unclear in the letter is if the sister was bringing her slave in his latex gimp suit with a collar and leash or if they were attending the family gathering in reindeer sweaters and khakis. Was she going to ask him to get her more stuffing or was she going to dump the stuffing on the floor and order him to lick it off her shoe after she stepped in it? I have a lot to say about the gimp suit and stuffing humiliation, because through my own experiments with submission in public, there is a boundary when my fetish in public forces you (a passerby) to participate. The latter isn’t consensual which is a huge no-no in the BDSM community. She shouldn’t force her parents to safeword over the green bean casserole, because she’s making the slave her footstool. And that’s the biggest question here for me: was she forcing her kink on others?

    I understand wanting acceptance from those nearest and dearest to you. I wanted the same thing from my mother when I first told her I was kinky, but I told her my definition of kinky in broad strokes. I also sent her a to help her understand where I was coming from. However, I don’t tell my mom the naked details about what I do with Zen, my traditional bf. I’m just as reticent about describing my role as a slave. What I do in the privacy of my bedroom is saved for you, my darling Vagina readers. Mama can always subscribe to our RSS feed.

    ~Heather

    Category D/s | Tags: ,, | 7 Comments

  3. An Apology

    April 16, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Last week I attended a gathering of women and men who identified as slaves or submissives for an evening of learning and discussion. I was nervous about attending, because I didn’t know a soul. But I arrived with cookies fresh from the oven and figured no one could possibly dislike someone who brought dessert.

    A round of quick introductions brought my attention to the woman across from me. She wore a steel collar, a steel cuff on each wrist and one on each ankle. LH and I had been discussing that exact style of day collar and cuffs. I could barely restrain my excitement, and I asked her if anyone ever inquired about her “jewelry.” She told a funny story about the one woman who did, and when she talked more about her background, she revealed that she had been trained as a Gorean red silk slave.

    SHIT! my brain shouted. Fuckity fuck fuckit, I whispered.

    For several awful moments all I could think about was the unflattering things I said about followers of Gor in a “Dear Heather” post last month. Never in a million years would I have discounted the woman sitting in our circle about her training, but I had done exactly that in a blog post. And for that, I feel an apology is in order.

    I’m very sorry for my careless words. I’m NOT sorry that I advised Would Be Slave to ditch the suspicious Dom she was considering. However, I retract my Gorean/Scientology comparison, because let’s face it, no one I like should be compared to Tom Cruise’s spiritual practices.

    My darling vagina readers, here comes my lesson for the week. My kink isn’t necessarily your kink, but that doesn’t mean that you’re doing it “wrong.” If you have enthusiastic consent from all parties, are using sane practices and are safe (This is a widely debated definition, but I’m not getting into that now.) then you’re doing your kink right. It’s true that I have absolutely no interest in creating a BDSM fantasy around a series of science fiction novels, but that doesn’t lessen my slave friend’s service in any way or any other slave who follows the Gorean ways.

    One of the best pieces of advice I ever read was, “if someone tells you that they know THE right way to do kink, they’re lying.” There is no right way. It all depends upon the individuals playing. This goes for all sorts of protocols too. Capitalizing Sir and using lowercase “i” as a pronoun for slaves and submissives is pure preference. It’s a decision made between a Dominant and submissive within their dynamic. Just because LH and I don’t use that in our written communications doesn’t mean that we’re not Master and slave. We just happen to be a Master and slave who adhere to the grammar rules of the Chicago Manual of Style.

    To the slaves that follow the trainings of Gor, you have my sincerest apologies if I offended you. All submission is a gift, and I need a reminder of that sometimes. I’ll even bake you peanut butter chocolate chip oatmeal cookies if that makes me a better candidate for forgiveness, and we’ll declare the slate wiped clean. Or I can send some feed for your bosk. Ha! I kid.

    Boob smooshes,

    Heather

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | No Comments

  4. Marks

    April 7, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Heather Sinful Sunday

    As a young woman, I hated my pale skin. I had freckles, and I never tanned. Even when I wore a high SPF, I burned. My German Irish ancestors were to blame obviously.

    It wasn’t until I experienced my first flogging that I understood how rewarding my skin could be. I marked up like a dream.  Fingernails, teeth, rulers, paddles, riding crops… regardless of the implement, my skin embraced it.

    Rope leaves kisses too.

    Sinful Sunday

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 24 Comments

  5. Pics of a Rope Bunny

    April 5, 2013 by Heather Cole

    Instead of joining my large extended family around the dinner table to celebrate Easter, I was hundreds of miles away with LH, en route to our first rope suspension class. I was in charge of navigating which was a nice distraction from my nervous stomach. The orgasm midway didn’t hurt either. It wasn’t only that I probably wouldn’t know any of the kinksters in attendance or that I was new to the world of rope suspension, I knew there were going to be pictures too. As much as the exhibitionist in me loved photos, I also partially dreaded the results.

    I had written in my Fearless Press column, A Kink in the Curves, that rope was helping me improve my body image and had bolstered my confidence. However, in an entirely new setting with new people doing a new thing–my nerves were jumping and I felt shy. Yes, I said it. I felt SHY. The first thing someone said to me was, “you’re dressed awful formal just to get naked.” The comment actually made me laugh. My dress and ballet flats were the best kind of camouflage. I looked like a good girl on a Easter outing.

    After signing our waivers and being introduced to other people in the line, LH and I made our way to the social area of The Hangar where the class would be held. The Hangar looked exactly like its moniker except that the inside had been divided into large rooms. We sat in a social area lined with carpet and couches, a table that supported a variety of snacks and water, and a stereo system. An industrial winch hung halfway down, suspending a long iron bar with silver rings.

    LH gave me a tour into the back rooms, one of which held a cage and a giant spider web made of wire. I went into the cage, of course, and LH took a series of photos with his phone. With the throw pillows to sit on, it wasn’t an uncomfortable space. All I needed was a “Please Feed the Pet” sign to hold. Then he made me sit on a large wooden throne that looked like it had been lifted straight out of a Viking’s hall, and I felt out of place perched on the edge of the cushion. Again there were more pictures as I tried to sit still, but I really wanted off the thing. My butterflies were back.

    I sat at LH’s feet on a pillow for the duration of the class. There was one other slave in the group, and she had come in her collar. Part of me relaxed when I saw her especially since she sat on the floor like I did. Finally the handouts were put aside, and we got to our feet. LH told me to take off my dress, and I stripped down to my panties. My Batgirl panties, to be precise, because I’m a badass. The other slave and I were the only naked submissives. Everyone else wore a leotard or some sort of workout gear. At first I felt a little self-conscious, but once the rope started winding around me, I forgot about everything else.

    LH murmured encouragements in my ear, his hands warm against my exposed skin. Rope crossed over my chest, around my waist and around each thigh. It felt like a meditative exercise as LH worked on me, ensuring that I’d be safe when I was finally hoisted into the air. This part was familiar to me, and I didn’t start squirming until the camera came out again. LH did beautiful rope work, so I understood why he wanted to document it all. All the women in the room and the one male submissive had bumps of skin where there weren’t any before. Rope can be a great equalizer, because once you’re trussed up for a suspension, even the leanest submissives get curves.

    I was suspended maybe three feet in the air, and the experience was like nothing I’ve felt before. Being tied on the ground felt night and day different from going up in the air. The weight of your body was distributed along the rope which was actively pressing against you. Logically, I knew all this. We had a lot of supervision and expert advice, but when I got up there, my brain experienced a hiccup.

    How I processed discomfort or pain was through breathing and visualization techniques, but every time I went to draw a deep breath, I felt the rope tighten across my chest. My breathing wasn’t constricted, and I could draw normal breaths, but my brain snagged on that feeling of rope pressed against my chest. I ran through my mental checklist and felt all my limbs to make certain that I wasn’t in pain or uncomfortable. My body checked out just fine. It was my mind that was uneasy. I was never in any physical danger, and if I wanted down all I had to do was tell LH. As I dangled there, staring at the red mat below me, I understood clearly why mental freakouts were the number one reason for a failed rope suspension scene. It didn’t help that I was in the middle of being sick with an upper respiratory infection. This was another valuable lesson learned: rope suspension and lung congestion didn’t mix. (You can file that under “Duh, Heather.”) And then there were more pictures…

    I hated being Debbie Downer but I didn’t like my suspension pics very much. I realized that my body was going to naturally contort into different forms depending on how I was suspended, but all those bumps and bulges gave me serious sadface. I knew I needed to gag and bind my inner critic and focus instead on the amazing afternoon I had with rope and LH. I mean, I was suspended! In the air! That was crazy fun! So what if I didn’t look like a fetish model? Shut up, stupid inner critic.

    There were a bunch of photos taken at the end that I thoroughly enjoyed. I liked seeing the rope patterns appear across my skin, and I did a couple of cheeky poses that turned out to be funny and looked like me instead of a stunned deer/heartburn victim. A couple days after our rope adventure, LH had me choose my favorites. He wanted me to post them so that we could see my evolution from novice to experienced rope bunny. Part of me appreciated his theory. Now I need to work on the rest of me.

     

    Category BDSM | Tags: ,, | 9 Comments