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  1. The Time I Wanted to Punch Yoda

    October 3, 2012 by Heather Cole

    Luke: All right, I’ll give it a try.
    Yoda: No. Try not. Do… or do not. There is no try.

    I’ve almost broken myself of the habit of saying, “I’ll try.” Most of the time I say, “I’m going to do my best.” This practice is manifesting itself in my life in some incredible ways. I’m doing work that I love, my daughter is healthy and happy, and I’m dating a wonderful woman. I’m making friends and connecting with fellow writers, and every night I’m thanking the universe for the abundance in my life. Oh it’s not roses every day, but I’m creating the life I have always wanted. So why the hell am I punching Yoda, you ask? Because I’m afraid and punching a short jedi makes me feel better. Just kidding. I don’t really want to punch him, but I would like to borrow his light saber for a couple hours.

    Most days I’m not afraid. Most of the time I don’t worry that my ex-husband is going to discover our blog and haul me to court to fight for custody. Just writing that, however, spurs the monkeys in my brain to chatter fearfully. I’ve read about that happening. A sex-positive, kinky woman came out on her blog and put a face to her words. She wanted to stop hiding and embrace her identity wholly, and her ex-husband suddenly sued her for sole custody of their child as a result. They battled it out for five years until he finally dropped it. Reading her story was like watching my worst nightmare come to life. I work damn hard to keep my Vagina Antics work and kinky life separate from my daughter. I work even harder to keep my life secret from my ex-husband.

    Last night my mother said, “I didn’t know how bad it was until I visited you before you moved out. I had no idea how he was treating you.” Her words managed to push me right back into the feelings of that time and the constant fear that accompanied me. I spent most of my marriage afraid of what that man could do, and then ironically, he did even worse than that when I told him I was leaving. All the horrible things he said to me meant nothing in comparison to the threat of taking our daughter. The sheriff, the subpoena, the formal language sprawled over eight pages of thick paper detailing an investigation of my life… thinking about that time still makes me cry. It’s like my body can’t help but remember the terror despite my mind reminding me that it’s over.

    Yoda is right, dammit. I’m not trying. I’m consciously refusing to let that anxiety consume me again. I work hard and save my kinky social life for the evenings that my child is with the ex. I keep moving forward, meeting new people and telling them about Vagina Antics when I feel safe to do so. I’m sorry if I keep some things hidden, but there’s that nagging voice of worry in my head. What if they know him somehow? What if he finds out? What if he comes after me again?

    The balance of good here is much greater than my fears, and someday way down the road, I hope to be able to post my smiling face next to my writing. In that far off future, I want to be able to talk frankly with my daughter about my journey. I’ll skip the details of the naked parts, of course, but I want her to know that I didn’t hide because I was ashamed. I would rip the heart out of anyone who hurt her, and I don’t want my choices to limit hers in any way. But I probably won’t tell her about threatening Yoda. Hey, we all have our secrets.

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  2. Busting Out

    March 19, 2012 by Heather Cole

    During the final months of my marriage, Nikki and I developed a ritual. Every morning we’d talk on the phone, sharing the day-to-day details of being mothers and women coping with the end of their most significant relationships. Inevitably at some point in the conversation, one of us would start the list. As with almost every other person going through the breakup of a long-term relationship, we had a list of things we were going to do when we “got out.” Two items stood out in particular: we wanted to start this blog, and we wanted to fuck. Let me be specific, we wanted to fuck a lot.

    You’re surprised, right? Oh, hush.

    I was starved for physical affection. I would have given my right arm to sit beside someone and have them hold me, brush their lips over mine or squeeze my hand. I felt like the desert, parched and yearning for a single drop of physical intimacy. I promised myself that in my new life there would be openly affectionate partners who would love me just as I was. As I struggled through the final days, trying to protect my child and my heart, I dreamed about my new life. But that was the romance novel part of the list. The rest was more explicit. In my ivory tower of the guest room, I plotted and schemed about how to get as much penis as possible.

    Tumblr helped, as did upgrading my phone for a better camera. I had sexual fantasies about everyone who crossed my path, from the guy who bagged my groceries to the woman with the beautiful hair at the post office. Not my neighbor, Greg, though. He wore black dress socks with sandals. I can forgive a lot, but not that. At one point I entertained the idea of hanging a map on the wall, complete with little red pins, marking a road trip to meet all the people I flirted with on Twitter. That would have been a long damn trip.

    Around that time a close friend of mine predicted that I would go crazy after I separated. She told me that her other divorced friends went through a period of acting out, of fucking and drinking and doing all the things they hadn’t been doing while married. I remember the women she referred to and how I had shaken my head about their outrageous behavior. Then, suddenly, I became that woman..

    I was standing at the cusp of something big and wondrous and scary as hell. I was millimeters away from  beginning something entirely new, a life that was solely my own. The interminable feeling of waiting for that moment when every part of you is screaming to break free, the pressure of that contradicting action vs inaction, was a pressure cooker inside me. I was ready to blow. In more ways than one.

    I will not lie. After I separated, there was a man and a hotel room and the first oral sex I had in eight years. I didn’t know him well, but I was greedy and impatient. The room held the smell of clean sheets and a whiff of tobacco. I wore my favorite heels and panties the color of raspberries. As clothes were unbuttoned and hastily shoved aside, I reveled in the fierce joy of touching him. The texture of his skin underneath my fingertips, the taste of his kisses and the glorious sensation of his lips on my clit. As I lay there basking in an incredible orgasm, gazing unseeingly at the ceiling, I knew it was only the beginning of what I could have. Followed rapidly by the thought, “holy fucking shit what the hell am I doing?”

    The months afterwards were intense and there was a lot of fucking. There are still days when I am a big ball of sexual need. The key is not always acting on it. (Nikki, stop laughing.)  I have a child and bills and a new life that I’m creating that takes a lot of energy and attention. I’m writing a novel and honing my craft and settling into a new city. Real life and responsibilities often leave me with little extra energy for a Twitter road trip.

    To those women and men who go a little nuts after the breakup, I get it now. We all have our version of “crazy.” I empathize with what you’re going through, and I hope that you’re using condoms. Just don’t let it go on too long. At some point soon you should rehydrate, pull up your big girl panties and get on with real life. Because that shit don’t wait.

    Category Divorce | Tags: ,,,,,,,, | 1 Comment