I’m standing here, staring into the mirror, still not my friend—red hair, a wild snarl from nights I can’t sleep, a gnawing ache I can’t kill. My 32C breasts hang loose under a threadbare tee, nipples sharp against it, sparked by a fire that’s been licking at me since that alley. Scars and stretch marks carve my skin, but they’re battle scars now—I’m still kicking, still craving. That red mess down below always wet, a wan...

I'm standing here, staring into the mirror, no bullshit between me and what I see. A middle-aged redhead looks back—hair wild like a damn fire around a face that's laughed plenty and swallowed more than its share of quiet hurts. My 32C breasts hang soft, no fancy bra, nipples still perky enough to catch my eye, tugging me back to when Dave couldn't keep his hands off me. Now they've got that soft give, proof l've let myse...

Susan stormed out of the house that Saturday morning, her fiery red hair streaming behind her like a banner of defiance, a vivid contrast to the gray fog of frustration clouding her mind. At 26 or 27, her body cradled the budding life of our first child, her belly a gentle curve beneath her modest blouse. The disagreement—its details now lost to the haze of memory—had ignited a rare spark of rebellion in her deeply conser...