Shelby Cross's Blog, page 6

When You're Feeling Bad, Make Someone Else Smile

I've learned during the course of my life that when I'm feeling down, the easiest way to soothe my spirits is to be of service to others.The easiest way to do that is to make someone else smile.Which means, dear Cats and Roosters, that I'm telling you this story not because it makes me happy, but because it might make a few of you happy.
Especially the Sadists-by-Proxies. You freaky fuckers, you.So last night Husband crawled into bed next to me, and while it was obvious to me what he wanted, I was not about to be too accommodating to his wishes, mainly because he had already pissed me off. (He'd not allowed me to attend a munch I'd really been looking forward to. Yes, he had good reason. No, that didn't erase my feelings on the matter.)So when he crawled into bed next to me, I lay there stiff as a board.He started flicking me, slapping me, and poking me to get my attention."You poke me one more time, and I'm gonna poke your ass," I threatened, glaring at him across the bed.
"You try to poke my ass, I'm gonna make you lick that finger," he shot back, letting out a short bark of laughter.
"You're gross," I said. "Gross. Leave me alone."
"Not gonna do that. Keep going, though, and you'll see how gross I can be."
"I'm calling your bluff. Whatcha gonna do, Husband? Huh? Whatcha gonna do?"
He promptly stuck his finger up my nose, dug around, and while I recoiled in shock and horror...he stuck said finger in my mouth.
IN MY MOUTH.
"OH MY GOD YOU ARE SO GROSS! I shrieked. "I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU!" As I screamed and spit over the side of the bed, he laughed until his face was red, and he was rocking atop the mattress. "I'M CALLING D!" I yelled, reaching for my phone.He stopped. "Why do you do that?" He asked in a curious tone. "Why do you use 'calling d' as a threat?"
"Because...because at least she gives me SYMPATHY!" I whined, holding the phone to my chest. "She UNDERSTANDS!"
"She definitely understands, but she does not give you sympathy," he said. "She's only going to laugh at you. You know that."
"I know," I grumbled, putting the phone back. "But I like to think she gives me sympathy, deep down in her heart. I can't even pretend that with you.""Then you're learning," he said with another twisted smile. "Because you definitely do not get sympathy from me."
"Then what do I get from you?"
"Oh, wife, you should have learned by now, never to ask me that."It's not just that I don't see the bus coming—although many times, I don't. It's also that, even when I see the bus coming, I don't see it as a bus at all. It's more like a big white fluffy teddy bear...stuffed with schadenfreude.

Kink Meme Monday: When was the first time you used the word "kinky" to describe yourself? How did it feel?

I didn't use the word "kinky" to describe myself until I discovered the kink community, which relatively speaking, wasn't that long ago at all.

(There are the "old timers" who've been in the community for 20, 25, 30 years; some even longer. My Mistress runs one of the oldest munches in the entire fucking world. There is no "catching up" to those folks, but when you get right down to it, there is no reason to try, either.)

My path was very similar to a lot of other people's, I think, in that I knew for a long time I was different. I was more prone to playing on the edge, more open to trying taboos, and my relationships were filled with dark twisty sinkholes of perversion.

For a long time, Husband and I lived our lives together thinking our relationship was peculiar, and some would say, unhealthy; but we were happy on the path we were on, so we kept at it.

It wasn't until I discovered the kink community that I learned there's a whole segment of society who live their lives just like us, or try to. That we weren't the unhealthy ones; in the BDSM community, we were an example of a couple getting it right.

Realizing that was an amazing feeling.

But the word "kinky" is not all that important. One person may like to don fluffy handcuffs once a month with their partner, and consider themselves "kinky" because of that. Other people—typically women—may live their lives as 24/7 slaves, but if they happen to never think of their relationships as anything other than normal, if they in fact think their lifestyles are a step up from everyone else's, they may not consider themselves kinky at all.

(I have met plenty of couples in my life who fit that bill. The wives are definitely 24/7 slaves to their husbands, but they fill that role out of religious and social obligations. If you ask one of these women if she considers herself kinky, she'd be appalled by the question; that doesn't make her any less a slave.)

Words to describe yourself should never be used to pigeonhole yourself. They are not set in stone, and they are not absolute. But they do have incredible power, and can lead to amazing epiphanies about yourself.

D/s Via Text

Me: I can haz orgazm now?
Husband: Yes. Have fun.
Me: Thank you thank you thank you! I can use a buttplug, too?
Husband: Yes.
Me: The nice big glass one? :D
Husband: Yes. In fact, I insist.
Me: I can't find the lube. Where's the lube?...Where'd you put the lube?...Hello?...OH GOD DAMN IT.

50 Shades of Grey: Your Options

If you choose to see the movie:

See the movie with a group of fellow kinksters, but discreetly, because you don't want to scare the vanillas, GOD FORBID THEY KNOW WE'RE KINKY JUST LIKE THAT MR. GREY GUY, that stuff only exists in movies, it's not real.See the movie with a group of kinksters in full kink uniform because WE'RE KINKY, WE'RE NOT STINKY, ASK US ABOUT STUFF! WE'RE NOT THAT TOUGH (unless you give consent. Then all bets are off). See the movie by yourself, but not tell anyone. Deny, deny, deny! 
Once you see the movie:Tell everyone how you only went to see the movie because you felt obligated, but you didn't really want to, and it was crap.Tell everyone why the movie does not in any way represent "the lifestyle." Because all our relationships are fucking perfect, just like in that secretary movie. Tell everyone to just read the plot on wikipedia and save their money that way.Fail to mention how the sex scenes totally turned you on. You were jerking off in the darkness of your own theater seat, but nobody needs to know that.Once you're back to life:Tell everyone proudly how you saw the movie, using the same tone you'd use to tell them you got a nasty splinter out of your thumb. Buy a "I SAW THE FIFTY SHADES MOVIE AND I HATED IT" t-shirt. Go home and obsessively watch pirated scenes from the movie off of youtube...especially the sex scenes. Mmm, movie sex. Not better than the real thing, but you're probably not getting the real thing, so it'll do.If you choose NOT to see the movie:Congrats. I hear American Sniper is good, and has absolutely no controversy surrounding it. 

Posted On Tumblr

Just saw this question posted on Tumblr:
Can you explain the difference between punishment and funishment?

And here is my answer:
Punishment, real punishment, is never fun for the bottom, and ideally, should not be fun for the Top, either. Because punishment means the bottom has screwed up, made a mistake, and needs some discipline. Punishment usually includes something the sub REALLY does not like. Like…being ignored completely for a certain amount of time. Put her in the corner for 10 minutes with a timer, and most of the time, the bottom emerges a changed person. Funishment is different. It may look like a punishment, but both sides know it’s just an act, it’s not real. It’s a justification to give both people what they really want: some reinforcement of the D/s relationship. This can be through pain, humiliation, objectification, etc. Some people do not abide the idea of “Funishment.” To them, the acts of BDSM are too sacred to involve any sort of pretend play. But other couples love it and swear by it. Especially when the bottom is a brat, or smart-assed masochist…then funishment gets truly wicked. Hope this helps. 

Kink Meme Monday: "Do you have any kinky nicknames?"

If you mean dirty, naughty little monickers like "whore" or "cumslut," then no.

If you mean sweet little nicknames like "sweetie" or "sugar pie," then yes, yes I do...but those are private.

Then there's the third category: words Husband uses to remind me of my place in his home, in his life. They aren't really pronouns, though; they have more of a possessive adjectives-type feel. They are words like Lady, Wife, and Owned. 

If I'm behaving childishly—especially if we're out in public, especially if he's already given me a warning to stop—he'll call me Lady. He'll use it in a way like "Stop making faces, Lady" or "We will talk about this later, Lady." It's his way of letting me know he doesn't think I'm behaving the way a proper woman should.

Wife is used in a somewhat similar fashion, but it's reserved for times when I haven't shown pride in the title. As his Wife, I have certain duties and responsibilities, and when I fail in my obligations, and he grows disappointed, he will quickly let me know.
I'll give you an example: when Husband calls me from another part of the house, I'm expected to come running, or have a damn good reason not to. Yesterday, he called me from downstairs, and I didn't come right away—I wanted to finish up an email I was writing.
Three seconds later I heard, "I SAID COME HERE, WIFE."
I ran.
He always seems to know when I'm legitimately delayed, and when I'm just dawdling. I don't know how he knows, but he knows.

Owned is reserved for the bedroom and secret moments when the kids aren't around. When he's planning something he knows I won't like—like a harrowing scene, or a practice session with a diabolical toy—he takes great pleasure in reminding me that I have no choice in the matter, that I am his property, bought and sold, and he gets to do whatever he wants to me.
(And yes, part of that is the fact that I have given him the right to do whatever he wants to me, because we have a Complete Power Exchange, Consensual-Non-Consent relationship. But he still loves to remind me how he bought me when he married me.)

There are variations on these words, but they all have basically the same meaning, and the same purpose: to remind me of our particular dynamics. It's a mini "reinforcement of the power exchange relationship," as my friend likes to say.
But notice, they are kinky nicknames in the D/s sense, not in the S/m sense. They are used to reinforce my submission in the relationship, not humiliate or titillate me.
He doesn't call me his "whore" or "cumslut" or anything like that because he knows how much I wouldn't like that. It wouldn't just do me hurt, it would do me harm, and there's a difference between the two.

What's Your Sexual Native Language?

A little known fact about my Husband: he speaks three languages fluently, another three pretty well, and a few others enough to follow a conversation. He's the kind of person who can pick up a language like that (snaps fingers). His brain never lost the ability to listen to a new language and pick it up right away, almost like a child.

Like most other people on the planet, I am not like that. I know english, because it's my native language, but it's (sadly) the only language I feel comfortable enough to speak fluently. I do know one other language well enough to carry on a conversation; but there's always that process of translation going on in my brain: I have to listen to what the other person is saying, translate it into english my head, think up my answer, translate that into the other language in my head, and then make the foreign words come out through my lips and tongue.
They say you're not really fluent in another language until you can think in that language. I'm not able to do that. I lost that ability when I was a child.

Sexuality—in my opinion—is something of a similar concept.
We learn at an early age what to think about sex, how to regard it, what our attitude towards it should be; and that becomes our "sexual native language." While we're growing up, we think our views are not just normal, but shared by everyone else. It's always a shock to realize that's not true, that some people have the exact opposite views of us, a completely different language. (It's even more of a shock to realize there are people out there who find our opinions not just inappropriate, but sick.)

You can learn to change the way you view sexuality, just like you can learn a new language. Some people go through sexual epiphanies, and decide that from then on, they only want to speak a new sexual language, and never look back.
But some people have to strive to learn a new language, and never get really fluent at it. Even after years of speaking it, they still have to go through a translation process in their heads.
And this can make things interesting.

I'll give you an example: one of the core concepts of my sexual native language is propriety. I was taught that as a girl, I was expected to keep my body clean, my behavior modest, my world tidy. My mother started buying me long-sleeved cotton nightgowns when I was a toddler, and she taught me the correct way for a girl to dress and undress—even when she was alone, in the sanctity of her own room. It was something straight out of this video:
I was supposed to conduct myself with grace, virtue, and elegant reserve. I didn't always follow those tenants, of course; but when I didn't, I was acting improperly, I was doing something wrong, and the older I got, the less wiggle room I got. By the time I was a young woman, and had curves and contours in the all right places, I was expected to conduct myself properly. Boys were looking at me by then, having uncontrollable lustful thoughts; I had to send them the right message. 

These days I don't have to follow those guidelines—I don't have to speak that language. In the right circumstances, I can act dirty, even obscene, and downright unladylike.
But there's always a tiny thrill when I do, because deep down in my core, I feel my early ingrained education trying to rise up and balk. There's a certain sense of satisfaction telling that voice to shut the fuck up.

But it is hard sometimes, I got to say.
I still feel an innate need to fold my clothes as I take them off, to set them neatly aside and in a straight pile, ready for when I need them. The pants go on the bottom, the shirt goes on the top, and the lingerie goes in between them, because you never put your panties on top where anyone can see them, no no. Shoes go somewhere where nobody can trip over them, because a lady never leaves her shoes lying around.
Some lessons are hard to unlearn.
And some Sadists may get an inordinate sense of pleasure in finding those lessons...and using them again you.
Like last Saturday night, when Husband told a bratty friend of mine she had permission to mess up my pile of clothes and RUB HER ASS all over them.
She says she's not a sadist, but I really don't believe her.

Kink Meme Monday: "What sort of labels, if any, do you use to describe yourself?"

Let's start with the basics: I am a straight female ciswoman with pansexual desires. Meaning, I am aroused mainly by men, but I find all types of people attractive, and if I get to know you, and the chemistry is right, I will want to play with you. 
I label myself as WIFE. This one is kind of hard to define. I am less than a submissive, but more than a slave, I think. Husband does call me his slave on occasion, and I don't bitch about it when he does, so...maybe that does make me his slave. I am definitely his property. He loves to remind me how he "bought" me at our wedding. We had a Jewish wedding, and according to Jewish custom, the marriage contract has two parts: the tana'yim, the conditions under which the man gains possession of the wife, and the ketubah, the contract itself. I signed neither one of these things; my father and Husband did, because it is basically a purchase agreement between my father and my Husband, and I have zero say. (People try to claim now that women do have a say, by silently "agreeing" to accept the man's ring. But guess what, centuries ago women were married without their consent all the time, using this exact same contract, and nobody batted an eyelash. Even today, the woman doesn't say a damn word at her own wedding, and that should be an indication of what's really going on.)
I label myself as SMART-ASSED BRAT. This means I got a mouth on me. I'm snarky. I'm mischievous. When things go too far, I'm a dirty rascal. It's just part of my nature. People who can't abide brats don't play with me, it's that simple. 
I label myself as an ANAL SLUT. I love all things anal. I give advice on it to those starting out. My best orgasms are anal orgasms. Yes, we exist, and we're not just faking it; it's just how our nerves are set up. Touch my cunt, and I'll moan, but touch my asshole, and I'll squeal. 
People call me a MASOCHIST. I struggle with this label. To me, a masochist is someone who is able to process pain as pleasure, and enjoy it that way. I'm not like that; pain is always pain for me. What I like is the struggle, the fear, the agony of suffering through. The anticipation of knowing what is to come, the heightened rush of adrenaline, living moment by moment as it hits me, the heady rush of feeling alive. I especially love to suffer for the people I adore; I feel like this is the ultimate proof of my devotion. I do not just tell them how much they mean to me, I offer up my blood upon the Cross as sacrifice. This kind of play is incredibly sacred. 
I label myself as PREY. This means I love—love—to be chased and taken down like a wildebeest in the wild. I need to feel like I've been hunted and captured, stalked and seized by a bloodthirsty, predacious animal. I need the savagery, the heat, the teeth, the steamy breath in my face. I need him to respect my wily ways, but in the end, he needs to outmaneuver me if he's to have any chance of having me. And in the end, when the struggle is over and he's pinned me down and I have no breath left to fight and I hear his brutal laugh in my ear? That is the biggest rush of all. 
And yet, I also label myself as LADY. Because when I'm not in scene, when I'm not playing, when I'm out in public and living my day-to-day life, I try my best to be dignified, refined, and as respectful as possible of those around me. Because I am a wife and a mother, and I am expected to make my Husband proud. Anything I do that embarrasses me, reflects badly on him. I am to walk with grace, pride, and awareness of not just who I am, but what I represent. I represent my Husband, my children, my family, and yes, my community; I should not forget that. 
These are all the labels I can think of right now. I guess there's one more—coffee addict—and I need to go get my fix. 

Can't Argue Fact

I hid his underwear. All of them, every single last pair.
It was all I could do not to tell him what I had done, channeling my inner Frenchman, all "har har har! 'Aye 'ave 'id your undare-ware! You shall nevare see zem agane!" Because I suck at subtlety and patience.
He took a shower this morning while I drove the youngest to school. When I walked back through the front door, he stood there: dressed, clean, and looking implacable. But there was that look in his eye.
He knew.
I knew he knew.
He knew I knew he knew.
I knew he knew that I knew that he knew.
And most importantly, He knew that I knew that he knew that I knew that he knew.

You know what's the worst thing to do to a bratty smart-assed masochist?
Ignore her.
You can spank her, beat her, spit on her face, but if you really want to get under her skin? Turn around and walk away.
I had pranked husband, and we both knew it, but he acted like he didn't care. Like it wasn't even worth mentioning.
And that is how he won.

When he knew I had admitted defeat—by meekly returning his underwear—he laughed at me. "It really was a good try," he said, kissing me on the forehead, his way of making peace. "I almost had a moment."
"How'd you get underwear?"
"I know you," he said. "I keep an extra pair in my sock drawer."

"You'll pay for it later, you know," he told me. "You'll be in service to me tonight."
In Service is his way of saying I should expect a lot of sniveling and crying, and probably some rug burn on my face tomorrow.
"Is that an order?" I asked.
"No," he said.
"Then no," I replied.
"It's not an order, it's a fact," he told me then, laughing at my expression. "See, an order is something you can try to refuse. A fact is fact. You can try to argue fact, but you just end up looking stupid." Then his face grew serious. "You're not mine because I order you, you know," he told me. "You're mine because it's fact. You are you, and that makes you mine."
I closed my eyes and buried my face against his chest. "It's kind of beautiful, when you think about it," I said.
"Yes," he agreed. "It is."

WAR!

Every morning, on my way to taking Son3 to school, I drop off Husband at the train station. And every morning, I have to play a little game of chicken with the traffic light.
 If it stays red long enough, he can jump out of the car no problem, and I don't block traffic. But if the light turns green, other cars are waiting to go behind me, and I get antsy. (And if the light is green when I pull up, and I have to stop to let him out? I'm a basket case.)

Last week Husband and I got into an argument in the car. Nothing major, just a difference in political opinion (which happens from time to time...a lot). We were pulling up to the light, but it had been red for a while.
"GET OUT," I yelled.
"Jesus, don't kick me out of a moving car," he said, unbuckling his seat belt and opening the door.
"I wouldn't do that," I said, taken by surprise. "It's not like I'm trying to kill you."
"Not today, anyway," he quipped, and slammed the door behind him before I could think up a suitable reply.

Since then, it's been a running joke between us that I'm not trying to kill him "today."
"Are you trying to give me a heart attack?" "Not today."
"Are you going to smother me in my sleep?" "Not today."
"Did you poison my coffee?" "Not today." 

Which is all well and funny, ha ha ha....
Yeah great fun....
Except today....
TODAY, dear readers....
Husband took his pranks on me to a whole new level.

HE HID MY CHOCOLATE.
THIS?
THIS means WAR.

And so if any of you who know us personally happen to notice his absence tomorrow, and wonder what might be the cause, think upon these five words:
Today might be the day.