Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Training a Reflex

I'll be the first to admit that in my marriage, I'm the one who has been "trained." Common thinking among many wives used to be a woman could change her husband after they were married; the wife could mold him, polish him up, and buff down all the bad habits she didn't like.
Then that way of thinking fell into bad view as others began to point out that men are men, they are who they are, and they cannot be changed by their wives simply because their wives wish it to be so. Women should marry the men they can live with, the men they can accept for who they are, not the men they want to change. Which, of course, makes sense.

I'm not going to condone marrying a person you think needs changing. Obviously, the old cliche is true: you should marry someone you love. Love means, for the most part, acceptance. Husband accepts me for who I am, and I accept who he is, too.

But do I agree it's impossible to train a person to change their behavior? Oh hell no. That is one of the fundamental principals of a Domestic Discipline lifestyle. And in a D/s relationship, it's the sub who gets trained.
Boy, have I been well trained. In a thousand different things, in a thousand different ways.

One of the ways Husband has trained me is to get wet when I'm afraid.
Yes, you read that right. When I get afraid, for whatever reason, I get wet.

Now, I know all the sadists reading this (hi, Steve!) are probably thinking 'wow, that is AWESOME.'
When I mentioned this unique reaction of mine at a munch the other week, all the sadists within earshot rounded on me with big eyes and took two steps into my circle, like I was suddenly the most interesting thing they had seen all day. I wasn't prepared for that kind of feedback, but after thinking about it, I guess I should have been.

The thing is, this reaction of mine, what has become my body's natural response to fear, is completely out of my control. It's become reflexive. And my body cannot tell the difference between sexual fear, fear that stems from my masochism, and any other kind of fear that is a result of entirely different circumstances.

Going to an amusement park is a nightmare. If I know I'm going to be dragged onto scary rides and roller coasters, I have to wear a panty-liner, or I risk getting off the ride looking like I just peed my pants. People, it's embarrassing.

Getting scared in a movie theater is slightly easier to handle. Those seats are well ventilated, and by the time the movie is over, I'm usually dry enough to feel safe standing up. But I also make sure to wear good, thick cotton panties, and you'll never see me checking out the latest slasher movie while it's still in theaters!

Now, as for Husband...Husband likes to scare me. Some days, he likes to keep me on a constant ebb of simmering fear. He enjoys my reaction. He especially loves it when he can scare me, and then rub his fingers over the crotch of my panties and feel how wet they are. He gets a good laugh when I have to change my underwear, over and over again.

But I think he loves it the most when it becomes a game, and I don't know when he's going to strike next or from where he's going to attack. He might be lurking around the corner, waiting for me to walk past so he can pinch my ass. Or he might be waiting in the bedroom behind the door, ready to shut it closed as I walk through so he can push me over the bed, yank down my pants, and belt me. I don't know when he'll pounce, and my rising anxiety of looming pain will make me soak through my clothes.

Of course, the added bonus of all this is that he knows I hate this reflex of mine, because it's completely beyond my control. I end up always worrying about what I'm wearing, where I'll be if fear strikes, and will I be able to control the adrenaline coursing through my blood. I end up fearful of being afraid.
I am afraid of fear itself.

And you know what that makes me? Wet.

Friday, July 27, 2012

He is Wonderman

14 year old: You know, Mom, all the best super heroes have sidekicks. That's how you can tell if a super hero is really good or not; if he has a sidekick.
Me: Maybe you're right. So why doesn't Wonder Woman have a sidekick? She's pretty badass.
12 year old: What would her sidekick be called?
Me: ...Wonderman.
Husband, rushing into the room: Here I am, Wonderman!
Me: You scared me!
Husband: Look at my pretty gold bracelets! My lasso of truth! I will tie you up with my rope and make you talk! Wife, the reason why there is no Wonderman is because that sounds gay.
Me: It does not sound gay! 
Husband: And what would he ride in? An invisible car? Guys want to see a badass car! Batman has a badass car! Wonder woman's sidekick cannot drive an invisible car! It's gay
Me: That is very homophobic, Husband.
Husband: Well, it's true. And anyway, it's okay. Not everyone has to have a superhero. 
14 year old: Jews don't have a superhero.
Husband: There you go. Jews don't have a superhero.
12 year old: Who would be our superhero, Dad?
Husband: Matzah Man.
Me: Husband!
Husband: He fights evil celiac disease everywhere. And lactose intolerance.
Me: Husband....
Husband: And he has his own motto: Shalom Aleichem, motherfuckers.
Me: That's it. Kids, go to bed.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Sweeping It Under the Drama Rug

I feel like I left all of you beautiful readers (all three of you, cough cough) hanging there and I apologize for that. Husband did punish me that night, with a game of How Much Lube Do You REALLY Need For This Here Buttplug, otherwise known as Yow That Fucking Hurts Motherfucker. But the game went slowly, Husband took his time, and in the end (get it? End? I crack myself up) I had a good time, too. Cough cough.

I have been neglecting you as of late because of issues that have been cropping up in my online life, namely on Twitter and Fetlife. Some like to call this kind of thing "Drama."

I get the labeling. I really do. I also kind of fucking hate it.

"Drama" has become a trigger word. Once a situation has been labelled "Drama," it becomes something dirty and repulsive, something contaminated which can then turn around and contaminate you with its vileness. It is something worthy of scorn and contempt.

Sometimes, the label fits. There's a reason why so many of us don't want "Drama" in our lives. She's a nasty, energy-sucking bitch. She can turn you into a person you never would have recognized. She can make you miserable. She can raise your blood pressure. She will laugh doing it.

But not all situations deserve the label "Drama." Some don't deserve it at all. Because you know what happens when someone labels a situation "Drama"? People turn away; they want no part of it.
And sometimes, that makes them ignore legitimate wrongs going on around us. 

Like the people who ignore the screaming coming from the apartment downstairs, but shut their ears, because they've heard it too many times before. Or the people who hear the woman crying out for help down the street, but do nothing, because they assume it's a joke or (worse) a drug addict. Or the people who see the crying child in the store, looking for his mommy, but assume she's around somewhere, and will find her kid eventually.

People get wrapped up in their own lives. They don't want to make a stand unless they know it's worth the effort, and often, that involves sifting through too many facts and sides. They don't want to be accused later of doing the wrong thing.

But you know what ends up happening? We have people all over Twitter and Fetlife and the blogosphere who use the word "Drama" to absolve themselves of any responsibility to get involved and find out what is really going on. That doesn't make them enlightened or superior, because they want to stay away from the "Drama." That makes them part of the silent majority who see a crime being committed, something immoral or unethical, sometimes both, and do nothing. But they think it's okay that they're not speaking up against the wrong going on, because they are not ignoring it, they are not those people who allow an injustice to continue, no, they are just staying away from the "Drama."

In other words, they are acting like enabling assholes, and cloaking their apathy with egoism.

Now I'm ranting.
Look, I get it: we have to pick our battles. We can't jump into the fray every time we see something going on, even if we know we don't agree with it, because it's true, we have lives to lead and mental well-being to maintain.
I've been guilty of this too, and I'm sure I will be again.
There's a LOT that's fucked up in the world. We can't try to fix it all.

But we shouldn't pretend it's not there, either.

Sunday, July 22, 2012

I Am Screwed, Yet Again

Husband: calling me from the other room Wife!
Me: What?
Husband: Come here!
Me: already feeling that first sensation of prickly dread Why?
Husband: Just COME HERE!
Me: cringing in fear ....Okay. Walks into the bedroom, sees him in our bathroom, leaning over the counter, shoulders slumped. Princess Leia's voice rings out, It's a trap! IT'S A TRAP!
Husband: Come closer.
Me: Is this a trap?
Husband: Look. Points to his shaver...which is not plugged in
Me: Rushes to plug it in I'm sorry! I'm sorry!
Husband: Why? Why do you do these things?
Me: shrugs I don't know. It's just my nature.
Husband: We will have to work harder to tame your nature.

Guys, it was nice knowing you.

Saturday, July 21, 2012

Husband, the Mind Reader

Husband: I can totally read your mind.
Me: You can?
Husband: Yes. waves his hands over my head, runs his fingers across my face You really want a cookie.
Me: Uh, no, I don't.
Husband: Slaps me hard on the ass Yes, you really do.
Me: After rubbing my ass Nooo, I really don't.
Husband: Slaps me on the ass harder Yes, you really do.
Me: Eyeing his hand as it's being raised a third time I...guess I do.
Husband: See? I can totally read your mind. Hands me a cookie You also want to give me a blow job.

Now Available: The Taming of Red Riding

This post is to let my readers know that my newest work, The Taming of Red Riding, is now available on Amazon, and will soon be available on Barnes and Noble and other sites in the next couple days.

This book has an interesting story behind it: I got the inspiration from the real Tim Woodman, the man behind ProVillain.com. Eight months ago, he sent out a tweet appealing to his writer friends to write him some personalized smut. I know he didn't have a book in mind, but he's not complaining about it, either. Evil man.

If you buy the book from Amazon, and you like it, please agree with the tags on the bottom of Amazon's listing page. Those tags help my book show up first in any search list. (And feel free to write a nice review.)

My next book, The Edge of Jasmine, is up next. After that...after that, I might need a break.

P.S. This book's cover and formatting was done by Glendon Haddix, over at StreetlightGraphics.com. His banner is over to the right. If you need any artwork or ebook formatting done, he's the guy you want.

Thursday, July 19, 2012

No Fuss, No Muss

As my readers know, I love anal sex. I love everything about it: the power exchange, the need to submit, the pain, the fullness, the pleasure, the sensation of it, the way the thought of it makes my brain trip on its own synapses...I like the concept of anal sex. Of taking a natural act, and making it twisted, kinky, dirty, naughty, making flesh fit into flesh where it's not supposed to, making flesh stretch when it's not supposed to...forcing a body to accommodate another's will, literally.

The thing is, I don't love everything about it. I don't love the possibility of mess. I don't love the need for preparations before the act. I don't love the diminishment of spontaneity. Anal sex, at least for us, requires some preparation. I need to, what we call, "clean myself out." I'm not going to elaborate beyond that. I think you all know what I'm talking about.

If there's a chance for anal sex in my near future (like, in the next hour or two), I clean out. If I don't, then as far as I'm concerned, that prospect is gone, and I stop thinking about it as a possibility. Often, Husband will warn me in advance to "get ready," just to make things clearer, to make sure all options are open. (Options often mean orders.)

But the thing is, the aversion to potential mess is my worry alone. Husband doesn't care. (I almost wrote doesn't give a shit, but that would've been crass.) What he does care about is having all-access to my body, every hole open to his pleasure....

He lay on top of me, on my back, pressing my body face down into the mattress. I could feel his breath on my neck, his stiff erection against my bottom. His fingers intertwined with mine, grabbing on, holding me still as I arched my head up and groaned.

I could feel his cock sliding against the crack of my ass, rubbing, caressing, and burying at the same time.
"Uh, Husband," I said, a tickle of worry in my voice, "I didn't clean."
"Why not?" He answered, stopping his movements. His words were a hiss against my ear, making me shiver.
"I...I didn't know I should...I didn't think of it."
"You should have," he said, resuming his rubbing. "I don't care." His movements began to hone in, his intentions clear. I gasped.
"Seriously, Husband, please--"
He pushed me further into the mattress, spreading my legs wider with his own as his cock met its target. "I don't care about a mess," he said again. His fingers pressed into my palms, holding my hands still. I could feel his prick against my entrance, probing, testing my resolve, as I squirmed and twisted beneath him.
"Please, Husband, please, please--" A sharp intake of breath cut off my words as I felt him press in. It was then I realized, he was enjoying my discomposure, my distress. He liked feeling me struggle beneath him. 
"Please, Husband, you can't--"
He stopped, and I realized I had just gone way, way too far.
"I can't?" He whispered. "Can't I? I wouldn't worry about the mess right now if I were you. I would worry whether or not I'm going to use lube."
"Please!" I said, voice straining. 
"You should really pay more attention to these things. I'll take any hole I want. You should know that by now. Do you understand?"
"Oh, God."
"Do you understand?"
"Yes!"
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, Sir!" His cock was pushing into my rear channel, that clenched and squeezed in alarm. 
"Get down on the floor, on your hands and knees, and we'll do this right," he said. 
With shaking limbs, I complied, falling to the floor and bracing myself on my hands and knees. I heard a drawer open and a bottle top snapping; a second later, cold slippery lube was dripping from my crack. Husband wasted no time: he positioned, aimed, and thrusted home. I whined, and whimpered, and shrieked more than once. But quickly he was pumping hard, with an easy rhythm, having broken through all resistance.
"Play with your clit," he ordered. It was an easy command to obey. Now that the deed was done, his cock ensconced up my ass, there was nothing for me to do but enjoy it. I twisted one shoulder down and lay my face against the carpet, as I snaked my hand between my legs.
As I rubbed my clit, my body began to thrust back against his cock, until all he had to do was stay still and let me do all the work.
"That's it," he encouraged. "That's it. Come now. Come for me."
I did, shaking and crying. He came soon after me, holding me by the hips and pumping hard. 
As he pulled out of me, breathing hard, I collapsed across the floor. My shoulder ached, my knees hurt, and my face felt heated with shame, as well as carpet burn.
"There's no mess," he said, his voice full of humor. "I don't know what you were worried about."
I didn't reply. 
He grabbed a fistful of my hair and pulled my head up, not roughly, but just enough to gain my attention. "I can do whatever I want," he said. "So don't think about what I can do. Worry about what I will do. And be ready next time."
"Yes, Sir."
"Good girl."

My body is his. He concedes to my little worries and concerns when he's feeling indulgent, when he's in the mood. But when he's not?
I'm still made to capitulate. And God, it feels divine.

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Fake It Till You Make It

I had a friend come over the other day, crying and upset, because her life is not going the way she wants it to. As she sat on my couch, dabbing tissues on her eyes, she began to tell me how I can't understand what her life is like now, how no one could.
I nodded, and agreed; no one could know what her life is like, because no one else is living her life but her.
But then she started to tell me how jealous she is of my life, how easy I have it, how I'm living her dream. And no matter how I tried to tell her it's not true, that my life is no basket of cupcakes, she wouldn't take my word for it.
So I let her in on a few simple truths. Things about my life I don't like to talk about. And by the end, I had her crying over me. All she could say was, "that is so sad."
Moral of the story? Don't ever, EVER, think you know how good (or bad) a person has it. You don't know. You can't know. And there is no point in trying to figure it out. All you can do is lead your own life the best you can.

But still, if I could, I'd send her the following letter:

Dear Friend,
Great news! I know what ails you. Only...I don't know how useful this news will be, because I don't know if it can be of any use to you.
You see, all of us go through life having to tell ourselves little lies, small warps of the truth, just to get by. These lies are about our families, our homes, life in general...but most of all, these lies are about ourselves. We tell ourselves these lies so we can get through the day, the quarter, the rest of the year...we tell ourselves these lies so we can can through life without screaming.
We are, all of us, to a certain extent, having to "fake it till we make it." But that phrase doesn't do the deception justice.
We fake it to live.
But you, my dear, can see past the lies. You are too honest to yourself for your own good; you are unwilling to fool yourself into believing what must be swallowed and accepted in order to live, at least live as a functioning member of society.
I'm sorry if this sounds morbid, or depressing, or too horrible for you to accept. It is what it is. The world is a fucked up place. We are a bunch of fucked up people. We lie to ourselves to get through the day.  You must accept the lies, see the world as it needs to be seen and not as it exists, if you want to be happy.
Facing the truth might make you feel noble, and wise, and superior, and the truth is, you probably are. But this will not make you happy. You must pick your priorities.
There will still be times when the truth unveils itself, and then the screaming in your head will go on for a while. But you must learn to press back down the veil. Let the screaming fade to the back. Do what must be done.
Because the truth is, the rest of the world does not want to hear your screaming. We recognize it all too well as like our own.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Why I Not Seeing The Amazing Spider Man Today

Stage One, ages 0-2: Movies? What are movies? I have a baby to take care of, I don't have time to watch a movie in my own house, much less go to a real, honest-to-god theater.

Stage Two, ages 2-4: Yeah, I can get a babysitter once in a while to go see a movie, but the babysitter's so expensive, it's not really worth it.

Stage Three, ages 4-7: I'm stuck going to see all these moralistic rainbow-happy-smiley-rated G movies with my kid. But it's okay, at least I get out of the house, and we can do something together that doesn't involve me telling him to keep his hands to himself and out of his nose. (Nobody will see if he picks his nose in the movie theater, anyway.)

Stage Four, ages 7-10: These Pixar films are pretty cool. And some of these Disney movies actually have a plot. Nice! But I'd still rather be watching Brad Pitt.

Stage Five, ages 10-14: You...you actually want to see this movie? But so do I! Awesome! My kid wants to see the same movies I do! We can do some bonding and shit.

Stage Six, ages 14-16: Ew, you want to see what movie? That's gross. I don't know....What do you mean you didn't want to see it with me anyway! How would I embarrass you in front of your friends? What, you think after that comment, I'm just going to hand you a twenty?...Fine, here.

Stage Seven, ages 16-foreverafter: Please see a movie with me? Please? I'll pay you.

I am currently in stage six with my 14 year old. My twelve year old never liked the same movies I do, and can no longer be bribed with popcorn. I am holding at hope for the 4 year old, but I know my time is running out.

Monday, July 9, 2012

Home Sweet Home

I had just gotten home, a few hours before.
We were lying on the bed, snuggling in, enjoying the breeze coming through the open window and the silence enveloping the house. It was late afternoon, but evening was creeping in. The kids were elsewhere, quiet; we didn't know what they were doing, but they weren't intruding in our peace, so it didn't matter.

I was content, relaxing in the crook of Husband's arm, feeling his chest rise and fall beneath my palm. Our breaths slowed, matching in cadence, forming a gentle rhythm. My eyes were drifting shut.


And then Husband's phone rang. 


It wasn't a call, but a text message. Husband read the message, and then he began to text back, typing with both thumbs. In his endeavors to type freely, he had dislodged me from the crook of his arm. 
This did not sit well with me.
I began to stroke his cock through is shorts, slowly at first, gently, then with more vigor.
"I can't type when you're doing that, you know," he said. From his tone, I knew he was smiling, but there was an edge there, too.
I continued with my stroking, slipping my hand down the inside of his shorts to get better access to bare skin. Husband gasped. His typing slowed.
"You're making me make mistakes," he growled. 
I pulled down his shorts and stroked around his cock, growing bolder, blowing hot kisses on it now and then. When I stuck out my tongue and carefully licked his shaft, he sat up.
"I can't do this," he said, throwing his phone back on the dresser. 
"Aw, too bad," I answered, beginning to pull his shorts back up. "I'll stop."
"No, I can't do that--" he jerked his head toward the phone-- "but you're going to continue now. Finish what you started."
"I don't think so. I'm tired, and--" My words were cut off when he dug his fingers into my scalp and pulled my head back. I gasped from the pain. As soon as my mouth was opened enough, he lunged my face onto his cock, pushing his prick deep down my throat. 
"That's better," he sighed. "No more talking."
I didn't do any more talking for a while, as my mouth and jaws and tongue were busy sucking cock. I made his pleasure last as long as I could, alternating rhythm and speed. I ran my tongue up and down his shaft, circling the head, bobbing my head up and down...soon enough, he was coming in my mouth, arching his body into my face. 
When he was done, he told me what a good girl I am, what a good wife, and began to caress my ass. But when I shifted to move away, he grabbed it harder. 
"You're not going anywhere yet," he said. 
He pushed me onto my side, facing away from him, and pulled down my shorts, leaving my pantied ass on display. "This ass needs a spanking," he said, "and I think I need a belt."
He bade me not to move as he got the belt. A second later, I felt the fresh sting of leather hitting skin, and I flinched away.
He struck me again, and this time, I scooted to the end of the bed, whimpering in pain.
"You've forgotten how to stay still," he murmured. He grabbed the top of my panties in his palm, pulled them up until all the material had been pulled tight between my ass cheeks, and dragged me back to the middle of the bed. The material of my panties digging into my ass made a sharp wedgie indeed. 
Husband resumed his belting, this time holding me still be pulling up on my panties every time I tried to move. 
"You're going to love these lines," he said, belting me harder. "They're coming out nice and red." I could only cry out and whine in response; he was holding me hostage by my underwear, and belting me mercilessly. 
Finally, long after I had turned into a blubbering mess, he let go of my underwear and ordered me up.
"Go look in the mirror," he said. I looked, and he was right: the belt had made a set of lovely red lines across my ass. 
I looked back on the bed, and was surprised to see Husband putting on his shorts. 
"What about me?" I asked.
"What about you?"
"Don't I get to come?"
"Yes: later. After I've belting your ass again. After the kids go to sleep, I'm going to belt it...and then I'm going to fuck it."

Husband is a man of his word.
I am so happy to be home.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012

No Innuendo Intended

Husband recently told me it's possible, based on some of the things I've said to people (specifically to men), I might (sometimes) be coming across as a tease. I don't mean to engage in that kind of behavior. Frankly, his statement came as a complete surprise. But after giving it some thought, I realized he might just be right, so I thought some clarification would be wise.

If I say I'm happy to see/hear from you? That doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you.

If I say I think you look hot? That doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you.

If I say you're nice/charming/funny/witty/any other pleasant thing to be? That doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you.

If I say I want to meet you? That doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you.

If I say it would be fun to play with you? It doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you.

If I say you turn me on? It doesn't mean I'm going to fuck you.

If I say I WISH I COULD FUCK YOU? It means, under other circumstances, I would probably fuck you. Maybe, maybe not. We will never know, because...

I WILL NEVER FUCK YOU. EVER. I AM MONOGOMOUS. THE END.

So I may say things to you that I want you to take as direct fact, or as a compliment, or as something I see no reason for you not to know.
But: I do not mean these things as a come-on. I do not mean to say, "I want to have sex with you." I am not trying to be coy, or elusive, or flirty, or cute.
I mean my words exactly as they come out: You are funny. You are witty. You make me smile. I am happy to be your friend. I am happy you consider me your friend.
There is no ulterior message, I just say what I'm feeling at the time.
Maybe there are people out there who think this makes me a nasty woman; I don't know. I know it makes me happy when I hear (or read) a guy say to me, "I think you're pretty," or "I think you're fun to talk to," or "You make me smile." I don't think in the back of my mind, this man wants to fuck me. Cause in my opinion, that would be ridiculous.
Am I being naive? Should I be more on the lookout for this kind of behavior? Should I change my own?

Monday, July 2, 2012

Eventually, Everything Looks Normal

This post is not about kink. This post is my attempt to tell you guys a funny story while being unable to give hand motions and facial expressions during the telling. I typically have to include hand motions and facial expressions when telling my funny stories, just because. But my sister said this story is so funny, I should try to post it anyway.
So here goes.

I took my kids to Walmart yesterday. (I think that single opening sentence manages to set the scene quite nicely.)
We did all our shopping, managed to find a register with only a couple people in front of us, did our stint at waiting in line, and finally got up to the register. When I got there, I noticed there was a woman there, slightly in front of the counter, sitting in one of those shopping scooters. She was staring at the checking woman.
Scooter Lady had very big eyes.
Okay not this big, but pretty fucking huge. Big enough that they looked like they could pop out of her head at any moment on eyestalks and float above her head, like a human scooter snail.
So when I say she was "staring" at the checkout woman, what I mean is, "she looked like she was trying to make the other woman's head explode with her mind powers, and was making the rest of us really, really, uncomfortable in the attempt."
The checkout woman didn't seem to notice though. If she did, she didn't care.
I focused my energy on putting my own items on the checkout counter, so I wouldn't have to see if those eyes did pop out and float up.
The woman in the scooter said something to the checkout woman. I didn't catch what she said; but I did hear the checkout woman answer back, "She went to go check. She'll come back."
The scooter lady said something else. Checkout woman said again, this time louder and slower, "She went to go look. She'll come back."
At this point, I realized Scooter Lady was waiting for something. She had been in line, and something had gone wrong, mostly likely a price discrepancy, and she was waiting for someone to come back and correct the problem.
The wait did not sit well with Scooter Lady. Neither did Checkout Woman's nonchalance.
Scooter Lady yelled, "I do not have time to wait for her to come back! I have other things to do! I'm going to leave!"
A slow smile crept across the checkout woman's face. She said: "That's fine. Thank you for shopping at Walmart. Have a nice day."
The change that came over Scooter Lady was subtle, but no less scary.
Believe it or not, her eyes got BIGGER. At the same time, her skin paled, every tendon in her forehead popped out, and her mouth became a thin, stiff line.
She sat there for a moment, clearly at a loss. She had been bluffing, you see, but now it was too late. She had to go. Checkout Woman knew this; her smile grew wider, and I swear I heard a small chuckle come out of her mouth.
Scooter Woman revved up her scooter. She turned the wheel and went forward a bit, and for a second, I thought she was trying to turn around.
But then she put the scooter in reverse...and rammed it back, right into the checkout counter.
Then she did it again.
And again.
And I cannot describe to you the surreal feeling of standing there, watching this woman ram her scooter into the counter, over and over again, while the checkout woman merely continued to ring up my items and put them into bags. After the third ram, I told my kids to move over a bit, to make sure they wouldn't get hit by this woman's bout of...what would you call this? Checkout rage? Scooter rage?
The checkout woman didn't act like anything strange was happening at all. And why should she? She works at Walmart, most likely she makes minimum wage with no benefits. Why should she care? Nobody else seemed to notice what was happening...or if they did, they didn't see it as anything unusual. Par for the Walmart course.
My kids and I were left to watch this woman ram her scooter into the counter a few more times before she finally rid herself of her rage and scooted away.
The sad fact is, though, she probably did more damage to her scooter than the counter.