Take Two Nipple Clamps and Call Me in the Morning

It occurred to me the other day that while I feel like my life is full of stress and uncertainty, from an outsider's point of view, I lead a pretty kinky life. I attend a regular munch and sporadically show up at others, I go to parties, I get invited to kinky people's homes and invite them to my home. 

I do have fun. 

Last week my chest was used as a message billboard between three sadists, one of whom was my husband. The week before that, I came home from the munch with my poor breast looking like it had been clawed by an angry cat, thanks to all the clothing pins that had been systematically pinched on and then ripped off (by someone's teeth, no less). Yesterday two friends came over 

(hi Monkey Ninja and Winsome Gypsy!) 

and we made cupcakes. Then we all went to my local munch together, where we celebrated another friend's birthday, and I got to spank his sub with my SLUT impression paddle.

(I was almost choked to death by a possessed rubber ducky, but that's another story.)

I turn down more events than I attend. With my schedule and family life, I have to. But I'm grateful to live in the community I do, full of warm, generous, fun, and welcoming people, who understand my life is less than easy right now, but don't let me live in self-pity, either. Life goes on. Nipples must be clamped. Limbs must be cuffed. Asses must be welted, and necks must be collared. We cannot spend our lives worrying and feeling sorry for ourselves. 

I don't think you'll ever hear a psychiatrist touting BDSM and kink as anti-depression methods, but goddamn, they can work.

Bumps in the Dark

Some scenes begin with heavy negotiation and planning. Some scenes begin with a request (or an order). 

And some scenes begin with nothing but a look.

Last night when I went up to bed, as I closed the bedroom door, I happened to look down the stairs. Husband was there, directly in my line of sight, looking straight up at me. He had that look in his eyes, the one letting me know a challenge had been drawn; and I met his look with my own, letting him know: challenge accepted.

He came up without a word.

He lay down next to me, on top of the blanket. His intentions were obvious, but I surprised him by getting up and turning off the light. Now, in our house, turning off the light is a big no-no; Husband likes his visuals, and typically orders me to keep the light on. But last night, he didn't try to stop me. He just made some noises of frustration when I climbed back on the bed in the dark.

Then he reached for me--and brushed his arm hard against my nose.

I howled and moved away from him. "What the hell did you do that for?" I yelled, rubbing my face.

"I'm sorry. It's dark, and I can't see."

"Well now my nose hurts."

He reached for me again, this time grabbing my breast. But I was far from mollified, and moved away from him once more.

"I said, my nose hurts. God, you could at least apologize."

"I did."

"You didn't."

"I did. You just didn't hear me. Now you can go fuck yourself."

"I didn't hear it because you didn't mean it. You should say it like you mean it."

He cleared his throat, deepened his voice, and said, very clearly:

"Go fuck yourself."

We were both laughing for a good few minutes, giggling like children.

As the laughter died down, I spread my legs and reached my hand between them, rubbing haphazardly. 

"Fine," I said. "I will fuck myself. You can just go back downstairs if you want to."

The climate went from playful to wicked as he grabbed my hand away and twisted my body into his own. "I don't think so," he said, his voice a menacing whisper. "I can see much better than you in the dark."

It was on after that. We wrestled across the bed, bucking and heaving, as I tried to get him off me and he did his best to pin me down. He always had the upper hand, because each time I managed to slip out from beneath him, he would squeeze my tender nipple, the one he had recently pinned at a birthday party we attended together. Every time he squeezed that nipple, I would freeze in shock and pain, and he would get back on me. 

Of course, after a while, I didn't want him getting off off me. I wanted him on me and in me, pounding me into oblivion and releasing all the energy we had just been building up with our wrestling and laughter. He held my legs up as he pummeled, and I grabbed his ass. 

I can't state this enough: Husband has one of the most adorable asses in the world.

We're still stressed. I'm still often down. But as long as I can rely on Husband to be there, and hold me in the dark no matter what, even when we get bumped and bruised, even when we have to struggle to get where we need to be...

I think we'll be okay.

What I'm up to, and what I'm not

I wish I could tell you I've been busy writing. It's true, I have been writing, but that's not why I've been absent online.

I wish I could tell you I've been on a glorious trip, traveling somewhere exotic and fun. It's true I've been visiting friends occasionally, including one trip to San Francisco. But those visits have been hardly exciting, and anyway, they are not the reasons why I've been absent online.

I wish I could tell you life has been so exciting for me, I just didn't have the chance to check in. Nothing could be farther from the truth.

The truth is, I'm down, and when I get like this, I disappear. I hate burdening my friends with my problems, because I know we all have problems, we all have shit to deal with, and nobody has a monopoly on the woes of the world.

I hate the way I look. I hate my nose, my hair, my belly, everything. I hate my weight, and how flabby I am. I hate the way I sound, and how my voice comes out like a shrieking twelve year old's. I hate my toenails. I hate my toes. I hate how bad I am at math. I hate my lack of patience. I hate my tendency to judge. I hate the way I feed my kids unhealthy food. I hate it how I have such high expectations of everyone else, yet expect so little from myself.

I hate feeling this way, this constant anxiety and dread. It doesn't help that Husband just found out he might be out of a job by the end of the month. Chances look good he'll be out of a job by the end of the year. After that...I don't know what is going to happen.

I don't want to burden anyone with this gloomy, depressing person I've become. So I'm going to stay away for a while, and only come back when I have something kinky and uplifting to say. Okay?
Thank you.

FOLSOM! In Pictures!

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Folsom Tomorrow

Tomorrow, I will be attending Folsom Street Fair in San Francisco. I intend to get there early, before the huge crowds. (I also intend to leave early, once things get bad. I hate pushy, jostling crowds.)

My list of things to buy (if the price is right) in order of desire:

1. A heavy leather flogger, anal-insertive handle a plus.
2. A long whippy flogger, either leather or rubber, anal-insertive handle a plus.
3. A jeweled butt plug.
4. Two impression paddles, one that says "slut" and one that says "bitch." 
5. Matching set of cuffs, collar, and leash.
6. A dragon-tail whip.
7. Anything else that catches my eye that I don't think I'll be able to find anywhere else.

As you can see, I plan on spending a good chunk of money. 

I usually make a number of purchases online during the year, but in the months leading up to the fair, I save my money, in the hopes I'll find exactly what I'm looking for there. There's always a risk, buying something online, that you're not going to get exactly what you want; and there's something very satisfying about feeling a new BDSM toy under your hands, and taking it home with you.

If you're interested, I will be tweeting about the fair on my twitter account, Shelby _Cross. You can follow along there. 

Not All Art Speaks To You

Writing a book is a lot like trying to create a piece of art. You don't just work hard at it, you put yourself into it. Your time, your emotions, your dreams, your fears...you lay its foundation with a piece of your soul. And hopefully, if all goes well, when it is complete (or at least, when you think it is complete), you can stand back, wipe off your sweaty brow with the back of your hand, and stare at it in wonder. 

You can think, "this is a marvelous piece of work."

Riding on the heels of that thought is the cloudy fear: "Will anyone else like it?"

All artists dream of seeing their work in places like the Louvre, the Metropolitan, the National Gallery in London. They--we--want it to be loved, appreciated, given the respect and admiration we think it deserves. But often, that does not happen. Our work is passed on, dismissed as something lower than "true" art. It is cast aside.

We get angry. We have worked so, so hard for our art; we don't want to be told all that hard work amounted to nothing. Nobody likes to be told that. But we forget that hard work is never pointless. Sometimes, it just takes a little longer to see the rewards, and often, those rewards are not what we thought they would be.   

We don't always know when we're done, when we've reached the end. Nobody is waving their arms wildly at the finish line, letting us know where that line is, how much farther we have to run. Sometimes, we have to just keep ourselves going, convince ourselves to take just one more step, one more step, go a little bit farther, that line is just around the corner. Blind and ridiculous hope is often the only thing that keeps us going.

We're crazy, of course. There is no finish line. (Or maybe it's more accurate to say, life is full of finish lines, and when you've crossed one, it only means there's another on the horizon.) But we're used to be called crazy. We're artists. It kind of comes with the territory.

Then there are the times we go visit other galleries and museums, looking for inspiration, hoping to meet other struggling artists like us. Instead, what do we find hanging from the exhibit walls? Nothing but crap. At least, we think it's crap. If that's what's being called art, what do we know about what art really is?

And we think to ourselves, how can anyone like this? How can anyone find this worthy for public viewing? How is this work better than mine?

The answer is, it might not be. Or it might manage to affect some people in a way you can't feel. It might have a story behind it you can't see at first glance. Or it might have just gotten lucky, plain and simple.

None of us wants to be the creator of the painting people look at and say, "Why is this considered art?" But is it better to be that person, or the person whose art is never viewed at all? I don't know. All I can say is, it takes is one heart, just one, to touch with our art, and it's all worth it.

This whole post has been my longwinded way of saying I got a rejection letter from a literary agent today. It wasn't the first. It won't be the last.

It never hurts less.

But that doesn't stop me. I'm going to keep going, push myself further, run a little harder...that finish line might very well be just around the corner. I have to keep writing.

What Would You Do For A Klondike Bar?

As we were snuggling together last night, Husband and I had a funny conversation.

Me: Remember years ago, this one time I tied you up?
Him: Yes, I remember.
Me: You weren't against the idea. Would you let me tie you up again, if I asked?
Him: You tied me up and gave me a blowjob.
Me: So?
Him: If you tied me up and gave me a blowjob, I would let you.
Me: Would you like it?
Him: The blowjob?
Me, rolling my eyes: No, being tied up.
Him: No. But if you want to do that, if that turns you on, then I'd let you. Does it?
Me: No.
Him: Good. Cause I'd much rather grab your head and pull it in to get a blowjob.
Me: But you'd let me tie you up if I really wanted to?
Him: Of course. I want you to be happy; then I get more blowjobs.
Me: What if I tied you up and didn't give you a blowjob?
Him: I'd cane you till you bled.

There are many ways to take this conversation.
One way is to see that Husband is willing to indulge my wants, my fantasies, to please me, even if they make him uncomfortable. But he expects something in return.
Another way to look at it is to assume Husband is willing to go way, way out of his comfort zone for a blowjob.

The way I see it, Husband just set down a challenge, to see if he would really cane me till I bled. He never has before.
I have a feeling he's hoping I take up the gauntlet. That way, he gets to give me a royal caning...and he gets the blowjob.

He's sneaky that way.

25¢ Valor

I promised The Swallowologist a follow up to yesterday's post. (I also promised a shout-out to my friend, Shadow. Hi Shadow!) 

A lot of people think The Husband's and my relationship came easy from the beginning, and has been nothing but smooth sailing. This is far from the truth. Husband and I have been through some very tough times; we've fought, and we've struggled, and we've shed tears and blood. We have not always been kind to each other, or to ourselves. Like many couples, we had to pay our dues to get where we are now, and those dues were steep. 

Was it worth it? Yes. But that doesn't mean it was easy.

There were times along the way my instincts were completely wrong. There were times I jumped to conclusions that were completely wrong. And there were times I know I expected too much from him, held him to unrealistic and unattainable standards, and basically, set him up for failure.  

There were times he did the same to me.

At the end of the day, we're human. We have to take responsibility for what we should, fix what we can, and accept what we must.

But the bottom line is, even with the best men in the world, even with the crème de la crème, you are going to have problems in the relationship now and then; it's unavoidable. That is why it is so important from the onset to make sure you're finding all the right signs he's the right guy for you, and not overlooking any signs he's the wrong guy for you.

That said, sometimes, little things you take as signs of what kind of guy he is can be understood completely inaccurately, and end up turning into some funny stories. Like this one:

Once Husband and I had established ourselves as a "dating couple," we began to spend a lot of our time together. During the week, this was hard, but on the weekends, I was basically living at his house. 

One day, he realized he was out of groceries, and we went to the supermarket together. Now here's what you have to understand: as a student in Israel, I had not been to a "real" supermarket in a really long time. 

In Israel, they have these little grocery stores called "Makolets" on practically every corner. These mini-stores sell a variety of fruits, vegetables, dairy products (Israelis are very into cheeses), grains by the kilo, and other staples. You grab a small basket, do your shopping, and carry your bags out. 

As a student, I was used to walking down to the local Makolet, getting what I could afford (often nothing but a kilo of macaroni and some ketchup) (did you know Israeli ketchup is much sweeter than American ketchup? Well, now you know) and carrying my stuff back to my dorm room.

Husband got a cart, let me pick out a whole lot of groceries (stuff I'd never tried before because I couldn't afford to take the chance on it), and after paying, pushed the cart to his car to load the bags inside. But after the cart had been emptied, I was ready to just wheel it to the side and leave it in the parking lot, as I was used to doing in the States. 

Husband wouldn't hear of it. "I'm going to go return it to the store," he said. "It'll just take a second."

As I sat in the car, waiting for him to return, I was filled with warm fuzzy feelings for him. He didn't want to make extra work for the supermarket workers! He wanted to be considerate, and not leave his cart where another would have to wheel it back to the store! What a polite man he was. To me, it was another sign of what a great guy I was with: if he could be that thoughtful to a supermarket employee, imagine how chivalrous he would be with me!

Years later, after we were married and son #1 was already born, I got the true story.

As I was recanting this little tale to my family, gushing on about all his good qualities, he stopped me. "I didn't return the cart to be nice to the supermarket workers," he said. "I wanted my shekel back!"

"What?" I asked him, dumfounded.

That's when he explained to me what I failed to understand at the time:

In many supermarkets in Israel, they have a system with the carts that you have to put a shekel into the line of carts to pull one out. Once you are done with the cart, if you return it, you get your shekel back. If you don't, you are out your shekel. 

A shekel back then was worth about a quarter.

So basically, Husband didn't return the cart out of any sense of chivalry or goodwill; he just didn't want to be out 25¢. 

Now, I laugh about that story. But at the time, when he explained to me the truth of what really happened? I was pretty pissed off.

(I have to add, though, that since we moved to the States, he does usually return the cart to the store, and nobody's giving him 25¢ for his trouble.)

A Dom By Any Other Name

Yesterday I had a tough night. I wasn't feeling well, I hadn't gotten enough done, I knew I was pushing off so much stuff there would be no way for me to get it all done today, either (and there is not), middle child was being grumpy, and the six-year-old was being, well, six. Husband was trying his best to be helpful, taking Youngest off my hands for me and offering to make dinner.

But what really helped me the most? He stayed close by my side. He hovered by me, never too far away, and when I went upstairs for one thing or another, he would only wait for a couple minutes before coming up after me. He would make it look like he was just coming up to give me a kiss on the forehead, or a pinch on the leg, or a smack on the rump. And all that was true, but he was also coming up to check on me, to see for his own eyes I was okay.

And when I needed a touch of reassurance, a smidgen of support, I would lean my forehead against his chest, or lightly kiss his cheek. He would hold me for an instant, or rub my back, and as far as I was concerned, everything would be better.

Later, I thanked him for his help.
He looked at me with a tilt of his head, confused. "What did I do?" He asked.
"You were supportive," I said. "You braced me up."
"What do you mean?"
"Every time I felt like things were getting out of control, you were there. You made me feel better."
"Well, you're welcome," he said. "But I don't think I did anything."

It made me realize once again how there are so many little things that set apart men who wish they could be Doms, and men who are real Doms--real men of authority, power, strength, and influence.

• A Dom does not need to make a conscious decision to act as a pillar of strength and stability for his sub. He just is.
• A Dom does not need to decide to control his temper and keep his emotions under check. He just does.
• A Dom does not need to remind himself to watch out for his sub, and make sure she is well under his care. He does it no matter what.
• A Dom does not have to debate if it's right for him to step in and help his sub. He knows.

There are some men who want to earn the title of Dom, and think there's a magic checklist they need to go through, like getting a degree or certificate of completion, and once they've done all that, they can call themselves Dom. 

But other men, men like my Husband, were bestowed the title of Dom because of who they are. The qualities in character they possess are innate, intuitive, they make up the fabric of their personalities. These men are not aspiring to be what others have told them to be, in order to fill a specific role; they are the role, they are the example of what other young men should aspire to become.

I'm tempted to say you either got it or you don't. But I'm not willing to go that far; I do think people can change their ways, change their personalities. I guess I'm a prime example. But I do feel lucky to have come under the care of a man like Husband, who frankly, doesn't care one whit what honorary title I bestow upon him, so long as I love him with the same reverence and respect he deserves.

And that, dear readers, is the mark of a true Dom.

When the Sub Doesn't Fit the Mold

I am faced, once again, with writing a story surprising difficult for me.

There are so many nuances and inflections that go through a sub's thought processes as she's in entering subspace, little things that can have a big effect on the rest of her journey. Paths in her head divert and converge, depending on responses to the smallest observation or variation in the scene as it unfolds.

A scent of adrenaline in the air. The clenching of a jaw. A short raise of the Dom's eyebrow. The way he purses his lips; the way he looks away when he utters a single word, or the way he meets her look head on. The light coming from the window. The height of the pillows, scattered across the bed; or, perhaps, the fact that there aren't any. So many things that can alter a sub's reaction in different ways and compelling ways.

Things get even murkier when the woman in question does not fit the standard "sub" stereotype. Maybe she's not really a sub at all, but what I call a "Surrenderer." These women don't walk the middle of the road, but live on the extremes; they will fight back, hold their ground, and not give an inch. But once they surrender, they relinquish everything: heart, mind, and soul. There is very little negotiation that can guide these women, because with them, it is all or nothing; they give their complete self, but only to select few. 

Or maybe she identifies as "Prey." For these women, it is all about the raw, physical, and yes, often brutal, elements of the dynamic. She wants to be chased, hunted down and captured. She wants to be outwitted and outmaneuvered. She wants a predator who can prove he is above her in the food chain, and has earned the right to play with her the way he does, the way a leopard will play with its food before it eats it. She is strong, fast, smart, she has what it takes to survive; she is game for the apex predator alone.

The woman I'm writing about now falls somewhere between Surrenderer and Prey. Or maybe she has elements of both. I'm not quite sure yet. I know she's not the average sub, and so writing her out takes a bit of thought and careful planning on my part. But it's fun, too. It's fun, and exciting, and exhilarating. At the end of the day, I'm so happy doing what I do, writing what I write.

And really, that's why I go on doing it.