8 Words To Turn Me Into a Blowjob Huntress

"I have a conference call in two minutes."

The Single Word Command

There are few words that turn me on as much as this one.

Growing up in a religious home and going to a religious school, I was required to wear skirts all the time. The skirts had to be of "modest length," meaning that the hem had to fall below the knee; if the skirt had a slit in it, the slit could not travel above the knee cap.

Not only was I required to wear a skirt, the fashion in my school back then was to wear specific GAP long denim skirts, ones which were extremely narrow. They fell almost to the ankles, and had no slits. We girls did not walk; we shuffled. Opening our legs more than a foot wide was almost impossible.

This curtailed our mobility, obviously. But I think that was part of the point. If you look throughout history, one popular way of controlling women is to take away our ability to move.

In fact, we were taught specific ways on how to move—modestly, of course. We were not supposed to draw attention to ourselves, or do anything that might cause the boys to look upon us for too long; that was immodest. We were not supposed to roll up our skirts, not even in the summer months; that was immodest. We were not supposed to sit with our legs spread apart; that was immodest.

I will never forget the day the principal of the school gave the girls a lesson on how to bend down to pick something up off the floor. The trick, he said, was to bend at the knees, not at the waist. That way you're not presenting an attraction toward any male walking by.
Any woman who's ever tried to stand up from a kneeling position this way wearing a tight skirt knows there's a certain art form to it. It takes practice, and a certain amount of grace. Doing it right will make a woman look downright elegant; doing it wrong will see her planted on her face.

As the framework of my life changed and I began to wear pants more often, it took a surprisingly long time for the wicked thrill to wear off. I was doing something naughty, wearing pants; I could open my legs. 
Part of the pleasure was being able to just fucking walk.
But I still saw opening my legs too wide as something inappropriate and indecent. Girls just did not do that. They did not act that way. Not the good girls, at least.

I did not last as a good girl for very long.

Husband figured out very quickly what the word "open" does to me. He had to break down more than a few inhibitions first, of course. I was still very shy getting naked in front of a man.
I could take a dick down my throat, but parade around with no shirt on in front of a guy? Pfft. No way.
Once he got me naked before him, prone, vulnerable, and he would tell me to open my legs...then the sweet struggle would begin.

I used to refuse to open for him. My refusals were dealt with harshly back then. I was not punished so much as shown, time and again, that my refusals were futile. He would do what he wanted to do to me, and get me what he wanted me to do.
Full stop, the end.

But at the same time, he made me feel gorgeous when I overcame that struggle—even when he had to "help" me do it. He told me over and over again how beautiful I was, how attractive, how sexy, how womanly.
He made me feel comfortable with being proud of those parts of my body.

But the struggle has never really gone away. Neither has the delicious suffering—those moments of panic as I slowly ease my legs open for his stare, knowing I am revealing my most hidden parts, acting the perverse and wanton slut.

It is not just my body he finds attractive. It is the struggle he sees etched across my face, the inner fight waging behind my eyes.
It is a fight I am going to lose, and he is going to win.
With his triumph comes control.

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.

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.

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. 

Conversations with My Mother

(I posted this yesterday on Fetlife, and it's #1 on Kinky&Popular right now, so I thought I'd post it here, too.)

Conversation with my Mother

Mom: Shelby-leh, you write sexy stories, right?
Me: Yes, Mother. I write sexy stories.
Mom: Can you answer a question for me?
Me: I guess….
Mom: Why do all these writers, when they're writing sexy scenes, all use the same words?
Me: What do you mean?
Mom:…
Me: Can you give me an example what you're talking about?
Mom (quietly): Like "he put his finger in her sweet wetness." Why would they write it like that?
Me: It's called purple prose, Mother. The writer doesn't want to get too graphic, but they still want to get the image across, so they use this flowery kind of writing.
Mom: I see it all the time now. It's weird.
Me: Well, writers are putting more sex in their books, but they don't want to make them too graphic.
Mom (after a long pause): Why would he even want to put his finger in her 'sweet wetness,' anyway? And why would she want him to put his finger in her 'sweet wetness'?
Me: Mother…you've been married over forty years. If you don't know, I can't explain it to you.
Mom: Well, it's better than that 50 Shades of Grey book. I mean, that thing was just unrealistic. A girl goes on one date with a man, has sex with him, and has three orgasms?
Me: …..

Later, after telling Husband of my conversation with my Mom

Husband: I don't understand how you came into the world. Were you fucking adopted?
Me (grumbling) I wish I was.
Husband: She really doesn't know a woman can come more than once a night? Why didn't you tell her?
Me: I wasn't going to say anything. What was I going to say, 'Your son-in-law makes me have multiple orgasms on a regular basis'?
Husband: That would have been interesting. How many times did you come last night, anyway?
Me: I don't know, you tell me. You were the one with your fist in my cunt.
Husband: I'd say more than three.
Me: Well, there you go.
Husband: When I had my fingers in your sweet wetness.

Guest Post

The following post was written by my friend, Sara Eiser. If you want to comment to her directly, you can find her on Twitter. 

*****

As I’ve gotten older, I’ve found myself voluntarily becoming part of quite a few minority groups. As an adult, I converted to Judaism and became part of the BDSM community, and found some of the joys and the challenges of living in insular communities like these. Since the age of the internet exploded and the world got smaller and people became easier to connect, some of these more insular groups have been facing major challenges to both our identities and how we are viewed by outsiders.

With small, insular groups, there is an element of exoticism to those standing in the mainstream. I’m pretty sure we’ve all heard a few of these: Why do “those people” do that? Why is that woman/man voluntarily submitting to abuse? You have to be sick to enjoy hurting someone. Isn’t that anti-feminist/emasculating? No woman/man with self-respect would ever choose that. I bet she/he has mommy/daddy issues. When seen through a “mainstream” lens, even the benign aspects of our lifestyles can seem strange and harmful to modern American society. We’ve been called backwards, sick, unenlightened, regressionist, and we’ve all heard “Well, if they just [understood/got therapy/had a real relationship, etc], then they would come around.”

When the mainstream, majority-controlled world (and media) so fundamentally misunderstands who you are, how much worse is it when abuse comes into the picture? All communities have their abusers, but there is an element of statistical inevitability when abuse happens in a majority community. Take, for instance, a domestic violence situation in a white, straight marriage. It’s easy to say “Well, sometimes it doesn’t work out. Sometimes people are abusive. That one person is a problem. It’s not about the whole institution of marriage/all straight people being abusive.” That abusive situation doesn’t get extrapolated to all white, straight marriages, because you have thousands of examples for which that isn’t the case. For the mainstream, who may only have one or two “out” kinksters to look at, what happens? This person’s failings become everything that is “wrong” about the BDSM lifestyle.

When we in insular communities see abuse, there is a tendency to circle the wagons against outsiders to protect ourselves from those generalizations. There is a tendency to hide, to sweep “unseemly” behavior under the rug, to not talk about the bad things for fear that they will become extrapolated to our entire community. Segments of Jewish groups do it, and through the past two weeks on FetLife, I’ve realized kinksters do it too.

The scary reality of the situation, though, is that to a victim in the kink community, even to bring an abuse case to the police, to the court systems, seems unreasonable. We are a minority group, and these judges and juries are not our peers, despite our bill of rights. These are people to whom we would have to explain the basics of consensual non-consent. We would have to try to put into words the difference between sadism and abuse, the power that comes from submission. These are people who will look at us and see someone damaged, unenlightened, regressionist, and we wonder why more minority victims don’t seek the help of the authorities?

So we victims go to our own group, and even there, we are told to hush up for fear that these small, tight-knit groups will unravel. For fear that leaders of the group whom we respect will be seen in a bad light. For fear that there are actually damaged, unenlightened, and regressionist people in our very midst. That maybe we are more like what the mainstream says, that they will be able to point to this person and say “See? This person is exactly what we said the group is. There is your proof.” We try to put a good face on everything, to be perfect minorities, despite the damage it does to the victims in our groups.

When you’re a victim and you know that the courts will misunderstand you, you go to your fellow kinksters for understanding and to help protect others. Then they tell you to stop creating drama, to be quiet, to get over it, that you don’t want to ruin someone. That maybe it was all just a misunderstanding and maybe it didn’t even happen. You have no protection, no recourse, and abusers keep on abusing because of the silence, and more victims keep piling up and becoming alienated until the group itself unravels because it is no longer enriching.

Is this really where we want to go? Is this really the community that we cherish so much?

This whole discussion needs to be reframed. When abuse happens in an insular community, when abuse is brought up on FetLife, we need to reframe the discussion from “don’t hurt this one man” and “don’t make a scene because you’re making us all look bad” to “what keeps this from happening again?” and “how do we protect our other community members from this?”

The reality of the situation is that if we in our insular communities don’t protect our own, nobody will. We cannot count on the court systems to understand us - that much is patently clear - so our victims, our friends, have nowhere to go except to us. We owe it to them to listen, to understand, and to address the underlying issues in our communities that allow this to happen. We need mechanisms within our community for making spaces safer for all of us. For making the word “consent” mean something beyond a philosophical guideline. We need to be the ones to shut down spaces where subs have to be chaperoned in order to be safe, where abusers can flourish because our silence works in their favor. We need to actively be doing things to ensure that victims have space and support to speak.

We need to look out for each other. Fundamentally, that is what makes us a community rather than a shared-interest group. We need to become an actual community and protect our people from becoming victims, or who else will?

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.

A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part III (The End)

(Not much kink here today. You want kink? Go follow this guy.)

He took me by the hand and pulled me into his bedroom. The bedroom was very large: in the corner was a small couch and lounging chair, across from them a desk, bookshelves and a wardrobe

(Oh My God I just realized where the inspiration for the wardrobe in all the Bentmoore stories came from Holy Moses)

and in the center of the room, a heavy king-sized mattress on the floor, serving as a bed. He was in between beds at that time (long story), but I thought the mattress on the floor was great. It seemed stylish and more cozy.

He pulled me down to my knees on the mattress and continued to undress me, stripping himself at the same time.
"We can't do this," I hissed. "I have my period." This must have been the six or seventh time I'd said it since walking into his apartment.
He stopped for a minute. "Is it very bad?"
"Well, no," I admitted. "It's almost over, so it's not very bad. But I'm still bleeding."
He walked to the bathroom, by now completely naked--I got a great view of his ass, to this day that man has a great ass--got a towel, and laid it across the mattress.
"There," he said. "Why are you still wearing your bra?"
At this point, inside, I knew we were going to fuck, period or no. He had a way of seducing me into compliance, just by his charisma and authoritative attitude, that still works to this day. I couldn't outright refuse him, I couldn't think up a good argument against him, and the sight of his naked ass walking across the room had tipped me over the edge.

But when we were done, there was blood everywhere, not just on the towel. The whole sheet was stained with drops of blood.
"Oh, God." I started stripping the sheet off the mattress, both to keep the stains from going through, and to hide the evidence of my disgrace.
And then, from behind me, I heard Husband laughing. Laughing.
"This is what you were so worried about? A few stains on a old sheet I probably should've gotten rid of by now anyway? Well, if this gets you to make my bed and do my laundry, by all means, go ahead." He laughed harder.

I wanted to throw the bundle of sheets at him. I wasn't just angry at that point, I was hurt. He clearly wasn't even trying to understand what I was going through. I dropped the ball of sheets on the bed and walked into the bathroom.

He came up behind me as I was waiting for the water in the shower to warm up. I turned to face him and said, "I don't think we should have sex anymore while I have my period. We'll just have to wait."
His answer was swift and emphatic.
"ARE YOU CRAZY? Why?"
"Because." I got in the shower, and he followed me in.
"Hey. Hey," he grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. "This whole period thing really bothers you, doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"Okay," he sighed. I think he finally began to realize that this was one of those things in any relationship he did not have to understand, he just had to accept. We could talk about my reasons and fears and beliefs later, but at that moment, I needed to know he took my stance on the matter seriously, whether he agreed with it or not. This was about hard and soft limits, and although we didn't have the vocabulary for it yet, he certainly grasped the concept.
"Did you enjoy the sex?"
"Yes, but now I feel gross."
"Physically or mentally?"
"Physically. Mentally too, I guess. It's embarrassing."
He didn't ask why this time. I think he understood the "why" of it was a topic of conversation for another time.
"As far as the physical goes, that's easy to deal with. You're already in the shower--" he began to soap my inner thighs, making me gasp--"and I can clean you up. The sheet we can wash, or we can toss, whatever you want. Now, as for being embarrassed, I don't know why you have this thing about the blood--"
"It's not just about the blood--"
"But I really, really don't care. I think you're beautiful--" he kissed my nose-- "no matter what--" he kissed my brow-- "and your period is NOT going to stop me from wanting to make love to you. So if you feel very, very strongly about this, I won't push it, but I don't want you twisting this around so you think I'm the one who doesn't want it."
"How can you not care about the mess? It's so gross--"
He grabbed the soap and shoved it between my legs, rubbing it inside my pussy.
"This is how much I care," he growled. "I'll get up in there myself and wash you inside and out if that's what it takes to convince you. THIS IS NOT A REASON TO NOT LET ME TOUCH YOU. Understand?"
"Understand." My voice was rather breathless at that point. He was rubbing the soap everywhere, inside and out, just like he said he would.

The "period issue" still comes up every month. I still consider the ick factor as totally gross, and won't have sex on my heaviest days. But I don't think having my period makes me a disgusting person anymore, and I don't let it stop me from getting intimate in other ways with Husband. He can touch me all he wants, I can certainly touch him all he wants, and when the blood is not so bad, we just put a towel down on the bed and consider the problem solved.

Although we stay on the towel. After all, I am the one now who changes the bedding, does the laundry, and buys the sheets. We have very nice sheets; I'm not so willing to toss them.

I guess, my point out of all of this is, one of the jobs of a Dom is to help a woman feel good about herself and help her grow out of any misguided notions that serve to constrain her. He's got to strip away all the self-loathing and guilt and recriminations women feel (we all do, at some point), and make her see herself for the beautiful, sexy, worthy-of-love woman that she is. And that usually involves a lot of listening, and guiding, and sometimes a healthy dose of pushing and prodding, but a good Dom will know it's all worth it.

He will know when one of her limits is based on a legitimate concern, and when it's based on misplaced fear and, as was my case, a ridiculous perception of self-disgust. He will help her see her own weaknesses and face them head on, because he wants her to be a better, healthier, happier person. That is what makes a great Dom, and part of what makes a great foundation for any D/D relationship.

A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part II

(Also long, and probably not very interesting for those looking for kink. You want some funny kink? Try this.  Or this.)

When I got older and broke away from the stifling, oppressive lifestyle I had grown up in, my views and habits went through some drastic changes. But some of the basic beliefs, I just could not rid myself of them, and the belief that my period made me dirty and disgraceful in the eyes of God and men was one of them.

For 23 days out of my cycle, I was flirty, alluring, teasing, and fun. I knew I was sexy because I felt sexy, and guys responded to that. But for the other five days, I would become a different person. I would turn shy around men. I dressed very blandly, and covered everything up. It was like I didn't want a man to find me attractive while I had my period, because that would be somehow leading him into sin.

I had a few boyfriends during this time, and when I got my period, I would not let them touch me. At all. They were not allowed to hug me, or give me a kiss hello. It was just one of those things; I think they chalked it up to a woman being in a bad mood during her period, and not wanting to be touched. They didn't realize my beliefs were based on some twisted theology that said if they touched me while I had my period, I would be tainting them with my uncleanliness. Looking back, it all seems so ridiculous; but back then, I felt like I was almost saving them from joining me in abomination. I was doing them a favor.

Then I met Husband.

From the beginning, I think we both knew what we had was something special. We weren't into the whole BDSM lifestyle then, we were both very young and ignorant about a great many things, but even so, the Dom in him and the sub in me were already a set part of our personalities, and we completed each other in ways we'd never found before.

But I still would not have sex with him during my period. At first, the issue didn't even come up. He was traveling a lot back then on business, and he always seemed to be flying off somewhere just when I had my period. In that sense, it was a relief for me not to have to explain to him why he could not fuck me. The topic simply never raised its ugly head.

Until the month he came home three days early from his trip, and I still had my period.

"Why am I home and you're not here?" He called and asked, slightly worried. It had become our ritual that he would tell me when he expected to be back at his apartment, and I was expected to be there, waiting for him. (Again, back then we weren't using words like Dom or sub, but even so, I was submitting to his wishes, obeying his orders to please him, and we both loved it.) He had called earlier to to tell me he was almost home, but I had not gone to his apartment to greet him.

"I can't come," I said. "I have...." I couldn't finish.

"What?" He asked. "A test? A project due? A place you need to be? What?"

"My period," I whispered. "I have my period."

He was quiet for a second. "So? Are you sick or something?"

"No, but...I have my period." I couldn't understand why we was being so obtuse about this. Wasn't it obvious why I couldn't come over?

"If you're not sick, and you don't have any other reason not to be here, then get over here. I haven't seen you in over a week, and I want to see you." His voice was an order, one I could not refuse.

When I got to his apartment, he immediately kissed me, hugged me, and began his gentle intimate touching of my body that he did after a long absence. It was almost like he had to re-claim my body as his own.

I pushed his hands away.
"Don't touch me," I said.
He stepped away, shocked. "Why?"
"Because I have my PERIOD," I said, getting exasperated.
"So what, I'm not allowed to touch you?" He asked.
"You can't," I said.
"Why?"
"Because I'm disgusting," I wailed.
"You look fine to me," he retorted. "You look beautiful. Look, is there something else going on here? Because I'd really love to kiss you, and if you're not going to let me, I'd like a real reason why."

Believe it or not, it was the first time a guy had ever argued with me after I'd refused his advances. Others had protested, some rather rudely, but no one had ever argued about it with me before, and insisted on an explanation for my strange attitude.

"I. Have. My. Period," I emphasized each word, like I was speaking to someone with a hearing disability.
"So what?" He repeated. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?"

And then this lightbulb went off in my head: he really didn't give a damn about my period. He was taking my refusal to give him access to my body personally.

"I'm gross," I said, ashamed, and slightly angry for having to humiliate myself by explaining this to him. "I'm dirty, and I smell weird...believe me, you don't want to touch me."

Now he got really pissed off. "Do not tell me when I do or do not want to touch you," he said, an edge to his voice. "I've been thinking about seeing you for over a week, and I finally get to have you in my arms again. You are not dirty, you are not gross, I don't know why you think you are but it's not true, so GET OVER HERE."

He pulled me into his arms, and this time, I let him. He didn't care about my period, not one bit. I was the  one making him angry by my obstinate behavior. He had been looking forward to this moment all week, and I had was taking all the joy out of it by focusing on something he clearly didn't think was even an issue.

So I kissed him back. We made out for a while, there in the living room, and it felt like I had gone through some sort of epiphany.

I could touch a man during my period. Husband didn't mind; he didn't even care. He didn't see any unholy corruption and filth on me. I was the same me. I just happened to have my period, is all.

I realize this sounds like a big deal over nothing, but for me, given my upbringing, it was a drastic shift in beliefs, and it took me a while to accept it.

But then Husband started unbuttoning my shirt.
"What are you doing?" I screeched.
"What does it look like?" He peeled the shirt off my shoulders and admired the cleavage in my bra. "God, I've been waiting too long for this."

Next: A Jewish Woman and Her Period, the End

A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part I

This series of posts was inspired by the talented and beautiful Molly, over at Molly's Daily Kiss. You should check her out. She's on Twitter, too. She lives in the UK, but we can forgive her for that.

I've decided to divide this issue up into two or more posts, because I have a lot to say, and a lot of background information to give. Feel free to skip this stuff if it bores you. No kink here today.

In Jewish Law, there are very strict rules governing when a married couple can have sex. I say married couple, because single people are not supposed to have sex at all. In fact, they are not supposed to touch a member of the opposite sex. Unmarried people who follow the rules prohibiting any form of touching of the opposite sex are called Shomer Negiah. Keep in mind, it doesn't matter how old the single person is, how long they've been "dating" other people, what their plans are for their future together...as long as they are not married, there is supposed to be NO TOUCHING.

(This has led to a true crisis among Orthodox singles, who are growing older and older without finding their "soul mate," and are remaining completely celibate because of it. It is sad, and it is wrong...but I digress.)

Once you are married, of course, you are allowed to have sex. Sometimes.

When a woman is having her period, she is considered a Niddah, one who is unclean, impure, in a state that prohibits her husband from having sexual relations with her. She cannot have relations with her husband until she has counted down the proper number of days of "cleanliness," and then has gone to the Mikvah, the ritual bath. The trip to the Mikvah must be done at night, it must be kept a private matter, and once she returns home, it is considered a positive commandment by God that she have sex with her husband as soon as possible.

The rules surrounding the laws of Niddah have changed over thousands of years, making them even more strict. It used to be that a woman counted seven days from the first day of her period, or until the last day of her period, whichever came last, to go to the Mikvah. Over time, the Rabbis decided that wasn't good enough, and instructed women to count seven days from the last day of her period before she could go to the Mikvah. 


So let's say a woman's period is five days. 5+7=12. So from the first day of her period, she cannot "be" with her husband for the next twelve days. But that works only if her period is five days. If she has ANY fresh blood come out of her vagina, even a smear on the toilet paper, then that is considered another day of her period, and she has to wait another day to start counting the "clean" days.

During the time she is in Niddah, she is not allowed to touch her husband in any way. Yes, you got that. NO TOUCHING. The married couple is expected to sleep separately, or create some sort of boundary between them. They cannot kiss, they cannot hug...he cannot even hand her a cup of coffee, because their fingers might brush together.

Of course, all this changes once she goes to the Mikvah. Then, she is clean, she is ready for the miracle of her husband's sperm, and she is obligated to be a vessel for it once again.

The whole point of this, of course, is to make babies. Because if you know anything about the female reproductive system, you know that a woman ovulates about fourteen days after the first day of her menstrual period. If she starts having sex with her husband on day 12, it is most likely the optimal time to get pregnant.

(Of course, female sperm live longer than male sperm, so typically women who ovulate two days later end up having more girls, which is why you see so many Orthodox families having more girls than boys...but I digress again.)

 The point is, sex between a married couple, at least while the woman's reproductive system is still working, is about making babies. When she has her period she is unclean, she is scorned, she is spiritually looked down upon because she is not pregnant.

This is the education I grew up with. Yeah, you can imagine the hang-ups I had regarding my period. Dirty. Shameful. Sinful. An abomination in the eyes of God.

Next: A Jewish Woman and Her Period, Part II

Submission in Judaism

Like most people, I read a lot of different kinds of blogs that focus on varying themes. I read blogs about kink, BDSM, American culture, politics, Doctor Who...and I read blogs from Jewish bloggers, that focus on Jewish themes. Because, you guessed it, I'm Jewish.

A blog I read on occasion, A Mother in Israel, put up a post a couple days ago titled Does Judaism Require Submission within Marriage? Go check it out and read it yourself if you want. And then read the comments. And then puke a little in your mouth.

Of course, there was no way I was going to comment on her blog how mad the whole question of the post made me, how misogynistic and neanderthal some of the comments were. That is her blog, her safe space, where she can write whatever she wants. I would never intentionally try to hijack someone else's blog to start an argument. So I'm going to write some stuff here, on my blog, where I have every right to state my opinion.

I'm not even going to go into my views about my religion, how I do think it's absolutely anti-woman and sexist. That's a topic for another post. Maybe someday I'll write it.

But I want to say, today, in response to A Mother in Israel's post, is this: it is a PRIVILEGE of a man to have a woman who submits to him, NOT A RIGHT. NO religion has the power to tell a woman she is required, BY THE WORD OF GOD, to submit to her husband. I don't care how you twist around the idea of submission, try to whitewash it or glorify it or wrap it up in bows and ribbons and make it all nice and pretty, submission is about CONTROL. In this case, a husband having control over his wife.

So here's where I stand: A MAN WHO THINKS HE HAS THE RIGHT TO CONTROL HIS WIFE BECAUSE GOD SAID SO IS A SEXIST, SICK PIG. NO WOMAN SHOULD EVER, EVER FEEL OBLIGATED TO SUBMIT IN ORDER TO BE A GOOD WIFE.

Obviously, it might seem strange for me of all people to be "yelling" this out, at least on the surface. I submit to my husband, probably more than even most of those commentators. My hsuband and I have a total power exchange. But: it's because it's what I want, not because it's what's expected of me, and certainly not because I'm afraid of being a "bad woman" if I don't submit. MY SUBMISSION IS MY CHOICE, not something imposed upon me.

There. I feel better now.