Battle Scars

Since a little bit of pain is always a good thing in my book, it's always a surprise when that invisible line is crossed and tears ensue. The line isn't about what has and hasn't been negotiated; it's the line between good pain, and unplanned accidental 'I'm-so-sorry-are-you-okay?' pain.

It's happened two nights in a row now, and I sort of feel like a bonafide sex veteran; I've got the battle scars to prove that our sex life can get a little rough, and I'll probably discover a pinch of PTSD the next time RS attempts to gently caress my face.

The first night graced me with a sore eye after RS skimmed me rather roughly, nearly gouging my eye out - the thought of which probably hurts more than the actual skimming - and a stiff neck after being thrown down and having my neck slammed against the headboard. We were entirely unaware of how close we were to it and how far away we were from the nice soft pillows - a mistake we won't make again any time soon. Naturally, I claimed paralysis and stuck to it despite RS' attempts to prove that I was not, in actuality, paralyzed.

Which it turns out, he was right about - but you can never be too careful with neck injuries you know, it's serious business.

Last night's battle scar wasn't technically achieved while having sex, but since I'm pretty sure it was RS' intention and end goal all along, it counts in my book.

Without any sort of warning whatsoever, RS leapt up from his seemingly-sleeping state and punched me square in the face. At first I thought he had broken my nose or something equally as ridiculous, but it was soon apparent that my lip had taken the majority of the impact and my nose was quite fine after all.

Swollen and sore, RS dutifully got me some ice to take the swelling down despite my protests, because icing a swollen lip is incredibly unsexy, and I thought sex might still be in the forecast. (Hint: it wasn't.)

He apologized the entire time, claiming that he had meant to tackle me, but missed my arms and hit me in the face instead. Suure, no one's believing that for a second. I'm sticking to my version of events, wherein he was still angry about a conversation we had been having previously, and he just didn't want to admit to domestic battery.

See, there was this joke when we first started dating, that went sort of like this:


MY SISTER: RS, what happened to your laptop?

RS: *moving one closed fist into the palm of his other* 
          It broke.

MY SISTER: Boston, what happened to your face?
                           *moving one closed fist into the palm of her other* 
                            It broke.

Laughter ensues and we all make light of the severity of domestic abuse. All fun and games, right? Yep, there will be more fun and games when I get to make that joke to my sister today and make it so that RS never hears the end of "that time, you know, when you 'accidentally' punched me in the face?".

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Disclaimer: I don't actually believe that RS purposely punched me in the face. Accidents happen, but only to me, which is actually kind of questionable perhaps. Also, we in no way endorse domestic abuse or battery, and in no way believe it is acceptable to make light of such situations.

Toy With Me Tuesday: Beneath the Shining Lights

For this week's 'Toy With Me Tuesday', I thought I'd shine a light on the Happy Valley Little Snoop silicone dildo. Its sleek black body fits right in perched atop the french industrial art inspired lamp that helps me read all the oh so sexy research studies that my degree requires while RS sleeps soundly beside me.

My lamp must be ecstatic to finally be shining a light on something decidedly more concrete than letters, words, and sentences. You're welcome lamp; you're very, very welcome.

The lamp, in case you're wondering, is an Ikea creation called the FORSÅ.

You can find more creative sex toy photography by heading on over to this week's Toy with me Tuesday collection. You can also follow the #ToyWithMeTuesday hashtag on twitter.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

My First Toy With Me Tuesday: All That Glitters Is Not Gold

For my very first 'Toy With Me Tuesday' submission, it seemed fitting to go back to humble beginnings and honour my very first sex toy - my little silver bullet.

Silver is sleek, sexy and modern; with the right lighting, it glitters with a bright and shimmering reflection greater than any gold.

You can find more creative sex toy photography by heading on over to this week's Toy with me Tuesday collection. You can also follow the #ToyWithMeTuesday hashtag on twitter.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,

Walmart Hates My Sex Life

First and foremost, I'm a student.
I come from a middle-class single family home, and I'm blessed to receive financial assistance to fund my education through provincial loans. I do, however, also work to finance my education in hopes that I won't have forty-thousand in repayment once my degree is completed. I have to work - there's no ifs ands or buts about it.

I worked at Tim Horton's in high school, and the only good thing that came from working there was RS - I knew I couldn't return to that sort of working environment, and I vowed that I would find a job away from food and drive-thru's. And far far away from coffee and it's (now) dreadful scent.

I ended up at Walmart.
 I started as a cashier and worked behind a register for a year. I eventually tired of the monotony and was having severe wrist pain - as a result of my elite cashier skills obviously - and decided to take up an offer to become a Customer Service Manager (CSM) and stretch my managerial wings. I would be in charge of the daily running and maintenance of the front end; from the cashiers throwing grapes at each others, to the elderly greeters guarding the doors, and outside to the cart boys hitting your car with the force of forty carts.

With a thirty-cent pay raise and the freedom to throw away the unbecoming blue vest, I became just about everyone's bitch: it was my job to pick up the slack wherever anyone else dropped it; it was my job to work late, to skip breaks, and to cut my lunch short for the sake of others; it was my job to make shopping easy and enjoyable for customers who made my day anything but.

Don't get me wrong though, I loved being a CSM. It was an absolute joy to interact with each and every associate who worked in the front end. It's easy to bond over the shared hatred of regular asshole customers, and there's never a shortage of horror stories to share across the breakroom table. It probably isn't the team building Walmart would like, but it works; we become united against a common enemy: that customer, that one - right there. See her? Right there. Bitch.

I've made great friends as I've stood at my podium overlooking the front end, and I've enjoyed the opportunity to spread my managerial wings, but it was a hard job.

I was told there's no such thing as a perfect day in the front end.
And that's true. There isn't - not even close.

I wasn't told, though, that I would be cursed at and belittled on a daily basis. I wasn't told that I would ever have to retreat to the handicapped stall of a Walmart bathroom to cry.

And I definitely wasn't told that I would leave work so incredibly angry, tired, and frustrated that it would affect my daily functioning, and ultimately my sex life.

I know it doesn't look like I own
an iron, but I promise, I do.

Walmart obviously hates my sex life.

Jobs, work, and careers will (every now and again) get in the way of your sex life - I get it. If we could all just spend our days lounging in bed fucking our lives away, we'd all be much happier creatures I imagine. But life doesn't work that way, and you have to find a way to make it work.

RS works ten hour days five days a week, which leaves little time in the evenings for the hours-long sexual sessions we once enjoyed. When the weekend comes and he's ready to fuck two days away, I'm running through Walmart trying to catch my sanity before it runs out the front door alongside stolen big-screen TVs. I come home absolutely exhausted from running ten miles (I wore a pedometer, no lie) and knowing I've ten more to run tomorrow.

It was exhausting. and far from sex-inducing.

But this past week I've made a move into a tiny little accounting office (a hidden room in Walmart where all the cash is hidden - shh!). I get a chair and a desk and a computer. I get standardized hours and can decide when I'm done for the day. I get to clock in and not wonder if I'll have even a minute to breathe that day. And the best part? No. Asshole. Customers.

I'm crossing my fingers and hoping that this will be better for our sex life. It's only been a week in my new position, and even though I've come home with a headache each night and have postponed sex for a perpetual tomorrow, I know that once I can go into work without feeling bombarded by information and instructions, we'll be back at it - and back at it hard.

FAITHFULLY YOURS,