The Little Box of Horror

***Caution. Proceed at Own Risk. This post is a graphic over-share of the Redneck life.***

It is no secret I have become a big collector fan of battery-operated toys. I may or may not have a wide assortment of various tools of self-pleasure at my disposal and an unending supply of batteries with which to operate them with.

Don't judge me peoples, my husband is never home. Ahem.

To be honest, it was my husband who started the collection for me. He would tell me he was going grocery shopping and come home with a paper bag filled with treasures from a kinky store and smile and laugh when my mouth hanged open in shock and protest.

It took my husband a lot of constant persuasion and many bottles of wine to build up my liquid courage to even take one out of it's packaging. For a long time, those plastic fun toys were kept tucked away in his sock drawer, mocking me whenever I put his laundry away.

I just couldn't wrap my head around the idea of using a stimulus to engage in sexual activity. (Stupid me.) I had a hang up about it. I wasn't that type of girl. Sure, I could get tattoos and pierce every known part of my body, but dude...a dildo that vibrates? What the hell is wrong with your ten fingers and tongue I'd ask him when ever he brought the subject up.

Then one night, too much mommy juice had been ingested and my husband sensed I was ripe for the pickings. You might say he surprised me with the soft buzz of a mechanical toy and you might say I was forever converted. 

My husband created a monster.

Since then, my um, mouse clickers have found a drawer of their own and may or may not be regularly used in our sessions of marital mattress dancing.

(My apologies to my mother-in-law. But just so you know, if you are still reading this, your son is very talented. *Waggles eyebrows.* You should be proud. Wink.)

Boo and I have even learned to put the dang things away after having the kids ask why there is a purple plastic penis in the bathroom sink.

Who says an old dog can't learn a new trick?

This past Christmas, as I was wandering the stores of the mall, wracking my brain wondering what to buy my husband that would knock his socks off, I passed a local kink store where a group of horny 16 year old boys were standing by the opaque window with a sign that said YOU MUST BE 18 TO ENTER and daring one another to see if they could walk in the store unnoticed.

My first thought when I saw this rag tag group of boys was holy shit! These kids aren't much older than my own darling Fric and Frac!! I'm so buying chastity belts and locking my kids in their rooms till they're 40. My second thought, once I erased the lame motherly reaction from my brain was, hmm, wonder if they have anything interesting in there.  

So I pushed past the group of boys crowding the entrance while totally winking at one of them, because neener neener, I'm legal yo, and I can buy all the disturbing kink crap I want, (I'm at the height of maturity I tell ya) and I started perusing one sexually disturbing aisle of kinky toys after another.

There is a reason I never go into these shops. I am, for all my dirty talk, a prude. Some things are just best left to the imagination and what the hell does someone need a six-inch round, 18-inch long dildo for? And just how big a cooter does one need to use something like that?

(Please refrain from actually explaining that in my comments yo. Better left wondered about.)

Just as I was making my way out of the store while hoping and praying nobody I knew would be walking by outside and catch me coming out of the pervert's delight, a small stand of colorful boxes caught my eye.

Laughing, I grabbed a box and giggled as I paid the bored, pimpled twenty-something cashier and smiled at the thought of Boo's reaction when he opened his stocking stuffer Christmas morning.

Turnabout is fair play, and for all the toys he has bought me, I figured it was time for one of his own.

Christmas morning finally arrived and with the children ripping through their stockings like they were in a race, my husband leisurely started examining the contents of his stocking. I watched as he laughed at the book I bought him, cooed over the video game I surprised him with and rolled his eyes at the requisite soap, socks and toothbrush we give each other ever year.

Then his hand pulled out an unfamiliar package. I could see the puzzlement in his eyes as he wondered what the small box was. The kids had now finished flying through their stockings and were patiently waiting for their father to finish his so they could rip into the loot underneath the tree. Time seemed to stand still for the two of them and they all but chomped at the bit to get to the good stuff.

Boo did what he always does, which is to torture them by slowly unwrapping the unfamiliar present while drawing the moment out by trying to guess what it was.

The kids, knowing their father could not be hurried no matter how badly harassed, gamely played along as I just grinned, knowing what was in store for him.

Smiling, he had the tape carefully peeled off and he opened the paper when he realized what exactly his present was. His smirk was suddenly wiped off as he quickly bundled the little box back into his stocking and looked at me like I grew devil's horns.

The kids, dying with curiosity, hounded him wanting to know what the present was. I laughed into my coffee and watched him squirm and try to think of something imaginative that wouldn't make them even more curious.

"Um, it's just razor blades," he lamely replied as I snorted and whispered something about him being a chicken shit.

All in all, he recovered fairly well after receiving his very first cock ring.

After all the presents had been opened and the kids were busy examining their new found treasures, Boo and I shared a laugh over his reaction and then started cleaning up the Christmas mess. I never paid any attention to where put his new pleasure toy, I just assumed it had made it's way into the drawer with all of our other naughty bedroom items.

Fast-forward to last week when my daughter was cleaning out the family bathroom and Boo was riding herd over them to make sure the house was clean for our American houseguest.

My daughter was under strict instructions to clean the bathroom properly, not half-assed like she normally does and that included straightening up the bathroom drawers she had littered with sparkle dust and pink eye shadows.

I was at the other end of the house supervising her brother straightening up the video games when I heard Fric call for her dad and me.

Wandering out of the bathroom she held a familiar looking box in her hand. Apparently, Boo had forgotten about it and just put it away with his new soaps and toothbrushes.

"Um, Mom? Dad? Where do you want me to put this?" Fric asked as she was staring at the box. 

Time stood still. Boo and I both realized at the exact same time what our innocent 12 year old daughter held in her tiny little hands and a look of horror crossed his face.

"Give that to me," he half-snapped, half-persuaded as I just stood there frozen, thinking about how much it would cost in therapy bills to erase this scene from everybody's minds.

Fric looked at her dad, then over to me, and then duly handed it over. A look of relief washed over Boo's face as he tucked the small box into his pocket and told her to get back to work.

I tried to make eye contact with Boo but he was lost in his own maze of disturbing mental images and was silently wishing to fall into the earth at that very moment. 

Just as Boo and I turned around to get back to work, Fric popped her head out of the bathroom and asked the question no parent ever wants to hear their child ask.

"Dad, what's a cock ring for?"

A split second of stunned silence and then I couldn't help it. I doubled over laughing. The look on Boo's face was priceless.

He stood there gasping for air like a fish does when out of water and tears started to streak down my face.

"Never mind and get back to work," he barked while his face was beat red. That's when he shot me a dirty look that all but blamed me for corrupting his children's innocence.

Fric just looked at her dad and then the light dawned in her little brain.

"Oh, I get it. It's like those other toys Mom has in the drawer. Ewwww," she grimaced and then went back to cleaning the bathroom. "You guys are so gross," I heard her mutter.

That was it, I was done. I couldn't help it. I belly laughed. Boo, however, did not. He grabbed his jacket and growled, "It's not funny Tanis!" as he stalked outside to hide in the woods.

Apparently, us old dogs still need to learn a few tricks. While our children are rapidly learning every one in the book.

Meanwhile, Boo is working double shifts to pay for his own damn therapy bills.

Good thing I have a few toys at my disposal.

Wink.

Learn From Me Peoples

Back in the day, Boo and I had libidos like two loved-starved bunnies in heat. We were that obnoxious couple, always touching, kissing and making those disgusting goo-goo eyes at one another from across the room. Ya. You know the ones. The ones you always wanted to slap.

We drew the line at graphic public displays of affection because although my brain was addled with pheromones and drunk on love, my common sense was shrieking like a monkey in a cage, effectively prohibiting us from flagrantly disregarding public indecency laws and going at like two amateur porn stars in the supermarket.

Thank God for common sense. 

Over the years our libidos have dampened a bit. The pheromones that used to have us in a choke hold have evaporated into the mist of life and the raging inferno of passion that once singed our very souls is now a distant memory. Our passion mostly resembles white-hot embers now. It takes some kindling and a good gust of wind to get that fire raging out of control once again. 

In other words, time, children and probably the extra forty pounds between the two of us has made us lazy geriatric lackadaisical lovers. We'd much rather sleep than swing from the sex swing hidden in the back of our closet. 

I'm not going to feed you that bull that even though we no longer fornicate as often as we once did our love has grown even stronger and deeper and when we do make love the world still shakes, just shakes a little quieter.

It has, it does.

But f*ck, sex is work now. Between making sure the kids aren't around, the legs are shaved, deodorant has been applied and we've each had eight hours of sleep it's a wonder either one of us ever sees any action.

Not to mention there was once a time we could go at in the shower or on the kitchen counter and be oblivious to everything but the intensity of our love; now if we try that I can't get past the feeling of the cold counter against my ass cheeks and he whines about pulling a muscle.

It sucks getting older. 

All of that said Boo and I aren't that old. Neither one of us are sporting grey in the pubic regions nor do we qualify for the seniors discount at the local theatre. Occasionally, in a nod to our youth, we like to kick it up a notch and get frisky like two horny teens after the prom.

Generally there is large quantities of alcohol consumed and much whining about sore muscles, bad backs and hangovers the day after. Still. We get it done. Old school style.

There may or may not have been a recent romp not so long ago that involved my vehicle, a folded down back seat, a starry country sky and some sexy music on the stereo.  There may or may not have been some cursing about bumped knees, gear shifts getting in the way and general mutterings about how we are too damn old for crap like this.

A lady never tells.

But a lady with two preteen children who think money grows on trees, a lady who is trying to instill a work ethic in said preteens so they don't turn out to be pathetic useless bums when they get older, well that lady may send her children out to clean said vehicle in order to earn a few dollars and learn a valuable lesson about hard work and equitable pay.

Said lady may or may not have had a stale french fry stuck to a butt cheek at one point and was tired of her vehicle containing more trash than the local landfill.

What said lady was not prepared for was when her children came in after detailing her car for the hefty sum of five bucks a piece (child labour laws bedamned) was when her children, oh so young and innocent children looked at her in puzzlement and asked:

"Mom? Why are there boot prints on the ceiling of your car?"

At least said lady remembered to grab her undergarments which may or may not have been hanging from the rear view mirror.

Said lady would have had a pickle of a time explaining that to her young ones. As it is, this lady has learned a valuable lesson from all of this.

Remember to take off one's boots the next time the urge to re-enact one's younger years knocks on my one's libido. Apparently age doesn't always bring wisdom. Until after the fact.

 

***Another blogger had a little fun at my expense last night. I'm torn between laughter and mortification and I'm not sure I'll ever answer the phone again. However, I can promise the blog world and Adam himself, that revenge will be had. When he least expects it.***

Chalk This One Up To Too Much Information

*Warning: This post contains graphic language and may not be suitable for any one with a heart condition, a stick up their rectum or is in any way related to my husband. Read at your own risk.*

Dear husband,

While I love you deeply and deeper with every breath I draw (for reasons that just don't include your weekly ability to pad my pockets and line our bank account or the fact you have a rock hard ass that every woman should be able to ogle just once in their life for the sheer eye-orgy it provides) I need to tell you something.

Something you may not want to hear.

But first I need you to know that you are a fantastic husband. You work your tail off to support your family, you chase our kids around and make them squeal with laughter and you have been known to do the dishes or vacuum without me ever asking you to.

I couldn't ask for a better life partner to snuggle up to at night. You even let me stick my icy cold feet in between your deliciously warm legs to heat up my toes and you never complain. That right there is a demonstration of love. True love.

So when you come home after being gone for weeks at a time and want nothing more than to pour yourself a stiff drink, sit on your couch, watch your wide screen t.v, and have your children rub your feet as your wife whispers sweet promises of action yet to come, I don't begrudge you.

In fact, I'll even get you a refill on that drink while making sure to show off my cleavage in front of you as I bend over to get the ice cubes out of the freezer.

I'm not above using my chesticles to show you how much I love you.

And when you come in to the bedroom after being gone for weeks and weeks and ask me to rub the knots out of your shoulders, I willingly oblige. Because I know how hard you work for us.

I may even use that back rub as the starting point to rub other things, if you know what I mean. (Waggles eyebrows suggestively.)

Which brings me to the meat of the matter.

Your meat.

Specifically, what happens to your man meat when you are drinking and I am not.

In other words, whiskey dick. Defined as what happens to a penis when a man consumes large amounts of liquor and is unable to ejaculate in a time effective and/or romantic manner.

Boo, nobody questions your ability as a lover. One look at my goofy grin and people know right away that I'm a happily satisfied woman.

So there is no need to prove you can out beat the Energizer Bunny. Sex is not an endurance sport. I'm getting older. I spend my day chasing children and small dogs. I'm tired. Sex to me means get in, get off and get out.

I realize I poured you that last drink, but I swear if I had known it would vault you into the Olympic trials for love making, I would have switched you to soda and slapped on that slinky outfit you like a whole lot sooner.

You may not know this but when I say "Are you finished yet?" with a slightly annoyed tone to my voice it's because I've well, come and gone and am ready for sleep.

"Are you close yet?" is not code for "Please keep pounding away at my sensitive nether regions until it feels like raw hamburger and eventually goes numb."

Nor does it mean, "A little longer and I'll be right there for Orgasm number 9."

No. It means "hurry the hell up you nimrod and do what you need to do because if this goes on much longer I'm going to rip off your dick and stick it down your throat while I go soak in a tub of hot water."

I am not a porn star. While I am extremely bendy and have been known to go above and beyond the call of duty to bring a sparkle to your eye, chances are I'm not going to have multiple orgasms just because you are pounding away at me like a jackhammer.

I know you know this already. I realize your common sense is being held hostage by Captain Morgan and Jack Daniels and your penis is merely a pawn in the war whiskey wages on your libido.

But don't be a dick and think that whiskey dick of yours is something to be worshipped upon.

Consider this a public message for when you come home next.

Whiskey dick won't get you to the promised land. That I promise you.

But it will get you a trip to the bathroom with a tube sock and some lotion while I slumber on peacefully.

So next time either get me good and hammered with you, love or just stick to root beer.

It'll be much easier for both of us.

Sincerely,

Your loving wife.