Yeah, yeah, I know…

We’re supposed to be tolerant. We’re supposed to be accepting of all things kink, even if they’re not our thing. We’re supposed to be PC, even when we’re engaging in non-PC activity. 

I try, kids. I really, really do. But every now and then, something so profoundly upsets me, I just have to get it off my chest.

This week on FetLife, I reposted an old piece of writing from about five years ago, a tongue-in-cheek PSA about “proper behavior during a spanking.” When I’d originally posted it, FetLife was fairly new, and I had a lot of friends who hadn’t seen it, so I bumped it back up into the feed.

Wow. I didn’t expect to see such an explosion of appreciation. To date, it has 1,171 “Loves,” hundreds of comments, and it made the top tier of the Kinky & Popular page. Very gratifying.

As is often the case when one posts something well-liked on Fet, one gets a flurry of new friend requests. And as always, if I don’t recognize the name, I go look at the profile.

Yesterday, I got one such request. The user name, which I won’t repeat here, raised red flags immediately, but I went to look anyway. And then I read the profile of a man that was filled with misogynistic, hateful, degrading rhetoric. It went way beyond male dominant/female submissive descriptions — basically, it was a treatise on how women are worthless scum, here solely for his entertainment.

Want an example? Here you go.

When a pet pushes herself to earn my favor, I can get to care and see after her… but that won’t stop me from treating her like dirt I scrape from my shoe, or make her lick said filth from my boot if the mood strikes me, so don’t ever hold your breath for me to show my “appreciation” towards you.

It’ll probably come in the shape of a slap and harsh hair pulling, maybe even spit on your face and smear it with my hand to ruin your makeup you put very carefully to look so sexy mmmh… just for me to make you end up looking like a cheap disgraceful whore, with tears and cum running down your cheeks along with your expensive mascara {evil smile}.

His photos weren’t much better. One had a naked woman crawling next to a dog cage, wearing a butt plug attached to a length of chain, which he had in his hand, and he was ordering her back in the cage. The caption: “Who let the sluts out?”

Yeah, I know. Some women like this. Some people get off on this.  My question is: Why the hell did this guy send me a friend request? Did he not read my profile? Was there anything in there that even hinted that I like to play this way? 

I hit “reject.” And then I wished I could reject it again, and again and again and again. 

Oh, and regarding the comments on my writing — 99% of them were positive, and recognized the piece for what it was: humor. But the occasional Uber-Dom had to drop by and spew testosterone, talking about what should be done with me. One guy said I sounded like a PITA brat. (That’s Pain In The Ass, y’all.) Oh yeah? Well, you sound like a PITA top, pal. Fuck off.

And then there was this guy:

Mmm… good way to find yourself bound, imobilised and gagged.

By all means scream and kick and fight – Im bigger, meaner and a sadist – go right ahead, you`ll wear yourself out before Im even out of breath.

Um… no. I won’t. Because I would never bother engaging with the likes of you. Not just because you’re too full of yourself, but you’re too stupid to know that “Im” is not a word.

Argh. I guess this entry turned into a sort of CHoS, huh? So much for post-scene tranquility. I think I’m ready for Steve again.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Ahhhhhhhh…

Two weeks is too damn long.

Yesterday was delicious. I was feeling antsy and full of sass, and Steve encouraged it, daring me to be a smart-ass and returning my challenges with his own. As it happened, I was even dressed like a delinquent of sorts — both my shirt and my panties had black-and-white stripes.

Fortunately, he has a good sense of humor. I constantly give him digs about how he tends to repeat phrases. After he’d said, “Only because you need this,” three times, I said, “Has anyone ever told you that you repeat things? Not only that, but you repeat things. Oh, and you’re repetitive. And redundant.”

“You repeat things too,” he replied calmly. “You say ‘ow’ over and over.”

Touché. So, in an effort to change things up, instead of saying “ow” in the next flurry, I dropped the F-bomb repeatedly.

“That was three times; that’s still redundant.” ARRGGHH!

I felt my transition happening after he picked up the Delrin cane. The urge to talk back and sass slipped away as I absorbed the pain and sensed the tension easing out of me. He sensed it too, knowing when I’d reached the point of acquiescence and slowly dialing it back, then stopping. 

As the expression goes,”Stick a fork in me; I’m done.” (Be clean, people. I can hear your wheels turning.)

And why the hell does he insist that he can feel the blows as well? Like I’m supposed to buy that? “I can,” he insisted. “It starts at your bottom, then goes up the handle, into my hand, up my arm and into my body.”

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “I’ve got a better way for it to go into your body.” 

He took a selfie of us during aftercare — nice shot, but the color was dreadful. I did some adjusting, but it still looks a bit like I have jaundice. Never mind… still a sweet moment. 🙂

Refreshed and calmed, I am now digging into a new pile of work. I had just cleared all my decks on Monday, and between yesterday and today, three clients gave me new jobs (including one whom I hadn’t heard from in about a year). All good stuff, yes! But I’m a little overwhelmed. I’m currently taking a break from reading about tuberculosis testing for adult and pediatrics; my eyes were glazing over.

An off-topic note: We just lost prolific author and poet Maya Angelou. I’m reminded of a real-time moment, several years ago, when John and I were at my cousin’s Bar Mitzvah. This cousin was the son of that famous TV producer I’ve mentioned a gazillion times, but have never named. During the ceremony, the father pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and read a poem that had been written specifically for the Bar Mitzvah boy by his godmother.

I don’t remember the content of the poem, but it was signed “Auntie Maya.” Yup, Maya Angelou.

I swear, rich people have very different lives.

Back to work with me.

Memories

On this date (Memorial Day), anyone who knows me, knows that the day has a dual significance. First, of course, is for remembering our veterans and their sacrifices for all of us. And second, today is the 18th anniversary of my first spanking.

In a recent blog, I talked about technique and aim, and was asked if I was willing to play with an inexperienced top. The answer is yes; if I didn’t, I’d never have played with my very first top. Because he’d never spanked before.

So funny to think back on that now. I mean, these days with a lot of experience behind me (no pun intended), I probably would be hesitant about bottoming to a virgin top. Thank goodness I didn’t feel that way back then, right? I simply didn’t know any different. I went by instinct alone — I found him attractive, I liked the way he talked, I liked his air of confidence. I somehow knew this was going to be right.

I learned something that first time, and it continues to be true — some people are naturals at topping. They have an instinctive feel for it, a sense of what to do and say, even if they’ve never done it before. This man, Paul, spoke to me like a veteran spanko would. His voice was smooth and cool and deliberate, and he said all the right things. He knew to hook his legs over mine when I thrashed. He paced it properly. How did he know? He loved control and dominance, and he had done bondage and pinning and take-downs, but never spanking. Oh… and his aim was spot on. He covered both cheeks thoroughly. Some tops spank for years and never master that.

Was it perfect? Of course not. He gave no aftercare. And he left it to me to end the scene; told me he’d keep going until I decided I’d had enough and used the safeword we chose. I ended it not because I couldn’t take more — I would have gone on and on — but I was concerned about going too far my first time. And oh, what beautiful marks I had. How I miss those days of perfect hand prints, of red and purple streaks that last for days. But I have my memories.

I still think about him. Wonder where he is, how he is, if he found his perfect mate. I wish we could have kept in touch. I wish he could have seen what he started. But life goes on, and people come and go in it. Paul was not meant to be a permanent fixture. Spanking wasn’t even his thing, and that would have shown itself. But for this one day, for a unique moment in time, he was the most special of spankers to me.

Today, I am off to the gym, then back here to do some work. Tomorrow, I see Steve and play. It’s overdue.

A heartfelt thank-you — to our veterans, and to my very special spanking veteran from way back when.

Stopping to feel

It has been a whirlwind week, nonstop activity. At the beginning of the week, my client sent me four books to work on. So I’ve been busy with work, and that’s been interspersed with having my car serviced, a dermatology appointment, various chores and errands, workouts. Yesterday I spent all afternoon with Alex and SpankCake, having some girly time, which was much needed. I’m appreciating in-person friends so much more lately. Then back home and right back onto the computer, after stopping off to get my bangs trimmed, since they were hanging in my eyes and going all flippy at the sides, and my hairdresser is there only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

On Tuesday, Steve couldn’t make it; the poor man had been up most of the night with a migraine and was still feeling it. John gets those as well and I know how debilitating they are. And this week, it seemed like good timing. I used the opened-up Tuesday to work all day and make a serious dent in my proofreading.

But today, I’m finally winding down. I’m nearly finished with the third book of the four, so I’m on schedule. The appointments and other things are done, and I’m ready to head out to be with John. He has an appointment with a cardiac specialist today, trying to determine if he qualifies for microsurgery on his heart. He’s been feeling stable lately, has gotten back into walking and exercising, and his mood has improved. It’s been a relief.

However… as my mind and schedule clear, I’m slowing down long enough for feelings to catch up with me. And I find myself missing my top. Fiercely and ferociously, hungrily. I crave his special attention. I crave his hands, his voice. I crave the release.

Holiday weekend be damned; I’m working on Monday anyway. I can’t wait for next Tuesday.

Have a great weekend, y’all. Happy barbecues and so forth.

Go on, tell me you don’t see it

Hey y’all — this photo has been floating around the blogosphere for as long as I can remember. I have no idea who it is, or what it’s from. Does anyone know? But actually, that’s not what I wanted to ask you.

Am I the only one who looks at this guy and instantly thinks, “Hey, that looks like Weird Al Yankovic”?

Here’s a photo of the real deal, for reference:

Maybe his next parody of “Beat It” should be “Spank It,” huh? 😀

Retroactive spanking

I recently heard from a friend, who said she’d be shooting a video soon, with the subject being a sort of tongue-in-cheek penance for a past guilt — in her case, failing to return a library book. While this seems like a rather mild crime to me (especially since I still, to this day, have two books in my shelves with the Beverly Hills High School Library timecard in them), I can see how it could be made into a rather funny video.

But this got me thinking. While a lot of people spank just for fun, others do use it to relieve stress and/or release guilt. Have any of you ever thought, just for the heck of it, about anything in your past that you probably should have been spanked for, but weren’t? Would it make for a cathartic scene if you were to address it now? Or maybe even a fun role-play scene?

I know, without giving it more than a few seconds of thought, what my past crime would be. Or, at least, what you guys would consider a past spankable offense.

When I was in my early teens, I hitchhiked. Several times.

Oh, don’t look so shocked. It was the early 70s. Back then, everyone did it. OK, not everyone, but a whole lot more people. I know, I know. It still was a stupid, unsafe thing to do. But consider my situation. I lived high up in a canyon area, far from the bus lines. I didn’t ride a bike. My dad wouldn’t let me ride in a car with older kids who had licenses. I hated being dependent on my dad or stepmother to drive me everywhere, and they weren’t too thrilled about it either. My brother had done it for years, in his teens. And… well, I lived in Beverly Hills. It wasn’t exactly a high crime area.

I didn’t do it that much. Just here and there, with friends, to get from Point A to Point B if we didn’t have rides, or didn’t have bus fare (or just didn’t want to spend it). Yeah, I know. It only takes one bad time (hanging head in shame). But I guess I was lucky. We never got picked up by anyone who was anything less than perfectly nice and friendly.

But I recall one time when I was extra stupid.

It was a Saturday; my folks were out doing something or another and I had plans to visit some friends in “the flats” (the part of BH below the canyons). My dad had left me cab fare to get there (yes, I took a lot of cabs in those days too), and they would pick me up later that evening. Since my friends lived just a couple of blocks from the main shopping area of BH, I decided to cab to the center of the city so I could shop for while, have some lunch, and then I’d walk to my friends.

I wore a skimpy crop top and tight jeans (of course, everything was tight on me, back then), and as I walked down Beverly Drive that afternoon, some fancy sports car (a Jaguar? I forget) pulled into a driveway in front of me. The top was down, and a very handsome man (maybe around 30?) called out to me. “Hey, gorgeous, can I drop you off anywhere?”

I smiled at him. “No, thanks — I’m just walking for a couple of blocks.”

“Honey,” he replied, “with a body like that, I’d take you anywhere.”

massive eye roll  Oh, brother. But at the very naive age of fourteen, my head was turned by lines like that. Besides, I wasn’t used to getting compliments on my body, or much of anything else.

He pushed the passenger’s side door open and I hopped in. “Where to?” he asked, and I told him. As we drove toward the residential area, he asked what I do. I told him I was still in school. “Oh, college?” 

“No, high school.”

I thought I felt the car swerve, just slightly. “Senior?” he asked, his voice taking on a slight edge.

“No, freshman.”

This time, the car definitely jerked. “Um… how old are you?” he stammered.

“Fourteen,” I answered.

I couldn’t understand why he had gone from being so friendly to so thoroughly uncomfortable. “Oh… oh, god,” he stuttered. “I’m… sorry. I thought you were a lot older.” He then took a deep breath and refocused on the road. “So, OK, where do you want me to drop you off?”

I directed him to the street and he pulled up to the curb, seeming very eager to get me the hell out of that car. As I opened the door, he laughed nervously and asked, “So where did you get a body like that at fourteen??”

(Um, I dunno… Kraft Macaroni & Cheese??) I didn’t know how to answer that, so just shrugged and smiled at him, thanking him politely as I exited. And he tore off like he had a firecracker in his tailpipe.

I can’t help but wonder how that little scenario would have played out, had I been legal. Or if he hadn’t been so scrupulous about my being underage. Yeah, I know, things could have been very different that day. But what the hell. I turned out OK, right? 😀

Anyone else want to play along and share a past “indiscretion”?