“Sex With Shakespeare”

Yes, this post will be about Jillian Keenan’s book, Sex With Shakespeare: Here’s Much to Do with Pain, but More with Love. I don’t know if I want to call it a review; it’s more of a ramble, random bits of the thoughts her book evoked. Because Jillian’s book did make me think, a lot. And isn’t that the hallmark of a good book?

It is good. It’s smart, literate, interesting, and bold. It’s honest. And it accomplishes one hell of a feat: it links spanking and fetish activity with Shakespearean plays and characters, bringing both into a magical reality in which Jillian interacts with several of them. There are one hell of a lot of books about spanking, and a lot more about Shakespeare. But I daresay this is the first that combines the two, and entertainingly so.

I do have a confession to make. You know that Sam Cooke song, “Wonderful World”? “Don’t know much about history, don’t know much geography…” Well… I don’t know much about Shakespeare, beyond the bare basics. Sure, I know the story of Romeo and Juliet (but really, who doesn’t?). I know that the quote “Alas, poor Yorick” is from Hamlet (and I also know that the oft-added “I knew him well” is a misquote). I know that King Lear’s daughters were named Cordelia, Regan and Goneril (although every time I see that latter name, I think of gonorrhea. What the hell kind of name is Goneril, anyway?). But other than that… I have never read a Shakespearean play. (hanging head in shame) So, while I do wish I could have related more to the Shakespeare part of Jillian’s book (and that’s my shortcoming, not a criticism of SWS), I nonetheless found that aspect intriguing. And I found myself admiring and relating to Jillian more and more as I read.

At a glance, you put us together and we are very different beings. I am twice her age. She has worked and lived all over the world; I’ve lived in one state all my life, and my travel is limited to seven states and Mexico. She embraces change; I crave stasis. And yet, I felt those tendrils of kinship with her. Because I know that in one major area, she gets me, and I get her. We both have that gene, that wiring, that thing, whatever the fuck it is, that draws us inexorably to spanking.

(Side note: Funny how even within that commonality, we differ. She can’t stand the word “spanko,” while I think it’s a perfect term and use it often. But out of respect for her, I will refrain from using it for the remainder of this post. 🙂 )

When I read of Jillian’s childhood and adolescence, and all the feelings and desires around spanking that caused her shame and a sense of otherness, I realized I’d been wrong about one of my long-time assumptions. I know everyone is different, of course — but in general, I thought those in the Millennial generation had an easier time of exploring and reconciling with their kinks, because they always had the Internet — and its wealth of information and connections — at their fingertips. How could anyone feel alone when they had that? But I was mistaken. Apparently, Jillian went through as much angst and self-loathing as I did. Fortunately for all of us, she did manage to embrace her spanking fetish much earlier than I did.

When she spoke of her first spanking, I remembered mine. When she talked of how it’s so much more than just a hand striking a bottom — it’s about headspace, it’s about scolding or certain verbiage that accompanies it, etc. — I nodded, and frequently said “Yes” out loud. At her insistence that this is not something that we choose, but it chooses us, I did a fist-pump.

I have referred to Jillian Keenan as brave before, and I continue to do so. Yes, a lot of us write and blog and talk about our kinks and how they impact our lives. But Jillian does so, openly and honestly, while revealing her full, real name to the masses… including the haters out there. While others battle to keep from being outed, she outed herself, and risked everything. That, to me, is fucking brave. That is conviction. I certainly couldn’t do it, as proud as I am of my place in the kink world.

For years, I have tried to explain why I think spanking and BDSM are different. Yes, the former is a subculture of the latter. But they have a fully different look, feel, language, clothing, etiquette, and so on. I said that I was OK with visiting a dungeon, but going to a spanking party felt like coming home. For this, I have been accused of being elitist, exclusive, of perpetrating the “us vs. them myth.” On FetLife, when I stated that I considered myself more of a “spanking purist,” one dreadful woman went so far as to say that anyone who uses the term “purist” is probably also an advocate of “ethnic cleansing.” Right — so preferring spanking over whips and chains makes me akin to Hitler?? Fuck her! But then Jillian came along with her book, and on page 141 (hardcover version), she explained the difference in two sentences. Perfectly.

I spent enough time at a dungeon in San Francisco to realize that although BDSM is a broad term that includes spanking obsessives, like me, we also belong to different subcultures, with different aesthetic styles and mind-sets. I fit in at that dungeon only as well as a gay man might at a lesbian bar: we could relate, but it wasn’t my place.

How. Freaking. Brilliant. Is. This? She nailed it. If people still don’t get it after reading this encapsulation, then they never will.

It was just one of many “aha” moments I had, reading this book. When she claimed that spanking yourself is like trying to tickle yourself, it just doesn’t work, I laughed in commiseration. At her confession that she had a fondness for Star Wars-themed spanking fanfiction, I thought, well, is that any different than my writing Dark Shadows-themed spanking fanfic, with Quentin Collins spanking me? Oh, and how many times have I lamented that I can’t stand having my nipples touched, that it seems all the sexual wiring that was intended for my breasts went to my butt instead? So you can imagine how I crowed when Jillian referred to her own backside as a giant clitoris hitched to the back of her pelvis.

Even when the topic made me uncomfortable, I appreciate how it made me think. Jillian posits that children, even at a very young age, have emerging sexual identities. I agree with this, especially when it comes to the vague notions of kink. How else can we explain our fascinations with spanking as children? How so many of us played spanking games, looked up “spanking” and all its synonyms in the dictionary? Jillian goes on to opine that if a child has an emerging spanking fetish, and early sexual feelings around it, then spanking said child is sexual assault.

She’s taken a lot of heat for this statement — again, the bravery thing. Granted, I have always been uncomfortable with the idea of spanking kids. But I figured it was simply because it’s a crappy thing to do to a helpless little person and it sends the wrong message (“I’m bigger than you, so I get to hit you, but you can’t do that to anyone else.” “I have control over you, and I can hurt you if I choose to.”) Granted, that last quote is fine if it’s between consenting adults — but children cannot consent. Still… sexual assault? Then I thought back to my own childhood.

My mother hit me a lot. She was impulsive and temperamental and would usually slap whatever she could reach at the time — my face, my arms, my legs. My primary reaction to that was helpless rage; I so wanted to slap her back. However, my memory of a single OTK spanking from my father is altogether different. It was so long ago, but I’ll never forget how I felt. Humiliated. Betrayed. Ashamed. I ran outside, wept into my dog’s fur, and wished I could simply disappear into thin air. I never wanted to face anyone again. Why such an extreme reaction? And even now, thinking about it makes my flesh crawl. Could it be because my little self was already feelings those tendrils of fetishism, and the confusion was unbearable?

You may agree with Jillian. You may not. But I believe she knows what she’s talking about, and her views are worthy of respect. Only one of us can truly say how wretched childhood spanking can be, I think. Because for us, it’s so much more than the temporary pain.

I really am rambling here, so I will stop now. In short: If you happen to be both a Shakespeare aficionado and a spanking fetishist, Jillian’s book will be an extra special treat for you. But you don’t need to be both in order to get plenty out of it. Because there is much to be learned on both subjects. And if you are just becoming aware of your own inner spanking enthusiast and are looking for someone to learn from and relate to, here she is.

Thank you, Jillian. ♥

OT: Yup, it’s time again for disgusting food!

OK, I gave you guys a nice long break from my food rants. My last one was a year ago, about disgusting sandwiches. This week, I became aware of a brand-new gastric monstrosity from Burger King that couldn’t be ignored. So, I present to you, their newest side:

Mac ‘n Cheetos.

Because what’s better than macaroni and cheese? Deep-fried portable macaroni and cheese, of course. They’re kinda like mozzarella sticks, but there’s macaroni, too. And they’re encased in a crunchy Cheeto-inspired shell, complete with greasy orange dust that gets all over everything.

Oh, for fuck’s sake, people. I get the allure of mac and cheese, truly I do. Guess who used to eat good old Day-Glo Orange Kraft Macaroni and Cheese by the potful? Yup, yours truly, back in my chubbier days. I am not a fan of cheese, but if it’s mild and melted, and combined with something starchy like bread or pasta, I enjoy it. But I definitely don’t like the Redneck County Fair mode of deep-frying everything. Mind you, a crunchy crust on a mac ‘n cheese casserole can be delicious. But not one made of Cheetos.

Apparently, this is the latest entry in the “fast-food mash-up” trend, along with Taco Bell’s Taco Waffle (a waffle folded into a taco and filled with spicy sausage and eggs, hence mashing up breakfast with Mexican food). I do not trust this term “mash-up,” any more than I trust the latest foodie term, “fusion.” To me, they both mean the same thing: “We’re just throwing a bunch of shit together to see what might work. We have no idea what we’re doing.”

Granted, the serving size of this orange menace isn’t going to kill you: there are just five sticks in a box, costing $2.49. Oh, and if they’re not gross enough, they come with a side of ranch dressing. Ranch?? What the hell for? Who decided on that pairing? Do you pour ranch dressing on your mac ‘n cheese? Of course not! Who made the rule that every goddamn thing in fast food has to have a dipping sauce? There’s melted cheese inside! Isn’t that enough goo for you? (And no, that is not a typo for “good.” I meant “goo.”)

Speaking of nausea (how’s that for a segue), I had to laugh at the Trump insults on Twitter today. I don’t care to repeat most of them, but when I saw that one guy had called Trump “Cheeto-face,” I laughed out loud.

Hey! Maybe Mac ‘n Cheetos should be Trump’s new favorite snack. When he gets that orange crap all over his face, it won’t show.

And on that note… have a great weekend, y’all. 😉

 

Girls’ Night IN

Last night, Alex, SpankCake and I convened at SC’s house for dinner and catching up. It had been way too long! We ordered in from GrubHub, sat around in very comfy A/C and talked the hours away. What else do girls do when they have a night in? Do shots and have a pillow fight? Paint our toenails and do our hair? Please! That’s amateur stuff. We watched spanking porn. 😀

SC has a reallllllly big screen, as you can see. Neither she nor Alex had ever seen “When Danny Met Erica,” so we watched. I must confess, it was more than a little squirmy, watching my own private bits flashing and gaping on such a huge screen. Still, it was fun to share my favorite video with them. They both pronounced it “hot.” Damn, I miss you, Danny Chrighton.

We also watched the finished result of the custom film that Alex and several of us shot for her client back in February. I think it’s safe to say I’m never going to wear a pillbox hat or gloves for the rest of my natural life. But we all gave it our best and it had been so much fun. Props to everyone involved. And no, sorry, this will not go public!

And this lovely evening was on top of a visit from Steve earlier in the day. It was kind of a thrash-and-dash, as he had a doctor’s appointment and a lot of other things to do in preparation for a four-day hiking trip he’s taking. Blech! Better him than me! But it was still enough time to lay on some sting and leave me pleasantly glowing for the rest of my workday until I met up with my pals.

Today it is going to be 90 degrees. Sounds hot, but after Monday’s 112, I will take it. My A/C could not keep up with 112, but it can manage 90s. I may even brave the gym.

Oh, and happy #NoPantyDay! That’s a thing, in case you didn’t know… June 22.

Look up in the sky!

It’s the Summer Solstice! If you go outside, you can see the rare Strawberry Moon!

Or, you can just look in my living room.

 

Yeah, it’s cheesy. I suck at photo effects. But it’s the first thing I thought of when I heard the term “strawberry moon.” I’m sure I’m not the only spanko who did.

In other news… today, my chiropractor was saying how well trained his dog is, how she never has an accident in the house, no matter what. He doesn’t have a doggie door, and he comes home periodically during the workday to relieve her; she always waits. I was properly impressed, and he said, “Yeah, that’s what beating with a belt will do.” I calmly replied, “You don’t do that,” and he said, “Of course I don’t.” I then added, “Belts are for consenting adults, not dogs.”

He laughed. I wish I could have seen his face, but I was face down at the time.

Yes, I’m going to hell. Wait, scratch that. It was 112 #$%&ing degrees today. I am in hell.

Steve tomorrow. Not a moment too soon, I’d say.

Finally, someone got it right

Ever read “Buzzfeed”? It’s best known for its lists, often things that are a bit inane. “25 uses for navel lint.” “15 ways you can tell whether your cat is a Republican or a Democrat.” “21 insanely useful skills an introvert has mastered.” (OK, that last one is real.) But this week, writer Casey Gueren posted a thoughtful, obviously well researched piece called “25 Facts About BDSM That You Won’t Learn in ‘Fifty Shades of Grey.'”

The title alone piqued my interest, so I went to take a look. (I found the link on Facebook, of all places.) What I ended up reading impressed me greatly. I don’t know if Casey Gueren is a fellow kinkster, but even if she isn’t, she did her homework and research way better than E.L Jackass did. Concise and well written, her piece hits the main points of the lifestyle, dispels the myths, and removes all the salacious BS.

I especially like #6.

6. Fifty Shades of Grey is considered very cringeworthy in the BDSM community.

If you ever find yourself at a BDSM meet-up or dungeon, don’t mention any shade of grey. While some people appreciate that the books spurred more interest in kink and may have made it less stigmatized, others take issue with the abusive, unhealthy relationship it portrays and the seriously unrealistic scenes. All in all, it is not an accurate representation of the BDSM community.

“Not an accurate representation.” Very tactful way of saying it’s a complete POS. 🙂

Obviously, there’s a lot more to know than what’s in this simple primer. But it’s a great start. And with so very many crappy misconceptions and poor writings out there on this vastly complex subject, it’s refreshing to find one that got it right. Brava, Casey Gueren.

In other news, I had a really weird dream last night, in which I was self-spanking and I broke several of my toys, including the oh-so-vile Strictly Lickin’ Stick. As if that thing could ever break! You’d have to throw it off the Empire State Building, and even then, it would probably just crack the sidewalk. Clearly, I am in need. There needs to be spanking in my future. Hopefully next week. And if not, then there is a small private party upcoming in July. Erica needs her itch scratched.

And finally, in an OT tidbit under the “It’s a Small World” heading, this week, I saw a meme on Facebook. It was an old black-and-white photo of a well-dressed, very attractive couple dancing. The caption was something along the lines of how taking a step backward after a step forward is a disaster to some and a cha-cha to others. The saying was cool, but that’s not what caught my attention. The woman in the picture was especially beautiful, exotic. And familiar.

It was my stepmother. (The nice one, the actress/dancer one. Not the Evil Bitch From Hell one.) 🙂 Like I said, small world.

Have a great weekend, y’all. And to all the fathers out there, or those who have one, Happy Father’s Day.

OT: May I vent, just a little?

Don’t worry. I’m not going to talk about politics, or about terrorism, or about guns. Although the circumstances of late have got me on edge and are making my tolerance a lot lower for life’s little aggravations. So if y’all don’t mind, I need to blow off a little steam here, over my First World Problems.

My mother passed away in 2012, and my stepfather in 2014. Here it is the middle of 2016, and would you believe all the details of their trust still aren’t fully resolved?? I won’t bore you with who’s who and what’s what, but let’s just say certain people haven’t been cooperating. Not responding to requests, not communicating, not providing what’s needed. And so, things drag on and on and on. Why do people have to be so damn difficult? I have my crazy stepsister’s all-caps emails and one of her drunken rants saved on my voice mail. What a piece of work. She got more money than anyone else in the will, and she’s still complaining. In her last message, she slurred, “I wish Dad were here so I could shake some sense into him.” Really? THAT’S why you want your dad here? Ick. I wish she didn’t have my address and phone number. Thank goodness for caller ID.

Also, remember at the end of last year when I had a root canal and a crown restoration? Guess how much of that my dental insurance covered? Zero. WTF is the point of having dental insurance if they don’t pay for anything? Oh yeah, they cover cleanings and x-rays. Big whoop. But as soon as you need anything besides that, they deny you. I spent a fair amount of time online researching the racket that is dental insurance, and discovered that unless I pay a fortune, I’m not getting any decent coverage. If your dental insurance is covered by your office group plan, give thanks. Because an individual paying for their own plan is screwed. Soooooo… I am now trying something different: A dental discount plan. You pay a small annual fee, and then all your dental procedures are discounted. Not free, mind you. They’re still expensive. Just not as expensive. For example, the root canal that cost me $1300 would have cost $700. I spent about forty-five minutes on the phone with an agent today who explained it all to me. The good news? No waiting period. I’m on the plan immediately. More good news? My dentist and endodontist accept the plan. So now, if my teeth continue to fall apart, at least I won’t go broke as quickly. The plan is Aetna, so at least it’s not some Joe Blow dental plan that will get bought out before I get to use it.

But what a headache. This, on top of paying over $800 a month for medical insurance. This is the downside of self-employment. Still… I wouldn’t have it any other way. Everything comes with a price.

And finally — those of you who have been with me for a while, or who read my book, know that I had the Stepmother From Hell, my father’s third wife. When he finally wised up and unloaded her, he stayed close with her son, B, who is about eight years younger than I am. When Dad passed away, B came to help me with packing up his place, and he came to Dad’s memorial. He was a decent kid, nothing like his mother. After that, we kind of fell out of touch. I knew he had married and had a couple of kids (I got the Christmas cards and the erstwhile email), but we didn’t communicate otherwise. This week, clear out of the blue, I got email from him. Said he’s been through some “crazy life changes” and would love to get together to catch up. Coffee? Sure, I said. We agreed for this Thursday. This morning, he wrote again, asking if we could do lunch instead. Said he had to do something for his son later that afternoon, and that “wouldn’t leave sufficient time for his long-lost sister.”

I know he meant that in the nicest possible way. I know I should be flattered that he thinks of me that way. But I couldn’t help it; I felt creeped out. “I’m not your sister,” I thought. “I had a brother. You aren’t him. And I don’t share any of that bat-shit crazy woman’s blood with you.” Am I horrible? I don’t mean to be this way, but you have to understand — his mother made my life hell for years. I know it’s not his fault, but seeing him, hearing from him, reminds me of her and I feel almost sort of a PTSD. I mean, to this day I still can’t stand to hear the c-word, because she called me that all the time.

And what does he want, anyway, after all these years? What are these crazy life changes? Divorce? Am I a terrible person for wondering if he needs money for some reason? Ugh. Between John’s family and mine, I’ve known way too many truly crappy people. I am suspicious, and I don’t like being that way.

So yeah. I’m meeting B for lunch on Thursday. I am curious. And my dad was very fond of him. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to meet up and hear him out. I’ll just have to brace myself to hear about his mother. Maybe the witch is dead. Ding dong! Oh, please. Trust me, B has no illusions about Mommie Dearest. Years ago, when his first child was born, he said something along the lines of “I don’t want her [his mother] to come anywhere near him.” I think she’d be somewhere in her late seventies now.

Oy. I need to get my spank on. Soon. And I am way overdue for a Girls’ Night Out. I am hoping that both will happen next week. Meanwhile, this week I will stay busy with work and do my best to maintain some semblance of sanity in a world of chaos.

If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…