ShyCindy's World

happily compulsive part three

2006-09-06T16:11:00.000-05:00

I don’t actually remember when I started fondling myself…I think I’ve been playing with my little cunny since I was a toddler. I can remember being little, maybe no more than five, laying on the floor in front of the television, my hand underneath me. Because this all exists before the corruption of language, it’s hard to sort the series of small pleasures littered through my early years. They’re like these untitled snaps shots I found in the back of a drawer: sitting on the dish washer, feeling its’ heat and vibration against the backs of my legs; bouncing up and down so that I keep breaking the water during bathtime, the water ‘patting’ me everytime I sat back down; the punishing bump of steering my bike off a curb; and yes, I’ve never admitted this before, but I used to give myself wedgies (wedgies, btw, are when the underpants are pulled up high, burrowing between the cheeks and against the cleft…aka snuglies, undie-grundies). I remember my mother noticing that my underwear was always so uncomfortably hiked high (the waistband two solid inches above my pants), and assuming it was the result of a growth spurt, took me out and bought me some larger pairs. This increased size only made it more pleasurable, because it was extra fabric bunched up between my legs. I think I remember my mother spotting the now three inches of panties climbing up my torso, but tactfully let the matter drop.
Which is a weird point I should probably include here; my mother, as strict and absolutist as she was, never interfered with any of us playing with ourselves. As far back as I can remember, my sister always went to sleep with her night gown hiked up her thighs, a pillow wedged between her legs. When my mom would come in at bedtime, she was confronted by the sight of her oldest child all but grinding against a pillow (which she did, fyi, often after the light was out). My mother didn’t interrupt, paddle or forbid this activity. While it was never spoken of, my mother obviously knew what we were doing. The closest she ever came, was while complaining about all the time I spent in the bathroom at night, suggested, “it would free up the bathroom for others if you took care of some things in your bedroom”. I blushed then, and blush now, realizing she washed the towels and emptied the waste basket, and was probably well-aquatinted with my private activities.
Ah, the bathroom. Until my sister left for college, this was the main theatre of my self-discovery. Not that I didn’t masturbate in my bedroom, but only when I was alone after school, or reassured by the steady snoring from my sister’s bed. Sharing a room had its’ draw-backs, and certainly when it comes to this activity. I know I heard her more than once, making small, whimpering animal noises from the next bed, and lay there in desperate hope that it was only a nightmare. It was having her sleep so close that forced me to improvise, learn to masturbate on my tummy, so I could hide any escaping sounds in the pillow. At least once, however, I must have been enjoying it more than I realized, because suddenly a pillow flew struck me against the back of the head, and she barked, “go to sleep!” (No, pervs, it wasn’t the pillow from between her legs…don’t be gross) Immediately, we heard my mother pound the wall above her bed, her first of usually two warnings that we need to stop talking and go to sleep. For the rest of the night, we both lay immobilized in our respective beds, both terrified of even making the springs squeak by rolling over. There was always that possibility that the second warning (her yelling from her room, go to bed, now) would be skipped over and the night would end badly for the both of us.
So back to the bathroom; it was here that I had the privacy and security to really discover my new body’s potential as puberty hit. The same year I got my first period (sixth grade), they showed us a movie, then explained to us how dirty, messy and smelly our bodies now were. For most of the girls in my class, this point was moot, since those that hadn’t hit puberty the year before, hit it the year before that (remember, I went to school with a lot of ‘hefty’ kids, who broke a hundred pounds before they hit ten). While a lot of the girls in my class took this entry into woman as license to start clogging their pours with cheap make up and disguise their b.o. with great quantities of drug store perfume, I went the opposite root, obsessing about my smell and the threat of oily or pimpled skin. Being the smallest -and flattest- girl in my class (I would have still been if I had gone back and joined the fifth graders), I was not about to suffer all the grossness of puberty without any of the benefits. So, with a level of commitment boarding on OCD, I set a regime of taking a daily bath, followed by a quick shower (to wash any soap off). Each evening, I settled into the tub, often with a book, letting all the stickiness of hormonal change wash off me. I ignored all the complaining of my family about my hogging of the largest bathroom, and even was willing to suffer their barging in to use the toilet…although I was deeply traumatized when my brother came in and voided his bowels, oblivious to my protesting from behind the curtain. I tied to plug up my ears, but after the bodily noises, I heard the rolling sound of the toilet paper being pulled, the toilet being flushed, and him closing the door. I sat there for a minute before I realized; he didn’t wash his hands! This supremely gross discovery about male bathroom habits was the first in a long line of events that will lead to my eventual full-blown lesbianism.
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It was in that bathroom, in that tub, that I first discovered orgasm. I would soak for hours, pulling up the drain button with my toe, then turning on the faucet to refill with hot water (this waste of water was never noted by my mother…looking back, the planet-sensitive adult me actually thinks this dreadful waste might have been a just reason to get my ass beat- but you never get punished for the crimes you deserve to be punished for). On my back, encased in the warm womb of soapy water, my hand idly wandering over my lap, testing the crevice where my legs meet, the lubrication of water invited me to explore what existed beyond that tiny slit. I knew that cupping my hand over it, applying pressure felt good, but it was there that I found out that for certain hidden parts, it felt a hell of a lot better than just ‘good’. I revisited this area more and more as I bathed, not sure what to do about my new discovery. Least you think I was a total idiot, fumbling around in the dark, I did have a pretty good general understanding of how sex worked-he puts his wee wee in your pee pee, that sort of thing. And I knew roughly that it was supposed to feel good, but couldn’t understand how. And I certainly was aware that ‘beating off’ existed; ten minutes standing on the periphery of a recess play ground, listening to boys show off their newly discovered (but barely understood) vocabulary, would shatter the ignorance of even the most sheltered wall flower. That swirl of latent homosexuality that is male adolescence- simultaneously accusing each other of being ‘homos’, ‘taking it up the butt’, ‘small dicked’ and ‘always beating it’, gave me both a basic understanding of human sexuality, and a life-long suspicion that all men really want to just fuck each other, but make do with us.
I didn’t have a manual on how to enjoy my clitoris, nor did I begin to share this with friends, but some how I just knew…like my finger had some secret knowledge I was unaware of. Before long, the brief visits became focused manipulation, and I wrought my first orgasm from my body. I can’t honestly say I remember the details of the masturbation itself, but I can remember after, panting, my bangs soaked with sweat, staring at my feet resting on the edge of the tub. I knew at that moment that I had passed some line, turned some corner. And while I didn’t even know how what to call it (all the playground terminology seemed more suited to male activity), I knew my life had forever changed.
To be continued….

happily compulsive part two

2006-09-06T14:31:00.000-05:00

Where was I? Oh, yeah…compulsive masturbation. So when does it become compulsive, where is the line between “normal” and “abnormal”? Psychology is completely useless: the distinctions between healthy and unhealthy is arbitrary and contradictory, reflecting more on the individual doctor’s morality than on the patient’s wellness. Worse, psychology studies on sexuality still seem to too often use men as the template by which we’re all measured. I read in one recent publication that daily masturbation after adolescence is unhealthy, the masturbator will most likely be unable to perform in relationship coupling. Aside from the question of whether that’s such a big loss anyway, it’s obviously male sexuality being addressed; men do have various limitations with ‘reloading time’, but frankly, the more I masturbate, the more sexually hungry I become. It’s after long periods of neither self-gratification nor partnered activity that my libido crashes.
I did used to worry that too much masturbation would ruin sex for me. A few years back I had a girlfriend I used to play around with (let’s call her Sleepy). She was kind of from a nutty, controlling background, and was not only a virgin, but hadn’t had anyone ever touch her on any of the areas covered by bra or panties (was holding at first base, for any teenagers out there). We’d talk a lot, and make out, and finally I got her naked and under my touch. The problem was, she only, only wanted me to touch her like she touched herself…and ‘like’ isn’t even the right word; try ‘exactly’. As much as I tried to steer her into a realm of pleasures beyond rhythmically rubbing my finger up and down, up and down, she wouldn’t budge. She actually kept a kind of tight grip on my wrist, so that I could not explore more than the tiny strip I was being offered. Not only did I never get any further down than her clitoris, I never even saw her breasts, since she refused to remove her bra or allow any fondling. She may have been some freakish hermaphrodite for all I know, since I was left nearly in the dark about her body’s characteristics. After I would bring her to orgasm, she’d curl up against me and go to sleep, ignorant of any etiquette regarding reciprocity. Being the world’s biggest guilt whore, I continued allowing Sleepy to come over once and a while, but I finally got sick of being her hands free vibrator, and started to dodge her (increasingly desperate) phone calls. When I die and go to hell, I’ll probably have to answer for not more willingly suffering the labor of introducing her to partnered sex, not being more sensitive to what ever the hell her malfunction is, but rotating my middle finger in slow circles against someone else’s button can only hold my interest for so long.
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So yes, despite my better-developed sense of tact, I, like Sleepy, have masturbation as the central part of my sexuality. There are times I’m making love and just lying there watching the clock. After a while, I start to get so loud and eager, pleading for more, digging my fingers into his back, as if I can’t bear the thought of his withdrawal. Panting in his ear, “fuck me hard”, I clench my body like each of his trusts is driving deep to my very soul, like I’m losing my mind from the intense, unearthly pleasure his dangerous weapon is causing. Interestingly, I’ve found the more you beg him not to cum, not to stop, the quicker he does. A few minutes of these theatrics (a few minutes on the outside), and he usually collapses in messy delirium, his job well done, his manhood proven. After the appropriate interval of affection, I politely excuse myself, to retreat to the bathroom to wipe any of his spent goo from my inner thighs. There are times I’ve laid under a man, bored and afraid my bladder might so suffer his weight that I wet the bed (a recurring fear of mine), that I could erase from my life and lose nothing. There are even times, yes, when a girlfriend, drawn to my bisexuality, will confess a curiosity, and before long (but after a few drinks) I’ll end up staring at the ceiling, cursing the originator of the myth that all women know instinctively how to perform cunnilingus. But with masturbation, there is no unpleasant memory, no idle afternoon of fondling myself, that I would willingly lose.
To be continued…

happily compulsive part one

2006-09-06T00:26:00.000-05:00

I had a guy tell me once I had the “lonely, distant look of a compulsive masturbator”. When I asked him to elaborate, he went off on this whole complex theory on how to identify the female masturbator through her body language and how my eyes had a cast down quality not of a modest virgin, but of someone enjoying their secret. We were sitting facing each other in the middle of a crowded party, but all the noise and music and loud voices became suddenly absent in my ears, and I was only paying attention to him. I was twenty at the time, and I’d never even spoken of masturbation with a man, let alone its frequency or quality. I stared at him for a long moment, then down into my cup; “you’re flirting with me”, I said, more playful than accusing. “No, no, I’m not”, he reassured. “I could never complete…I only want to know if I’m right”. I stared into the foamy piss inside my plastic cup, then nodded my head; “you’re right”, I told him, bot embarrassed and relieved to hear myself acknowledge the truth. He slightly grinned (but not too much), nodded in agreement, then we chatted about a few other minor things before we drifted apart.
A few weeks later, I started to notice this same strange quality about a (platonic) friend of mine. She had a way of looking deeply into you, but with her head bowed, as though looking up from something occupying her. This so fit what my (gentle) accuser had described as symptomatic, the I just went ahead a blurted out, “you’ve got the eyes of a compulsive masturabtor”, regardless of what shock or offense it might cause. Instead of taking offense, however, my friend excitedly replied, “oh my god, I am. My parents took me to a therapist for it when I was in high school”. My friend then took me through the long oddessy of her masturbation addiction, how it had gotten so out of control, so central in her life, that she finally broke down and told her parents, who shuttled her from counselor to counselor in vein hope of curbing her habit. As an adult, she had reconciled herself to this need, learning to at least control it enough to keep it a pleasure she only enjoyed at home. Before that, her compulsion had driven her to the dangerous position of touching herself in public bathrooms, movie theatres and even in school. Although it had never resulted in an orgasm for me, I instantly understood when she started talking about rubbing her legs together in class. If you’re wearing jeans, try sliding forward a little on your seat; the seam will press against you, with just enough pressure. Then slowly open and close your legs…the movement will slightly pull the fabric of your jeans, causing the seam to work against you. The dead hour of a study hall or dull class will pass quickly, and anyone watching will simply think you’re bouncing your legs in boredom. Again, unlike my friend, I never succeeded in climaxing from this, and would have been too afraid to if I could, but it certainly readied me for when I’d get back home.
to be continued...

sleeping in my old room...

2006-09-05T17:24:00.000-05:00

Weirdly, even though two of her three children have moved away, and she’s remarried and has a better job than when I was growing up, my mom still lives in the same house she’s had since before I was born. This was the same house she bought with her first husband (my father), and still lives there with my step-father and my (twenty four year old) brother, whose journey beyond the nest reached only so far as to set up in the basement with bed and bong. To make this tableau of high-class living complete, my divorced step-sister and her three year old son seem to sort of be living there, in semi-permanent residence in the room my brother vacated when he relocated two floors bellow. I want to ask my mother what it’s like, having more people living there then there was twenty years ago, but I can’t imagine she’d take too kindly to my curiosity. Doesn’t it seem a little disturbing to her that her youngest child is nearly a quarter of a century old, and shows no appearance of moving out, and is instead completely happy in the basement, smoking dope with his equally goal-free friends? Is the appearance of her step-daughter and child unnerving, another two mouths to feed? My mother’s in her fifties; does she worry that this grind will never end?

The most upsetting part of going home is returning to my old room, not just because of all experiences and complex feelings I have from my childhood, but because it’s still set up like it’s my room. With the exception of some boxes in the closet, and a StairMaster that seems to have been cast into exile only moments after its arrival, the room is exactly, exactly how it was when I left for college eight years ago. The narcissist in me wants to believe the room is kept like it is as some sort of shrine to me-that various family members retire to it to meditate on how lucky they are to know me, to have been warmed by my magnificent glow. But the reality is, the reason it’s kept like it is is in preparation for the failure of my ‘adulthood experiment’, and the eventual return home they all expect. Otherwise, why is my sister’s stuff all long gone? She’s married with two children, owning a house a living an ‘adult’ life, albeit fifteen minutes away from the house she grew up in. There’s an assumption that all my college and graduate school, jobs and relationships, are only a childish experiment-that my life in the big city is no more permanent than when I was a little girl announcing that I was running away from home, only to sit in the tool shed out back for a couple of hours, until hunger and boredom drove me back into the house, towards the warm meal and possible paddling waiting within.
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It’s unnerving sleeping in my old room, my old bed…even my old sheets. For all the dark and fucked up things that might have happened, this is also my old room, the room I grew up in-for better or worse. In was in this room that I discovered the world of books, the magic of play, and the unspoken intimacy of sleep-overs and best friends. It was also in this room that I discovered my body-not only is functionality, its’ potential for pain and its’ limitations, but also its’ possibilities, its’ promise. The back of the closet door is a full length mirror, that captured over the years my development; through-out my adolescence that mirror was cast as the sole witness to my hips’ widening, my thighs’ filling, my busts’ (modest) growth. It was in that mirror that I stood, pants and undies lowered, checking for hair growth, signs of puberty. It was in that same mirror that I discovered, laying half nude on the floor before it, that even my mound was ‘blossoming’ from the tight cleft of childhood, and since I had not been pre-warned of this anatomical change, suffered a panic that I had so over-abused myself that I had permanently disfigured my privates, and that others would be able to instantly recognize the swelling labia and exposed interior as the mark of a chronic masturbator. (I abstained for almost a week, feeling so ashamed at the mutilation my self-pleasure had wrought, but ended up returning to the practice anyway…finally valuing my enjoyment over my ‘mutilated’ appearance.)
If I could, I unscrew this mirror and bring it back with me. This mirror is my first lover, and in a lot of ways, my best lover. There was never anything judgmental, nothing demanding in its’ participation. No matter how depraved, how abandoned I became in my play, my mirror was content in its echoing of my actions, meeting touch with touch, open mouth with open mouth. My mirror contains within it my most humiliating pains and most secret pleasures…a cold, smooth partner always waiting to capture my next experience.
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Saturday night, already bored and counting the hours until I could leave, l laid back on my bed, watching myself in the mirror. I tried to find again the simple bliss I used to find in my room, the lost world of fantasy I would enter lying in my bed at night. But as much as I tried to recapture that innocent pleasure, I couldn’t grip my hands around it. I posed and reposed, in various stages of undress and exposure, but my mound stayed stubbornly dry and numb. Finally I resigned myself to my utter lack of arousal, pulled my sweat shorts up, and went down to my brother’s dank lair, drinking a couple of beers and falling asleep watching him play with his X-Box.

i bring the weirdness home

2006-09-05T15:57:00.000-05:00

So I spent several days back home, visiting the mother. I do this every time I go back, where I expect it to be some super-dramatic resurfacing of all these fucked-up things from my childhood, and then it always turns out to be just a three day exercise in supreme boredom and subtle insults. It wasn’t until this weekend, staring at all the family pictures in the hallway, that I realized that I’m the first woman in my family to see twenty-six without at least one kid and one marriage under her belt. There’s always been this attitude from my mother that life isn’t about doing what you want to do, but that life is nothing but doing what you have to do. I guess because I’m willing to interrupt a moment of passion to demand some birth control, and because I didn’t instantly agree the first time some moron purposed, I’m just not in a situation where that kind of thinking makes sense.
As everyone made perfectly clear to me over the course of three days, I’m apparently ‘weird’. And what earns me this title? Here’s a brief list of some, of the many ways in which I’ve earned this label:

1)I do not need either mayonnaise or catsup to make a meal complete. When asked to set a table, I do not even think of putting these two condiments out, despite their obvious integral role in making food edible.

2)In the same vein, I have eaten salads that do not use either of these two items as a main ingredient. I have been known to actually enjoy a bowl of greens, with out having to drown it with a pink or red goo. I also do not consider the white goo of ranch dressing to be the limits of exotica.

3)I have not been to Disney World as a childless adult, nor do I intend to do so. I do not own one article of clothing bearing the image of any Disney character, either. There is something deeply surreal about being told I still dress like a teenager by my sister, who seems to only wear Disney sweat shirt and turtle-neck combinations when she’s away from work.

4) I woefully lack knowledge of reality tv shows…Okay, I did get kind of drawn into America’s Next Top Model, and liked some of the stranger stuff on America’s Got Talent, but there are like 500 of these damn shows…how is it that everyone knows everything about these shows, but me? I’m sitting there, and everyone is debating the merits of this or that contestant, and I feel like a total foreigner. The best is when my step-father, trying to pull me into the conversation, asks me; “you work in a record store…you must love American Idol, huh?” I don’t even know how to begin answering this question, when my sister chimes in, “oh, she only likes music if no one’s ever heard of it”.

5) I didn’t just bring a book, I brought two of them! Since I rightly assumed everyone would go home or go to bed by nine PM, and I’d be looking at minimum three hours a night alone, I brought a second book to start reading when the first was finished. Weirder still, neither of these books has yet been turned into a movie, nor were either by authors of universal recognition (i.e. Rice, Grisham, Stine, Steele…or any Hollywood celebrity).

6) I’m not overly panicky about political hot button issues. Look, I’m not some vacuous child living oblivious to the events in the world- I try to stay reasonably informed, and even have opinions on at least some of the issues facing the world today. But at that same time, I think a lot of this stuff is kind of bullshit, that’s made into a big thing to distract people from other things that might be going on. In this, I mean specifically immigration; I can’t help but think the timing of all this, as we slide deeper and deeper into this war in Iraq, and at the same time New Orleans hovers over the mid-term elections, seems just a little too convenient in working middle-class white people into a distracted terror. What’s more, since all my family lives so far away from the city, they have to rely on their local news for information about what’s actually happening. As much as I tried to explain it to them, they don’t seem to believe me that the protests were peaceful and harmless, that no, they were not dragging citizens out of their cars and beating them in the streets, and that the issue is mute in my neighborhood anyway, because the latinos I live amongst are not Mexican, but from Puerto Rico, a United States territory. I can’t help but find something telling in that they all live in a town that’s super white, yet are terrified of this massive brown invasion they imagine just beyond the horizon. My sister is a real-estate agent in an all white, right-wing christian community-I’m pretty sure her job is safe.

So yes, I’m weird: my friends are weird, my clothes are weird, my music is weird, my job is weird, my politics are weird, my boyfriend is weird, my hobbies are weird, my tastes are weird, my diet is weird, my field of study is weird…even my fucking luggage is weird. Then I got back to the city, to five hundred thousand art school drop outs constructing paper-mache’ homoerotic sculptures fast-food mascots in bondage gear, and suddenly I’m back to the safety of being kinda dull…

am i THAT bad a person?

2006-09-01T23:40:00.000-05:00

I’ve written several posts about people I’ve met on-line, who offered histories that struck me as highly suspect. There’ve been others as well, from the woman who claimed to frequently -and currently- whip her daughter (followed, of course, by an offer to do the same service for me), to another who was forced to wear diapers into her late teens, to an endless parade of chiseled hard body Doms, all of whom sport nine inch penises and an expertise with a cane. It’s hard when dealing with people on line to tell the truth from the fantasy, the fantasy from the outright lies.

As I’ve feared would happen ever since I began writing about my chat experiences, someone I wrote about sent me an e-mail, denying my allegations of having been lied to. Of all the people I’ve written about this is the one I felt the most torn about, hearing a possibility of truth to their story, or at least the certainty of some truth being woven in amongst fantasy. Obviously, if what they told me was even partly true, then not only do I offer my complete apology, but I fully understand if you think I’m a cruel, shallow bitch who only deserves your hatred.

I am certainly aware of just how miserable, just how painful childhood can be. I’m also aware that there are considerable differences in child-rearing attitudes based on class, culture, race and religion. Even within the fairly monochromatic community in which I was raised, there were kids who got it far worse than I ever did. One of my oldest, best friends far too often, wore long sleeves, hiding the (never spoken of) hand-print shaped bruises on her upper arms. Once, she even had one of those same tale-telling bruises across her throat, a purplish hand print from what I can only painfully imagine. There were other kids, girls and boys, that in hindsight, not only do I think were violently abused, but strongly suspect some of them also being the victims of sexual abuse.

At the same time, I also understand what it is to enter a world where this all seems foreign and strange to others. When I got to college, I encountered an entirely different universe from the one I’d known, one that quickly made it plain viewed my up-bringing with a mixture of horror and bemusement. For the (mostly rich) kids I was suddenly amongst, spanking was something other-worldly, something somehow southern in its application- this was a world where the gravest punishment offered was a cancelled ski trip, and the spanked child was an image limited to the 19th century, and back-water rural societies. In their suburban world of sitcom domesticity, I must have appeared to them like some tragic waif transported from a Dickens orphanage.

There are people whose childhoods are seemingly beyond imagination in scope…and credulousness. There are parents who think corporal punishment is the correct response to discovering their child in the act of fondling itself. There are parents out there who think the solution to bedwetting is ass beating or an age inappropriate diaper. Having a mother who was stationed in an ER for part of my childhood, I can sadly confirm that whatever outlandish, monstrous act you can imagine inflicting on a small body, someone out there has topped you. (Ironically, the greatest act of abuse my mother ever put me through wasn’t laid across her lap, but in the recounting of the human cruelty she filled my little mind with). I once read a child-rearing manual from late in the 19th century (for a class, different story), and in it, it suggested as remedy for the potty-shy toddler liberal use of the strap, followed by the administering of a punishment enema. Granted, this book was well over one hundred years old, written a couple decades before Freud made his first appearance of the world stage, but that doesn’t change the fact that someone, somewhere, read this book and then reacted to their child’s unwillingness or inability to produce a stool by beating it then forcing an involuntary bowel movement. I digress…

Anyway…look, weirder shit has happened. If you, the original subject of my posting- or anyone else who suffered childhood trauma of an unusual nature, for that matter- is reading this, please know that I don’t want to sound cold or cavalier when writing my blog, and that I’m certainly not dismissive of the scars produced by a painful and humiliating development. Just know that some of these things do come up in my encounters with on-line degenerates; I have been asked bizarrely sexual questions about my childhood, and I think I’m starting to ‘get’ the patterns of how they think. This does not mean the things that they secretly masturbate to don’t actually happen in real life, it just means I have to keep the ‘bull-shit filter’ adjusted to such a sensitive degree, that sometimes the truth might not be able to pass through.

If what you told me in our chat is true, and I subsequently trashed you here, please allow this posting to stand as my public apology for any discomfort my judgements may have caused. Really though, if it’s true, then I think my over-written/unread blog is a pretty minor concern on your road to recovery…

the worst spanking i ever got...

2006-09-01T17:00:00.000-05:00

Unlike my sister, who was kind of a prissy princess, I guess I was what some might call a tomboy. Not that I was a super-jock athlete or anything, but I liked playing softball, and played little league with more heart than talent. I was a so-so hitter, and always looked like a spaz running the bases, but I loved being out there in the sun, loved my blue and white uniform (the Cougars) so much, I’d have worn it every day if I had been allowed.

The summer days at my house were total chaos. Because my mom was both divorced and had to work, there was really no one to supervise us in our daily activity. Sometimes, we’d be sent up to stay with my father, but he worked too, and was often away because of work. So instead, we were largely left to our own devices, my sister in nominal charge-meaning she answered the phone calls from my mother when she called. We could pretty much do as we wanted, wandering the neighborhood and even the (now all subdevelopement covered) wastelands that used to be farm country surrounding our town. As long as we knew to be at home before she returned, we had total control over our lives.

Even though I was free to go off and do as I wanted, this one afternoon in question I decided to stay at home. I’d have been ten and a half that summer, entering sixth grade in the fall. Inside the house, my sister and her idiot friends would have been sitting around gabbing about the idiot things they gabbed about, and my brother would have been either playing with his toys in the basement, or goofing off somewhere with his little pals. Lonely, too bored for cartoons, too lazy to contact any of my own friends, I grabbed my ball and mitt and went outside. I retrospect, sixteen years later, the adult me wants to shout at the moron child version and tell her to go find another kid to play with. But in mute, helpless horror, again and again, I rewatch the film in my head of me walking out back, seeing the garage door, and choosing it as my playmate. For an entire lazy summer afternoon, I threw with all my strength the dog-chewed tennis ball (easier to catch than a hard baseball) against the garage door, the ball shooting back into my glove. I built up a steady beat of throwing the ball with enough force that it would make an enjoyably loud ‘whack’ noise as it struck the aluminum door, almost instantly followed by the ‘slap’ of it hitting the leather of my glove. I so perfected this rhythm that I only rarely had to dive onto the gravel driveway to make the catch.

As afternoon made it’s inevitable slide into evening, I went back to my room to clean up and get ready for my mom’s return and the dinner that would soon follow. It was while I picked the bits of gravel and dirt from my torn and bloody knees (from those few stray balls that almost escaped), that my mom returned home, weary and stressed from another long day at work. I was wholly oblivious of this return, until suddenly, with a force that startled me into a frozen terror, my door flew open and there she stood. Before I could even open my mouth, she started screaming, really screaming, “what the hell were you thinking?” over and over, like it’s repetition might provide the answer to the question I had know idea of it’s meaning. I just sat there, stunned, saying “what?” over and over again, the scene turning into a tired vaudeville skit neither of us thought was funny. Our serve and return ended just as abruptly as it began, and with a final declaration of “that’s it”, she stormed out of the room, leaving me sitting there in utter confusion.

But within less then a minute she had returned, and this time carrying the belt. I’d gotten the belt once before, for what infraction I can’t even remember now. As I recall, she had used it pretty mildly that first time, and it had always served more as a threatening deterrent then as a means of discipline in our house. The belt always loomed as the ultimate weapon of whipping, but like nuclear ones, this weapon didn’t have to be actually used to make it’s point. Up to this age, I’d pretty much only known the over her lap paddlings we’d been getting since before anyone could remember.

Slamming the door behind her, she pointed at my pants and yelled, “take them off, now”. Still completely in the dark as to why I was in trouble, I just stared up at her with unblinking eyes. I was both too afraid to move, and too convinced that this had to be some sort of mistake, had to be a misdeed of either my brother’s or sister’s that I was wrongly being accused of. Thinking this to be the case, I argued/whined, “but I didn’t do anything!”, with all the nasally sincerity I could muster. Being so angry that she was now beyond words, she simply went ahead and lunged for me, grabbing the waist of my pants in an effort to remove them. During any spanking, before that or after, once the punishment had been announced, the verdict final, I meekly (and wisely) did as I was told, and readily offered up my poor butt for sacrifice. This time, however, not even having been read the charges against the accused, I made the bold and suicidal choice of trying to run. Believing, in my heart of hearts, that I was wholly innocent of whatever the offending act was, and believing that only with a few, brief moments of reprieve, I could set the record straight-find the one-armed man, as it were. So with all my cunning and speed, I burst forth off the bed, a panicked rabbit running from the hound. Sadly, however, my time as a fugitive was short-lived, and soon deeply regretted. At that age, I was maybe a little over four feet, and couldn’t have weighed more than seventy-five pounds. My mother, on the other hand, stood at five foot six, and probably around one hundred and forty. I never even made it to the door knob, before a hand grabbed me by the back of my pants and pulled me down to the floor. Once there, my pants and undies were quickly pulled down with enough force to leave scratch marks for a long time after, and a merciless rain of belt pounded down on me. She pinned me to the floor for a minute like that, belt sticking all over my butt and thighs, screaming almost unintelligently how dare I try to leave when she’s talking (!!!) to me. After a bit of this, she finally lifted my now subdued and weeping self over the side of the bed, where, her hand pinning me helpless against the mattress, the belt tore into me for what seemed (still seems) like an eternity.

Once it was finally over (although by then my butt burned so bad it still felt like I was getting it), she sharply told me if I wanted to play ball, next time I should go to the park. Being lost in my world of tears and snot (let’s be honest here), I didn’t even register what she said, until the next day, when sent out to “clean up my mess”, I discovered that the garage door was covered with black marks where the tennis ball had made contact. My thighs and bottom swollen and bruised from the night before, I tried to wash them off, but it wasn’t until a few years later that a new coat of paint would remove the constant reminder of my brutal whipping.

It hurt enough that night, that I couldn’t even pull back up my pants or change into my nightie. Instead, I lay face down crying for hours, until my mom finally came in, and after being informed that no, I certainly did not want to come to dinner, she placed a sheet over me and left me like that.

The one bright spot of this whole story-because it was her job to watch us while my mom was at work, my sister got a pretty good whipping that night too. When she came to bed, after what must have been a pretty upsetting visit to my mom’s room, she climbed into her bed, and facing the wall, said through tears and sniveling, “I fucking hate you!”, then we both cried ourselves to sleep.

I promise

2006-09-01T14:59:00.000-05:00

I had a great-if slightly scary-session being dominated by A. She obviously put a lot of thought and work into it, and I promise both you(the reader) as well as her, that I’ll post all the embarrassingly moist details in the next few days. I’d love to right now, but the slow, steady beat that’s been just over the horizon is growing close: I’m going home for the holiday weekend. Typically, going home for a few days is more a nuisance than a torture, nothing worse than the usual petty insults my mother and sister have prepared for me, but in the last few weeks I’ve been thinking a lot about how I was raised, and it’ll be hard going back with that scab freshly peeled.

Again, when I get back (or when I recover, which ever comes first), I'll post a long, detailed account of being helpless on A.'s bathmat.

one more thing...

2006-08-30T19:52:00.000-05:00

I'm dying now from horniness...

take your massive member, and go screw yourself!

2006-08-30T19:50:00.000-05:00

Finally, finally spoke with A. for a few minutes today. Before she had to leave, she set me up in what looked like a promising situation being Dommed in a Medical Fetish room. It was cooking along quite nicely for me, until she ordered me to get the dildo. This, in itself, would have been great news, since I was pretty hot and bothered at home going through my spanking and temperature taking, until it was stated to get the nine inch dildo. Unless her plan was to spank me with it, what the fuck was she going to do with that? Obviously, my mouth and rectum aren’t even up for consideration for something like that, and while I’ve never stuck a tape measure up my vagina, I can say with certainty it ain’t anywhere near nine inches deep. In character, I did everything I could to make it clear that I find nothing appealing in having my uterus ruptured, but one of the doms who had come in to watch started screeching “you should punish her for disobeying an order”, like the shit-flinging little chimpanzee he is. I gave Moderator status to the only one of them I know, informed the room that the illusion was ruined, and closed out of SIN.

First, what the hell is this weird (male) belief that anything close to nine inches could be pleasurable? Looking at the ruler I keep on my desk, I can roughly estimate the largest man I’ve ever had was maybe around seven inches…and that sometimes made me feel like I was giving birth to an egg plant. We had to be really careful to make sure I was either wet enough, or we had to include lubricating one of us as foreplay. He was a beautiful man, and I truly enjoyed sharing my sexuality with him, but frankly, sometimes it really fucking hurt! I don’t want a massive cock, I don’t want my private flower split like shrunken pantyhose on a fat woman’s leg.

Please, please, a million, billion times, please stop clinging to this absurd fantasy that all women want gigantic penises stretching them open. Some of the most intense, abandoning orgasms I’ve had have been with nothing more than a lover’s finger inside of me. My pussy is not a porn pussy! I don’t own a sixty-four inch television, I don’t cart around double D breast implants, and I’m not some scum-bag driving around in a smoke billowing Hummer, I don’t possess any of these weird, Freudian issues that translate everything into the need for massive size. If your dick is small (or a size you think is small, after watching all that donkey dick porn action), then tell me-honestly, you’re running a much greater chance of getting me to take it in my mouth, or even my anus, if it’s a size appropriate to my build. Even if it’s the smallest, saddest little penis imaginable, your honesty about it will unlock my heart in ways you didn’t think possible. Further, if you’re searching around for an object to insert into my body, don’t automatically grab the largest thing you can carry. That’s not hot, and if you think women find it arousing, you need to stop watching so much porn and maybe, actually, approach one of us and strike up a conversation (shudders).

Look, I can’t say with certainty that there aren’t women out there that don’t want their most personal parts stuffed with everything including the kitchen sink-I’m sure there are, and God bless ‘em if they do. But what I am saying with certainty, is that it’s an awfully bold thing to assume. I don’t go around assuming that all men want me to punch them in the dick with all my strength, or to grab hold of their balls and give a good twist, but if I kept having encounters like I’ve been having, I may start behaving as though I do.

always a bridesmaid, never a sub

2006-08-30T14:29:00.000-05:00

In the endless game of tag between A. and I trying to find each other, I logged into SIN, only to discover I had (again) missed her by only a matter of minutes. I decided to stay on, to see if there was anyone interesting around. Maybe because I’m endlessly fine-tuning my profile, or perhaps because I always ignore any unsolicited PM starting with the “R u a naughty girl?”, the lame Dom wanna-bes have been leaving me alone. This is cause for celebration, because I’m seriously tired of the “whip and rape a school girl” fantasy far too many of them seem to enjoy. Aside from how vile and disturbing this scenario is, it’s not even remotely original-the beaten and molested little girl is such an endlessly reproduced theme in spanking pornography, that it’s a rare and happy day when I can actually find spanking material that doesn’t leave me feeling violated and dirty after seeing it.

Who I have been talking with a lot lately is other subs. Subs, unlike the so called “Doms” just mentioned, have fertile, complex imaginations. Each sub holds a complex, elaborate set of fantasies within her or his head, each as unique as a thumb print. And while the Stay At Home Doms can offer me nothing beyond a retelling of what they saw on some ugly web site like Rigid East or spankedass.com, the subs share with me vast, creative scenarios exposing all their vulnerabilities and humanity. More and more lately, they’ve been finding me, offering to include me in their beautiful fantasies.

But here’s the problem-I’m a sub, not a Domme, and like all subs at heart, I’m a selfish person. Yes, you read right, selfish. While to outsiders this may seem odd, but being a sub is, ultimately, a desire to be the center of the relationship. After all, it is your set of fantasies being acted out, it is your comfort level being tested, it is even your power being surrendered. Remember, the ‘corporal’ of corporal punishment, means, according to Webster’s “pertaining to the body; bodily”-a real Domme/Dom- not these clownish woman haters cumming on their screens- is primarily there to explore your tolerances and humiliation thresholds. There’s a reason the sub is the one in possession of the safe word; unless the act of spanking is enflaming their carpal tunnel syndrome, I better not hear “I need a break” coming from behind me!

But despite all that, I’m being drawn more and more into Role Play where I have to serve the Domme role. Now, I like witnessing others’ exposure of their submissive needs, it’s a very personal and moving experience to participate in their boundary exploration. And according to the feedback I receive, I guess I have kind of a knack for it; I understand how to follow their leads, to how to pick up on their subtle hints as far as what they’d like to include and exclude. What the problem is, that none of my fellow subs seem to notice (or care about), is that I’m put in a position of having to live through them, experience my submission through facilitating theirs. As I write this, I’m having serious trouble remembering when it last was that I got to be the one in the spot light, I got to be the one slowly peeling back the layers of complex imaginings to expose something unique and beautiful hidden inside.

Sometimes I feel like the designated driver at the wildest keg party of the year...

I finally write a little about my childhood, sort of...

2006-08-29T01:42:00.000-05:00

Dear Diary,
I’ve been really bad lately, wasting time on-line obsessing over spanking, when I should be doing more constructive things. As I write this I, 1)have my blog up, 2)have a chat room running, 3)have my mail open, incase someone writes, and 4)have messenger running, just incase a certain someone can get away from what she’s doing and pay me a visit (winks). My school work sits mocking me, every time I enter the room. I know I could be curled up lost in the beautiful world of Cormac McCarthy or William Faulkner, instead I’m wading through an endless swamp of degradation and objectification with the fading hope of finding that one beautiful person.
As a kid, I always felt so ignored and forgotten in the mix of things. The only way I could get any attention was by being louder and more disobedient than my brother or sister, thinking up ways of getting at least a few minutes of my mother’s time. I was watching that nanny show tonight (again, not being productive), and that’s when it hit me that that’s all I was doing…that a paddling was some kind of attention from her, even if it sucked getting them. And the funny thing is, I wasn’t like a bad kid- I did my school work, I never got knocked up or brought the cops to the house, it was always intentionally minor stuff, just enough to get paddled, but nothing so serious I’d end up in a home for wayward girls. I always felt like my sister, because she was the oldest, had all the responsibilities running the house and having to be a little adult at an early age. My brother was lucky, because he was both the baby, as well as being the only male in the house. I didn’t have any role of my own, any job I was supposed to serve, so I became “Bad Cindy”. Cindy who refused to eat her dinner until…she got paddled. Cindy who left just enough of a mess…to get paddled. Cindy who stayed out just long enough after curfew…to get paddled. Cindy who pouted and stomped her foot long enough…to get paddled. This is what I knew growing up; attention equals spanking, spanking equals attention. Maybe even spanking equals affection, I don’t know. But what I do know is, an unfair percent of the memories I have of being just me and my mother together, I’m in trouble and getting it.
The more I think about it, I have to admit, diary, I want in some one who spanks me now to do it because they love me. I think this is why I have so many problems in trying to turn non-spankers into spankers. I don’t want my butt to be just a blank slate spanking fetishists can write their pleasure on. I feel like a lot of fetishists just fantasize about this ideal butt they carry around in their heads, and all I’m there to do is provide the meat. But on the other hand, BF, wonderful man that he is, spanks like it hurts him more than it hurts me, like my butt is a cactus. And worse, because we’re so rarely in the same place together, that he doesn’t get why this has to be part of our few days together. If we only have three nights together, yes, I want to make tender love, yes, I want to hold each and love, yes, I want you to fuck my brains out, but yes, I also want you to spank my little ass raw. It’s the only chance I have for it, and you can’t rob me of it, or make me feel guilty about inserting it into our time together.
Why does everyone and everything make me feel so damned guilty all the time? I look at the messed up, or deformed, or just plain ugly people on the train and I want to cry. Every stray cat I see makes me feel guilty because I can’t take her home, I can’t save her from a certain fate. Obese people, the news, the war, my friends, my family, my roommate, my apartment way over filled with stuff, the tired eyes of the sixteen year old at McDonalds, the disturbing amount of money I waste on clothes and music, my cat’s attention starved crying, pictures of myself as a child, men who only understand sexuality from pornography, the Holocaust, watching helplessly as someone abuses their child in public, every rape or molestation victim I have ever met or will ever meet, the knowledge that friends of mine were getting molested while we were growing up and that I had no idea…all of it, and a million other things too, fill me with helpless, hopeless guilt. I would have stayed in the Church if they got rid of all the wicked thoughts, wicked touches in the confessional. Instead, I want my Church to be somewhere I can kneel in guilt, listing off the things that make me feel dark and helpless, and then I could receive absolution through a good old fashioned spanking.
Since the Church would rather worry about what birth control I use than free my heart from this suffering, I declare my Church to be in my bedroom. But where is my Confessor? It’s been almost a month since my last spanking, and even that was after some extortion on my part. What he doesn’t understand, what I don’t know how to make him understand, is that those tears I soak the pillow with are the most cleansing tears I cry. All those other cries I have, alone balled up on my bed feeling sorry for myself or the world, they don’t go anywhere but to finally falling asleep in exhaustion. Those cries I have across his lap or into the pillow as he spanks me hard, they help me let go…as the pain recedes and the crying slows down to a mild whimper, I’m totally free of all guilt, all responsibility, all past or future. As the spanking ends, it’s like I’ve cried out all the crying I can do, and I’ve earned the right not to cry.
Thank you Diary-you've always been there for me, patiently waiting to receive my secrets.
Kisses

bitch and moan, bitch and moan

2006-08-28T23:14:00.000-05:00

Okay, a lot of my posts have been pretty down on spankinginternet.com, the chat site I frequent. And you would be correct in asking, “Golly, Cindy, if you encounter so many scary freaks there, why keep going?” And my answer to that, my intrepid young friend, would be that there are also a lot of funny, intelligent people there, who are often looking to engage in conversation with people they don’t have to worry about judging them.
If you’ve wandered into my site on accident, and are not familiar with what having, let’s say, creative sexual desires, the world can be a lonely place. Sometimes I feel like the world is made up of up-tight girls that recoil with “that’s weird!” whenever they’re confronted with something new, and boys that start giggling like Beavis and Butthead over everything remotely sexual. It can be really draining living in a world of safe, bland small talk where everyone is terrified of saying something that might make them seem different or unique. With my life being on a constant look-out to not offend by any expression of personal quarks, it’s nice to have somewhere to go and unwind. When I’m chatting with someone who furiously masturbates over the fantasy of being spanked after shitting in his diapers, I hardly feel like a freak just because I don’t understand what’s so captivating about “American Idol”. It’s not that all the people I meet there I even talk about spanking or other issues of domination and submission; some of the best conversations I’ve had, some of the most engaging people I’ve chatted with, are where spanking et al isn’t even mentioned. It’s in the air, and we both know this thing about the other, but maybe neither of us is even looking for an erotic outlet that night, maybe we both just a little bored and lonely, and want someone to goof with.
I’m an off-again on-again smoker, and part of the reason I can’t completely give up this stupid habit is I love that connection you make with other smokers, standing around outside. It’s like an exclusive club, that gives you this one small way of being introduced.
So yes, I do bitch and moan a bunch, especially about the men, but there are countless I know from there that I dearly love, and get excited when we run into each other on line. It might be that one of us is in a ‘frisky’ mood, so is soon going to be difficult to reach as they slip behind the privacy curtain of PM, but even then, there’s always a polite greeting and a few minutes talking with someone I know doesn’t think

why i am an idiot who never learns her lesson

2006-08-28T19:28:00.000-05:00

After a long weekend of stress I logged into the chat site looking for some fun. Got a few precious moments with A., but as usual, we had to separate, leaving me aching for relief. In retrospect, I should have just written a really naughty post, then masturbated to the knowledge that she’d be reading it. Sadly, I chose to seek out contact with another person, find someone I could share my pleasure with. So I set up a room with this blog’s name (my vanity knows no bounds), and waited to see who I’d draw into my web. After a few minutes, they started coming in.
Of course, there would be the occasional dom with some name variant of “StrictStrap4f”, sending me PM’s asking if “daddy’s little girl loves anal”, but I quickly froze them out, and kept the room to a comfortable, happy group chat. It was one person who both made my night interesting, and the ruined it. We’ll call this person ‘piglet’, not to protect their identity, but because that’s all they were. Notice, I avoid gender pronouns…more on that later.
So piglet came in during a lull when I was alone, and meekly offered a timid hello. After some gentle reassurances, I was able to extract some basic info; the piglet identified itself as twenty-two year old woman, still living at home, and of course, still spanked by a step-father. I’ve written about this before, but this is a big ol’ read flag waving in my face, saying bullshit! But before I could bring myself to boot ‘her’ out of the room, two thoughts simultaneously occurred to me: first, I knew that A. was at work, and once in a while can log in and pay a quick visit. The age was the same as A.’s, and that the things the piglet was sharing with me were so similar to things that A. and I had joked about, the whole trip of, “Sometimes he still spanks me bare, and dot dot dot, I kind of like it!”. The piglet even added the nice touch of sometimes accidentally passing gas, producing even greater degrees of (secretly pleasurable) beatings. At first, I’m thinking this has got to be A., pulling my leg, maybe setting me up, so she could suddenly remove her mask and say “gotcha!”, resulting either in a stern spanking for her, for tricking me, or a stern spanking for me, for being such a gullible idiot. But after scrolling up and seeing the connection notice, I realized whoever this was, what ever this was, it was connected by a host server in New Jersey, so it couldn’t be A. But the other thing I realized at the same moment, was that I might still find some fun in this, and yes…I realized I was also maddeningly horny and needed some fun.
Once the room filled with enough people to make it worth while, I topped the piglet. For anyone who doesn’t know me, let me quickly point out, I’m certainly no Domme-I’ve spanked one butt in my entire life, and even that was more a farce than anything. The image of me as some “Lady Knyghtshade” type mistress is outright comedic-more like playing ‘dress-up’ than engaging in serious domination. All that said, I do have some great sub friends, and a pretty okay imagination about what I’d want in a situation. And to give the devil it’s due, the piglet was a good sub, providing me with great cues about not having washed that day and not being able to make number two. The piglet was good enough, indeed, that I was able to set aside the certainty that I was in the scene with a middle-aged fat man, jerking off in the den while his wife and kids slept upstairs. Even the ‘audience’ in the room was great, the doms encouraging me without going into some gross freak-out about genital punishment of nipple biting or whatever. There was even a sweet female sub with us, audibly squirming in her seat as I ruled the room.
And I did rule the room. Some latent Dominatrix voice suddenly came out through my finger tips, demanding the piglet take position, delivering orders and chastisements with a seriousness I didn’t know I possessed. For the space of maybe forty-five minutes, I was a cruel Mistress with total control over the piglet’s ever breath.
Because this was pretty late at night, the two doms and the sub had to finally bow out, leaving us alone. The piglet had made it pretty clear that there was some major blockage going on, and I lead it off to the bathroom for a pretty thorough cleansing. At the same time we were role playing in the main room, we kept a PM window open for side comments. While in one window the piglet knelt for a forced purging, in the other window it started to desperately whine about needing to ‘cum’. Again, I knew this was most definitely a man, but it was a sub man, and I ordered the piglet to show control, to wait until I said it was okay. I was planning on reaching between the piglet’s legs, providing relief while the abnormally large and knotted nozzle was deep inside it’s rectum, pumping icy water within. My error, my fatal error, was in describing the offense object I held, the torture the piglet had lead me to- the menacing violator of a nozzle. I poured such rich detail into it’s description, that as I centered it on the terrified little hole, the piglet suddenly typed “O GOD YEEESSS”, then logged out the room, leaving me with the now harmless tool, and it at home presumably with a fist full of semen.
So fuck you, piglet!! How dare you do that to someone? What gives you the right, you little shit? If you can’t control your own body, then fine, but you at least owed me a thank you, or a goodnight. I spent hours weaving that fantasy for you, bringing you to that point of ecstasy, and all you do is log off, wash up and snuggle into bed?? I’m not some phone sex worker getting paid to get you off, and I deserve more than to be left sitting there feeling like a total idiot at four in the fucking morning! I could have spent my time with someone else; there were other subs that entered, and interesting serious Doms and Dommes I could have offered myself to. I wasted a whole night on you, you sorry fuck! I deserve better.

a really long post about a dangerous fantasy

2006-08-28T16:57:00.000-05:00

After work Saturday, I went to a punk bar with some co-workers and their friends. I won’t mention the name of the place, but it’s sort of famous, because the owner was in a band back in the 80’s, and the walls are covered with his collection of toys and punk memorabilia. It’s a great, dark place, with a DJ playing good music (rare in bars), and no wine-bar weasels hitting on you (making sure the impressiveness of their job and the make of car they drive comes up in the first ten minutes). I’ve been coming there off and on since I was old enough to drink, and it’s one of the last vestiges of cool in a neighborhood so yuppified they shot the “Real World” there a while back.

So anyway, we’re standing around the table (it’s one of those tall tables you see in bars ), and the boys are arguing some grandly important question, like if Modest Mouse sold out or always suck, or if Thelma would be a more fierce lay than Daphne. While these are issues of such importance that the U.N. should shelve all other topics to dedicate time to their resolution, I myself was just a little bit bored. Once I had successfully scraped off my beer’s label, I set my attention to the other empties littering the table, until I cleared all the stickers off, leaving a big messy fire hazard in the ash tray (the smokers were not amused). My thumb nail now idle, I started considering excusing myself, going home to leave everyone to their competitive name dropping (Roky Ericson, Skip Spence etc). It was at the moment (okay, maybe just close to it), that in walked “The Girl Gang”.

I see them around town sometimes, but especially when I go to this bar. They seem to usually move in a pack of three or four, but I think their number is greater than that. It’s hard to tell, honestly, because they’re pretty uniform in appearance: they’re all are pale with black hair, cut in Betty Page bangs. They all seem to use the same dark lipstick, giving themselves, mean, sexual sneers. They even all are the same basic body type; full, ripe bodies, busty with rolling, sensual hips beneath tight black denim. They’ve all cultivated this bad deb from a fifties movie look, and ride around together on mopeds (or scooters, as they prefer to call them). Aside from the fact that they all look like characters from “Faster Pussycat, Kill, Kill!”, they’re instantly recognizable because on the backs of their jackets, is painted a large black widow spider. Before you think I’m totally making this up, let me include the fact that they’re not the only scooter ‘gang’ riding through Chicago; there’s a whole subculture of scooters, Rockabilly music and B-movie imagery riding through the streets and hanging out at all the punk bars. Obviously, none of this is real gang activity-they’re mostly just Art Institute students playing dress-up rebellion, finding a creative way to reinvent themselves into a fifties sense of outlaw.

Whenever I run into them, especially at this one bar, several of them stare a hole right through me. At first, I thought it was because I somehow don’t ‘fit’, that they think I’m some kind of tourist poseur. I’m saddled with naturally blond hair, which in certain settings can be more of a curse than a gift. The “scene” is mostly dark-haired women, because dyeing your hair blond is what dopey cheerleaders and bimbos do. It’s not that there aren’t other blondes around at shows and at clubs, but once you remove bottle blondes from the equation, the rarity of it as an adult occurrence kind of sinks in. Plus, a lot of women have bullshit issues about all these assumed benefits of being blonde, benefits that I think only fake blondes actually reap. This is a whole big rant of mine, and I’m sure that I’ll someday write a lengthy post about it, but just know, between the fact that I’m inescapably blonde, and the fact that I don’t wear all black, I might sort of stand out a little.

Where was I? Oh yeah, so at first, I thought it was some malevolent hostility over all this hair/clothes bullshit, but the more I encountered them, I started to think it might be something else entirely. On occasion, a pack of Trixies will stumble through the door, either oblivious or indifferent to the bad vibe they’re creating. Oh, yes…I should explain the term “Trixies”; this is a negative term used around town to describe a certain type of young woman who meets all the following criteria: 1)grew up in either the northern suburbs, or emigrated from the affluent suburbs of Detroit; 2)went to a good, private university; 3) owns a condo within six blocks of the lake front (paid for my daddy); and 4) used to be drive an either blue or black Jetta, but I think that this rule has loosened to include the new VW Bug, Coopers and maybe Scions. You can usually identify them from a good distance, because when a group of three or more of them gather, they constantly make a loud “Wooo!!” noise, sometimes as a suffix to the announcement of “girl’s night out” (my friends and I used to call them just “woo girls”, when I had an apartment in the same complex as them, being driven insane by the constant all hours shouting of “woo!” in unison, perhaps as the mating call to draw the forth a herd of the v-neck sweater wearing jocks they hope to marry).
Side tangent to a side tangent, I hate sounding so mean. I’m not really as mean and hateful as I must seem from this blog…I promise. I’m very anti-label. I’ve met some very nice Trixies in the line at Starbucks, waiting patiently as they place an order more complicated than building a nuclear reactor.

So anyway, the Trixies will stumble in, invariably all in sleeveless turtle necks and beige or white slacks my mother would pick out, and the Black Widow Gang will move down the bar, offering nothing more than a cold shoulder and the image of the lethal spider emblem. It was seeing this scene play out several times that made me realize that they’re intense interest in me might not be wholly dismissive, might have an agenda other than banishing me. Whenever I go up to the bar to order another drink, I have to stand amongst them (they mainly congregate at the end of the bar, where the flap the tender lifts to come and go is…the only place to stand on a busy night to place an order). This past Saturday I stood there for kind of a while waiting to place my order, wedged against one we’ll call Deb #1. So as I’m waiting, Deb #1 must have been swaying her hip to the music, because on each beat it brushed against me, not hard or in anyway I could call rude, but with just enough pressure and consistency, there was no way it was an accident. When I finally got my chance to order, Deb #1 leaned over and watched me from the corner of her eye. While I was gathering my change and beer, she turned around and leaned back against the bar (like in a biker movie). Looking me up and down, she finally said in a bored tone; “you cut your hair” (I cut it short recently, probably before the last time she’d have seen me). Clutching my beer to my chest like a child with her teddy, I quickly nodded. She looked me at me for a moment more, than shrugged; “looks good, frames your face well”. My head bouncing up and down like a bobble head, I stammered a weak thanks, then stuttered out how much I liked her tattoos. She just kind of nodded one more time, then turned her back to continue talking to her friends. Her elbows were resting on the bar, offering a view of her heavily tattooed lower back, and the solid inch of ass crack rising above her jeans. Still nodding like an obedient ghesha, I receded into the crowd, scurrying back to the safe harbor of my friends. There, I tried to keep my head low, helplessly blushing. Every time I stole a glance, I saw that they were all still there, talking to each other, but facing in my direction.

I can’t even tell if they’re ‘real’ lesbians, or it’s all just dress-up. What’s more, how can they smell my bisexuality, my desire for tough women? It’s this some subtle communication I’m engaged in without even knowing about it? And what do they want with me? I have this image in my head, of standing naked and trembling in the bright lights of their scooters, they’re small pink play-thing. And why is it if I were to encounter to group of staring male bikers and envision a situation like this, I would run and find the nearest cop to hide behind, while I’d be lying if I said this idea with the Black Widows produces a sensation not limited to fear…

What would it be like to be the pet of an all girl gang? Would I spend my days cleaning their hideout (which would actually just be an apartment with maybe a Pirate Flag hanging over the couch), allowed to wear nothing but a small apron that fails to protect my modesty? Would they kick back drinking beers, as I scrubbed the floors on hands and knees, them lightly laughing at the view my position offered? Would they take me one at a time, or would it be the whole pack at once, and endless wave of hands, tongues, flesh, covering my entire body, until at the end of the night I collapse in a satisfied heap of lipstick marks, love bites, dampness and small bruises?

And when I’m bad, when I fail to clean their hideout, or chill the beer, or polish the chrome of their scooters, would one of the Black Widows stand over me legs apart, slowly removing the thick belt they all wear? Afterward, would they all hold me, kissing away my tears and telling me what a brave girl I am, and how much they love me?

As I write this, part of me wants to check the doors to see if they’re locked, and part of me wants to go into the bedroom and masturbate with total abandon.

MY LITTLE PADDLE

2006-08-26T17:19:00.000-05:00

As the realization of my desire to be spanked took hold, it occurred to me that I needed to address the issue of what I wanted to be spanked with. The obvious and most basic punishment tool is attached to the spanker’s arm, but as much as I love them, hand spankings can sometimes be a problem. While there are very serious, expert spankers out there, most laps I’ve crossed have belonged to relative novices. There’s a whole complicated thing you have to do when giving a hand spanking, that most people don’t seem to appreciate or understand. It’s not just about hitting as fast and hard as you can, nor is it about using just any part of the hand on any part of the bottom. Having been the spanker only a few times myself, I totally understand what an exact science a good hand spanking can be.

Do you know those cheap paddle ball toys they give you as a kid? You know, a plywood paddle with a rubber ball on an elastic string? The ones you’re supposed to bounce the ball on as many times as possible-the ones they give you as a party favor at birthday parties when you’re little. I bought one at a local dollar store, and I keep it in my bedside table. When I first bought it, I had all these fantasies about putting the ball inside me, so that I could feel it tug every time the paddle was raised. This was an incredibly hot idea, but once I got it home and examined the item more closely, I realized it couldn’t work. The ball is a lot smaller than I remember it being as a child-I imagined it to be about the size of a tennis ball, but it’s actually smaller than a golf ball. If it were inside me, it would end up dropping right out, if there were the least bit of wetness (which would certainly be happening at the time). As an anal insert, it’s equally inept: the rubber band attaching it to the paddle is very a pitiably cheap and thin string, that even a slight bit of pressure would snap. My medical fetish is not nearly well-developed enough to enjoy the idea of kneeling fanny up, as a team of emergency room staffers fish around with forceps in my rectum. Add to that the fact the string is attached to the paddle with what would be a skin-scratching staple, I detached the entire apparatus (including pulling the staple out with a nail clipper).

As a spanking device, I really love my little paddle. Because of it’s size and weight, it provides a less dramatic spanking than a hair brush or wooden spoon, and because it covers about a third of a cheek with each blow, even a new spanker can wield it with accuracy. Also, it’s great with partners you’re converting to spanking, because they see the child’s toy with the silly cartoon on it, and they don’t have to suffer “spanker’s regret”. It takes several swats before the paddle starts to really sting, and by then they’re either so locked into the experience of spanking someone that they’re too comfortable to stress out about nonsense like if it’s healthy/unhealthy; or they’re never going to enjoy giving you a spanking, and the relationship either needs to be reconsidered, or at least you might need to have a serious talk about what behavior outside of the boundaries of monogamy is acceptable.

My paddle makes a quick, sharp ‘pop’ noise with each hit, and when I’m getting a rapid paddling, the echo of the slaps over-lap each other as they bounce against the walls. In relationships, the paddle is the implement I offer most often for correction of ‘crazy girlfriend’ behavior. After I pass through an episode of being bossy, irritable or hysterical for no known reason, I will regret my irrational mood swings, and set things up so that both my guilt and my partner’s suffering can be exorcised with the paddle. More than once, after a night of snarling “nothing” over again when asked, “what’s wrong”, I’ll beat my partner into the bedroom. There, I’ll lie on the bed, half undressed, the paddle balancing on my tail bone. Ideally, my partner will come in and not say anything-I don’t need to go through a whole production of “who’s been a bad little girl” or some such nonsense. I just want to lie, in expectation of when I hear the door open behind, then the mattress shifting as a second person climbs on to it, the paddle removed from its resting place, perhaps replaced with a restricting hand. It’s hard to train a Domme, but I don’t want to hear a sound until it’s the sound of my own flesh being struck my the paddle, followed eventually by the sound of my own slight whimpering.

IS THIS THING ON?

2006-08-26T16:03:00.000-05:00

Every time I make new post, I get great feedback from my friend and fellow blogger A. This means alot to me, and I love reading the comments she leaves-it can sometimes be the high point of my day. But as much as her input means to me, I'd love to hear from other readers to, or at least to know if I have other readers. I'd love to know if I'm getting anyone's attention, so please, either leave a comment or send me an e-mail. I'm feeling pretty needy right now, so I'd love it if you'd give me some feed-back.

(This sounds really clingy, doesn't it?)

TAKING A RECTAL READING...

2006-08-25T01:08:00.000-05:00

This came up in conversation tonight- what would I do if someone visiting my apartment, suddenly felt ill and wanted to check their temperature? I only own one thermometer, and it’s rectal. Do I
1: lie and say I don’t have one.
2: not tell them it is anal, and watch in horror as they insert my little anal invader in their unsuspecting mouths.
3: tell them that I have a rectal thermometer, and then race to think of a bullshit reason why a healthy adult takes her temperature rectally? Or do I
4:tell them the whole truth, that I choose to take my temperature rectally, because I enjoy the sensation of it entering the most private part of my body?

Maybe tomorrow I’ll go to the drug store and buy a second -oral- thermometer…

THE BLOG THAT NEVER WAS

2006-08-24T22:30:00.000-05:00

I was in the process of writing-out a list of celebrities I find attractive, but deleted it, because since I don’t really care, why should you? Maybe later, after I’ve played around with creating columns, I’ll set myself to the task of committing to record all the famous people I think are sexy.

I suspect A. thinks I’m a bit of a push-over for some of the human wreckage we encounter in chat, but I find myself coming back over and over again to one sad gentleman I talked with a while back. His thing, his flame of sexual desiring, was the image of a woman covered in massive amounts of hair, especially when their butts are almost obscured with hair. Okay, yes-he’s into really fuzzy women, I know, but once you set aside the fact that this is maybe a bit of an odd fixation, it’s hard not to be just a little saddened by thinking about this man clutching to his hirsute ideal, as he frantically masturbates to “Hair To Stay” (a real publication aimed at that very niche market). It’s easy to laugh, and yes, even I struggled to suppress a guilty giggle, but in the long run, I have to say, one the remote chance that he’s reading this, go with God. You’ve every right to embrace your sexuality, no matter how freaky some people might find it.

After I honestly informed the trichophilic (Google search, I’m not nearly that clever) that aside from the occasional irritating thread wandering from the herd and setting up camp at a smaller hole, my anus is uncovered, he asked me if I’d seen other women with really, really hairy holes. I thought for a moment, trying to imagine the hair-matted bottom of a grizzly bear on any of the women I’ve seen naked. I think the Brazilian Wax has probably significantly reduced this issue, so it’s pretty rare. But then suddenly a flash, and I remembered my friend back home, J. J. was kind of a ‘bad girl’, she’d developed quicker than I had (or have yet), and experienced the reaction girls that take on a womanly form at an early age. Boys were all over her, but would kind of use her and then cast her aside. My mom bristled a little when she came around, sensing she was maybe a little ‘loose’ because of the way she dressed and how much make-up she wore. I was surprised that she showed interest in hanging around with me, because I was sort of dorky and out of the social loop, but she must have thought I was funny, plus I offered a dependability that other girls didn’t have. I listened to her, not judging or being threatened by her pretty wild life. I couldn’t say that J. and I were best friends, but she came around regular, probably thankful for having one place where nothing was expected of her.

J. was really into tanning; all summer long she laid out, and in the winter went to tanning booths. I fear that if I go to my ten year reunion next year, I’ll discover she now looks like old leather. Anyway, she lived in a crappy complex of connected town houses, and would always say how much she wished she could tan on our roof. We certainly didn’t have a large house, but the roof was flat and high up, and our house was surrounded by trees, so it’d be private. One day she finally wore me down, and I dragged the ladder out of the garage and we climbed up on the roof. I like being out in the sun, I love the heat against my skin, but I’m not made for tanning. My skin comes in two shades- cloudy white, or beet red. Since I didn’t want to trade the former for the latter, I brought up my bottle of SPF 60. She, on the other hand, brought up baby oil she’d stolen from her mom’s kitchen, because I guess it makes you cook even faster. I didn’t wear the dinky thigh-cut suit my mom had pushed on me (in the belief that it’s wise to dress non-developing girls with ‘tweeny’ wear), I was too embarrassed about it, so I was in shorts and the top. J., once she discovered that we were safe from public view up there, stripped nude.

(If you stop reading now, you can fill the rest in with hot, lesbian teen action-we 69’ed until the repair man came and gave us the hot cock we sooo desperately craved. Or maybe my dad comes home and spanks on our sunburnt bottoms, then gives us the hot cock action we sooo desperately craved. If you keep reading, you’re not going to get what you want.)

So yes, J. stripped nude, laid out on her tummy, and I suffered second degree burns from the black roof tile through the towel I was laying on. I tried to read, but the sun’s glare against the white pages was too bright for me. She finally peer-pressured me into at least taking off my shorts, which I did, but probably looked even more silly in my bathing suit top and baggy underwear. She was off in some Zen tanning place, so was not talking, and with nothing to do but sweat out a life time worth of toxins, I looked around for something to occupy my attention. It was then that I noticed the hair poking out of her butt. It’s not she had hair on her butt, her over-tanned rump was as smooth as my own, but that the hair came out of her butt, like someone had stuffed it between her cheeks. Mind, she’s laying on her belly, so this wasn’t some crack open presentation of her anus; it had to be pretty long, since it grew past her cheeks, and it was sticking out perfectly straight! Weirder still, the thing that really confused me, was that it was lighter than her head hair. It was like she was using a Barbie head for a butt plug! I guess maybe it was from sun bleaching, I don’t know. What I do know is that this pretty, popular wild girl, with a body written in the cursive shape of sexuality, had a whole freaking mess of hair growing around her butt hole! At the time I processed that information as on ominous foreshadowing of what developing would bring, but also with some tenderness, because I’m sure once all the guys who used her were done with her, they snickered about what a hairy slut she was. Even though she was the belle of the ball, out at wild parties while I was still at home staring at my over-sized knees, I felt a little bit of sympathy for her, that she was just as limited by what her body was supposed to be.

I hope someday the hair fetishist I met on-line and my friend J. (or someone like her), can meet and fall in love. It would be special to be desired for the one flaw marring your beauty. Wait, I also remember the trichophilic wanted the woman to poo on him out her hairy butt…that might be a little harder to convince J. of.

P.S. While the evening ended without me experiencing hot, lesbian teen action, getting a firm, but erotic spanking, or the big, throbbing cock I so desperately craved, I did get a brutal sunburn across my shoulders and on both sides of my thighs.

Butts All Over!!!

2006-08-24T20:19:00.000-05:00

Just got back from running to the store, and I think I’m going to write a letter to the city government that they need to rename my neighborhood “Butt Town”. I’ve lived for a few years in a part of Chicago that has a mixed community, but is primarily Puerto Rican. This means that when any of my family comes up to visit, they react in near panic as they drive through, and my sister has to run to my window every thirty seconds to make sure her vulgar SUV is still safely parked outside. But aside from offering me a protective blanket against too often family intruders, my neighborhood has another benefit; it is an ass-sensualist’s paradise. It genetics, or diet, or just some great cosmic lottery they’ve won, but Puerto Rican women have bottoms that I have to struggle not to stare at, bottoms that leave my lip swollen from biting during half mile walk to the store. Full and plump, without a suggestion of being fat, their beautiful rears make me want to cover my modest seat with my purse and run home crying. What’s more, they know it, choosing tight, low slung pants that boggle the mind how they don’t come popping off those powerful hips.

It seems to be a point of nation pride amongst Puerto Ricans how blessed they are with full and perfect bottoms. During the first part of the summer there is a holiday for Puerto Rican Fest: on each street corner, vendors sell-aside from endless stuff related to the Virgin Mary-blankets, towels and rugs with the same image I see everywhere I go: the backs of three women wearing nothing but butt accenting thongs, and before them proudly flies the national flag of Puerto Rico. All night long, during the weekend festivities, carloads of young people drive by honking (which can be a little tiring), young women dangerously sitting on the edges of the windows, a solid three inches of bare crack displayed in national unity. If patriotism for America was anything like this, I might show a little more interest in the forth of July. Actually, remembering the town I grew up in, where everyone was either bulimic or morbidly obese, it’s probably for the best that we keep our revelers covered up during national holidays.

As a goofy white girl I know I symbolize some kind of threat in the neighborhood; Chicago’s been gentrifying for a decade now, and there’s an obvious pattern of artist to trendy to yuppy that drives the locals away. I know that as a member of the first wave, I spell doom for the hard-working people who’ve lived here for ages…but I wish so bad sometimes that they would talk to me. I hate that all the people I’ve connected with around here are just other silly white kids playing bohemian until they’re ready to ‘grow up’, trading in their paint-spattered Chuck Taylor’s for sensible brown loafers. There’s a young woman that works at the grocery store I shop at who talks to me once in a while, always at least acknowledges me when ever I come in, and I want desperately to be her friend. She’s going to school right now, and I know I show way too much interest as she chats away for the few moments we have together. I want to know so desperately what it’s like to be her; to be built so strong and powerful, yet with such overwhelming feminine sexuality. It’s not even that I need to touch her, to be physically intimate, I just want to be near her, admire the strength and beauty in her. Sigh…

THE PROBLEM WITH CHAT (pt 2)

2006-08-24T14:45:00.000-05:00

So last night, just as I’m about to log off and go to bed, someone enters the room I’ve created-and since I don’t want to be known as a poor hostess, I decide to stay up a little longer to keep my visitor company. After the preliminary small talk (“how ru?” “where ru?”) he starts furiously typing out how he’s twenty one and still gets spanked by his parents!! My first response was to call him out for his bullshit, but then I hesitated; I had a friend once who unhappily admitted that she had been beaten by her father until she left home forever at eighteen. Then that small voice of Catholic Guilt spoke up and cautioned, “what if he IS still being beaten, the poor dear? If you rudely dismiss him his pain and possible suicide is your fault!” I gently reassured him, in hopes of maybe encouraging him to start looking through his local paper for cheap apartments for rent (and maybe to see what support groups available). But before I could even finish writing the first line of my sainthood application, he rapidly started in the sharing of the detailed minutia of his punishments: how a parent slowly removes his clothes, exposing white, trembling buttocks; how a ‘warm-up’ session across the lap is given, followed by a drawn out session of caning, his embarrassingly engorged member dangling between his legs (okay, I added that last part…but I can’t rule out that if I’d have asked, he would have gladly told me that he suffers involuntary erections during his punishment).
The previously mentioned friend, the one who had been beaten through high school, only reluctantly admitted it, and that was after a long night of Cuba Libres and a lot of crying before she broke down and told me. What she described to me was an utterly bleak house dominated by an alcoholic bully, who didn’t bother with all this sensual buildup shit, just pounded her black and blue with fists and belt, calling her a whore, telling her she “was nothing”. We only spoke of it that one night, but it’s disturbed me ever since. Since I’ve since lost contact with her since we finished undergrad, I can’t ask her, but I find it highly unlikely that at the time in her life when she was living in constant terror of another violent beating, she was cruising an erotic spanking site whose logo is a cartoon of a pretty brunette looking at the viewer over her exposed and brightly pink bottom, with a face that’s a combination of fear and arousal. A lot of the reason I’m sometimes tortured my interest in spanking is the knowledge of how deeply these scars can run, how brutalized children can be. Sometimes it’s been hard to kick my little legs in naughty brattiness knowing that somewhere in the world a child is being abused bad by their piece of shit parent.

So what is this about? It seems like there is a small but vocal group that fantasizes about inappropriate relations with their parents. I know there are men who have “daddy” fetishes, that want a partner that will pretend to be their off-spring: I’ve been encountering this particular bent since I first logged on to (non-sexual) AOL chat ten years ago. Although I avoid playing with such men, their sexual fantasies are such an ingrained part of our culture that it hardly seems strange anymore. What is new to me is the discovery that there are also those nursing erotic dreams about being punished or molested by their parents. I had a guy PM me recently that his dad took his temperature rectally until nineteen. This is, obviously, complete and total crap; I was six when I no longer faced (or, I guess, the opposite of faced) the rectal thermometer, and even that seems a few years too late. I’m pretty sure by sophomore year of college, I would have made the effort to drive to Walgreens and drop the two dollars on an oral thermometer!!

I’m uncomfortable drawing some exact line between healthy and unhealthy fantasy: it was less than one hundred years ago that they abandoned the practice of surgically removing the clitoris of young girls discovered masturbating-half as long a time since they stopped using shock treatment to cure this ‘disease’. I shudder to think if my grandmother had been caught playing with herself a doctor would have recommended crippling her brain with bursts of electricity; if her grandmother had been caught, they would have strapped her to a table and mutilated her genitals (while keeping her fertile)…shudder. But all that said, I can’t help but think if your parents are present in your sexual fantasies, you might just want to consider seeking help. I’m sorry, I’m fully read on Freud’s theory of childhood sexuality, and I guess he’s probably right about two year-olds and the Oedipal complex and all that, but do you need to seek me out to share??? I guess that’s what my point is- if you really need to masturbate thinking about your parents (although I can’t even hang pictures of my family in the bedroom because it’s too gross)…but why, in chat rooms that aren’t topics remotely close to that subject, do you feel so compelled to expose it before others, none of whom expressed asked you in the first place?

What if, hypothetically, I had been molested growing up-statistically, it not that hard to imagine- do you even care? There’s a scene in the movie “Silence Of The Lambs” where Jodie Foster goes to visit Hannibal Lector for the first time. Walking past the cells of the deranged prisoners, she stops at one where the inmate is violently shaking. Suddenly, he hurls his ejaculation at her, the ultimate debasement of a madman’s pleasure. Recently, I kind of understand how she feels…

Post-script: Okay, sorry, I meant for this posting to be shorter than the last-it’s actually turned out to be longer. Also, on the doubly rare chance that the person I just wrote about, the young man still ‘spanked’ by his parents, if it is actually true that you’re being spanked at home, please, please forgive a foolish girl: maybe there is a range of cultural behavior, a variety of beliefs, that I’m just too limited to grasp. That said, move out already!

THE PROBLEM WITH CHAT (pt 1)

2006-08-24T01:26:00.000-05:00

I’ve been wasting a lot of time this past month visiting my favorite spanking chat site. It’s a cyclical addiction for me, where I can go a long time with out visiting, then I suddenly break down and find all my free time eaten up by staring at the computer screen hoping for an enjoyable conversation. At the moment it’s particularly bad, because the “sort of boyfriend” is gone for the summer, as are a lot of my friends. The friends that aren’t gone, have inexplicably passed some rubric into adulthood I didn’t even know was there; their endless whining about the condos, grueling careers and marriages just reinforces my comfort over having what is kind of a childish life. I’ve been slowly building a complete collection of McDonald’s character glasses, and with the exception of Grimus and the police officer with the Big Mac for a head (what IS his name?), I have them all. This is a particular point of pride, since I can’t stand the actual food, which tastes like what I imagine warm hobo butt to taste like.
Anyway, so I’ve been spending all my free time hanging out at the chat site offered in my links section. If you’ve never been to a chat site, how it basically works is once you sign up, you can choose between about 25 rooms, each with a different spanking related topic, from “Anal Too” through “Woman To Woman”. If that’s not enough, you can even start your own room, by typing in a title and description of what you’d like to talk about with some of the approximately one hundred people logged in. Once other people have joined you in that room, you can, if you so wish, go off alone with someone in a private area in what’s popularly called PM, but in actuality if Person To Person.
So why do I explain all this, take up your valuable time writing about something you either already know, or have no interest in ever hearing about? I’m writing this so you can better understand when I declare that there are some very fucked up people out there!! Most people in the spanking world are in it for a sense of self-worth, a personal peace found in the exchange of power within agreed upon boundaries. But lurking on the edges of this world there are also those who use spanking (and non-conformist sexual practices in general) as an anonymous way to vent their hatred of women, to hide the obvious impotence they suffer in their real lives. No matter how many times I ignore them, or even set up rooms that forbid the sending of unsolicited PM’s (this is why I had to explain so much before), there’s no way to keep coming back and not have their ugliness pushed into my head. They don’t want to know me, certainly have no interest in my fantasies or desires, they only want a general idea of my ass looks like, so they sweatily masturbate to the image of punishing it like a punching bag.
Look, I know that there are always going to be a few disturbed people in such a mix, especially where sexual issues are concerned, and I hadn’t let it bother me until two nights ago. I was sitting in a room I had set up waiting to see if my e-crush would log on, and I got into a conversation with a would be Dom, sporting some combination of strict, sir, strap, “4f”…etc. At first, I was genuinely interested in the fact that he fully admitted to me that he not only had never spanked in real life, but had also no interest in ever doing so. When pressed, he conceded that it was because he “could never do that to someone he cared about”, someone he respected. It took me a moment to process (I can be a little ditzy sometimes) but then it hit me that what he was saying, that category of women who allow themselves to be spanked, are bellow consideration, that he certainly couldn’t LOVE someone who he spanked. As this slowly dawned on me, he then (unsolicited) began reeling off his “personal fantasy”, which (of course) involved him as the head master at a private school, personally responsible for the moral upbringing of the wayward students (whose ages, I’m sure, would be of suspicious legality). To make it worse, the particular misbehaving young miss would be caught MASTURBATING, using her wicked hole for something other than the pleasing of men, the little hussy. A thorough and merciless beating would quickly ensue, impressing upon the young lady (or older child) that the enjoyment of her body’s possibilities is!
As I reeled from the private fantasies of this gentle but stern guardian of young ladies’ chastity, he was so bold as to forward me a link to a site offering a video of the very scenario he had just described. Thinking I may have misunderstood (and also having a problem refusing free spanking videos), I opened the link and watched the two minute clip. The video clip turned out to be so identical to his fantasy that it’s inaccurate to actually call it his fantasy-more a novelizaion of the clip-with the exception of the film’s finale; the deviating student, her small bottom reduced to a purplish mess by the brutal beating, then has to stand there, obligatory school uniform lifted above her waist, having her offending (hairless) privates slapped until it too takes on a purple hue.
In the few remaining moments before I banned him from the room and put him on ‘ignore’ (where he can’t bother me anymore), I asked him why would he possibly send me a clip of a young girl having her genitals beaten, he replied he hadn’t noticed. I then pointed out that, along the top quarter of the page ran a banner announcing “SPANKED VAGINAS”, across a series of photographs of that very thing. To that I was offered, “oh, yeah. I didn’t think it was a problem”.

My New Blog

2006-08-23T17:42:00.000-05:00

Hi, and welcome to my new blog! I've been dying to start one ever since I first read the one my friend A. runs, but was afarid she'd think it was some sort of "Single White Female". As it turns out, she's never even heard of the movie, so I'm safe to copy her idea of using a blog to exercise/declare all the complex feelings twisted up inside me. If you've not already guessed, I'm ________ with a serious interest in spanking and other forms of boundry exploring. I'm leaving that blank there; fill it in with whatever your perceptions lead you to (i.e. cursed/ blessed/gifted/crippled).
While I intend to include here select memories of situations where I was spanked, I'm also planning on devoting space to issues (mainly childhood) connected to this subject, and even write about the endless problems of being a young feminist woman drawn to a lifestyle that is often dominated by some pretty obviously disturbed men. It's already scary having to face yourself honestly and admit what you secretly desire;to add the scariness of some men's use of the BDSM world vent their obvious hatred and/or fear of women, and it can get kind of intense out there!
So again, welcome, and I hope my little story in some, small way enriches your life.