Tuesday, April 26, 2005

One of those nights

[Warning: this is a bit more graphic than my normal posts, so if you're not into that, well, don't click on any of the links.]

Gawwd, don't ya just have those nights where you're randy as hell and all you can think about is how you just want to have your ass beaten good and proper?

Of course you do, or you wouldn't be reading this blog. ;)

But, alas, my boyfriend is 8 time zones away at the moment, though only for a month or so and then he'll be HERE and my ass will be attended to properly and thoroughly I can assure you.

So, what to do in the meantime?

Well, on those nights like tonight (eep! this morning rather) I end up wandering the 'net.

And that's where those good people at Rigid East Films are so very handy. You can click on any of their movies and see a gallery of still shots from the film. Lots of shots.

Now, most of the time I tend to fantasize about nice, cozy, over the knee type of spankings. But on nights like tonight, I think about them rough. With me very exposed. Sorta like this. Or like this. Oh, and I so want to get a spanking bench like this.

Lately I've been fantasizing about enemas (I can't believe I'm talking about this out loud). I'm still not sure I'd like it in real life. But when I think about having to lay on my bed, with my butt up in the air, having a large nozzle pressed into my anus, then a good, thorough spanking, well...I do get a bit tingly {giggle}.

And I so want a governess like this (that's ginger root she's taking from the maid).

Yes, there is a part of me that always feels a bit queasy about spanking porn. One of the things I like about RGE is that they show galleries of preparation and shooting so you see shots of everyone out of role, sometimes laughing or making silly faces. Not that it means for certain that these women are doing this because they like being spanked, but I guess it makes me feel a bit better about it.

Oh, and they have the BEST costumes. I mean, I LOVE fancy, frilly dresses. Hell, *I* might even be willing to do a spanking movie just to get to wear those dresses. :)

Sunday, April 24, 2005

Consent

After a discussion last night with someone in a spanking chatroom about the issue of consent, I felt the need to write a bit about the importance of consent in a disciplinary relationship over at the Punishment Book.

I hate to be cliched and all, but, you know, the whole "safe, sane, consensual" thing. Your partner has to want to be in a disciplinary relationship. If he or she doesn't, then you can't force it on them.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

A naughty schoolgirl?

Well, as I mentioned a few posts ago, I registered for classes this Spring term. Normally I do by-arrangement (independent study) coursework for my thesis because I haven't been able to handle making it to a classroom, and I've needed the student loan money to pay for medical treatment not covered by Medicaid (that’s a rant for another blog).

[...]

However, I wanted to get to know some professors who might be useful for my thesis, and since I've felt a bit healthier since January, I registered for three classes this Spring term: American Cultural History -- a Monday/Wednesday/Friday class at 10 am, Israel/Palestine through Film -- Tuesdays and Thursdays from 4:40 to 6:30, and a one day class on John Wayne in June.

I was so excited. I was going to get to be around other people. I was going to get to wear something other than my pajamas.

But I also had my concerns. I didn't have quite the energy level that I had two years ago. I'm still averaging three medical appointments a week that I would have to attend in addition to class. I would be going somewhere EVERY day, which I haven't managed on a consistent basis in recent memory.

But...school!

The week before I bought my books and a spiral notebook for classes. New pens. Remembered the excitement I use to have about buying school supplies.

I forgot how much energy sitting in a classroom takes. The fluorescent lights. The uncomfortable chairs (though better than the wooden side desks of before). How being around large groups of people sucks the vitality from me like a kid with a pixie stick. How my short term memory is so slow now I struggle to remember what the professor said long enough to write it down in that new spiral notebook. And even with my swanky new $6 pen endorsed by the Arthritis Foundation, my hand aches if I take notes constantly throughout the class.

The fatigue set in pretty quickly. By Thursday of the first week I barely managed to stagger to class. Once I sat down, the professor announced he wanted us to get into small groups and talk about what we believed to be the cause of the Israel/Palestine conflict. You mean I have to actually *talk*? Afterwards I had that ache in my lungs that every since the pulmonary embolism I get when I'm really really tired. Friday I had to skip class and rest. By Tuesday of the second week I could barely make it from the bed to the bathroom and the kitchen. The next day I decided to drop my American Cultural History course. I can get to know that prof another time. The other classes are far more useful for my thesis. And these days, utilitarian is the key.

It's funny though because the minute I talk about skipping class, I think about being a naughty schoolgirl who needs a spanking. Of course, in that situation I think I would have gotten spanked if I hadn't skipped. My tendency is to push and push because I want my way, which in this case was to go to class and not drop any courses. In fact, my boyfriend is coming in a month or so (yay!!) and we're planning a holiday. At first he wanted to go midweek in May as it will be cheaper. When I said that I have class, he was the one to say "well, you can blow it off for one day can't you?"

And he's the one who's supposed to make sure I'm being a good girl...geesh. ;)

But it's made me think of how much my perspective has changed in the last few years. I'’ve hardly done any reading the last two weeks, but I know that I haven’'t because I've been too tired. A few years ago when I didn't understand yet that I had Chronic Fatigue Immune Dysfunction Syndrome (CFIDS/ME), I just thought I was being lazy. Why the hell can'’t I get my work done? Why the hell am I spending so much time online that I should be using to read for class?

So, I constructed myself as a naughty girl who didn’'t do her homework because she was naughty. It was appealing being the naughty girl. In reality I’'m a very good girl because throughout my life being naughty meant either the rage of my abusive stepfather or fear of abandonment by people who liked me because I was a good girl. With other spankos, I can be a naughty girl and be liked for being naughty. Plus, the punishment I got would not be one of unfettered rage but controlled and consensual. It was safe. Like I could be that willful “"Natty"” part of me.

It was also a way of not having to face the more frightening reality that something was wrong with me. While I didn'’t understand that I had a chronic illness, I did understand, though not fully, that life was different than before surgery. But I didn'’t want it to be. I was certain that if I just told my body to be better already, if I just acted like it was better already, if I just thought that it was better already, then certainly it would be. I so have to laugh at those handful of doctors who still think that CFIDS/ME is psychosomatic. I’'m the poster child for how it’'s not but acted like it was and wanted so much for it to be just "all in my head". I have control over “"all in my head”" (unless I'm a lot sicker mentally than I thought...)

A naughty schoolgirl who thinks that if she's just pushed hard enough then everything will be better eventually finds a disciplinarian. Which I did. We'd set some goals and then I'd email him to say whether or not I'd met them and if I hadn't, we would meet and he'd spank me. I represented myself as the naughty schoolgirl doing half-assed work who just needed a good spanking as motivation. It’'s not like I intentionally misrepresented myself. I really believed that at the time. Though a part of me began to question why doing half-assed work was so bad, the part of me that understood that I couldn’'t possibly do what I was expecting myself to do.

Yet, I could never ask why I was questioning. Mostly because I didn'’t know how to do that yet. I really had that little self awareness then. But it would have also meant having to confront what my therapist finally made me confront a few months later: that I was too sick too much of the time to possibly be a grad student and a teacher. And that realization was so horrible for me to come to terms with that it’'s only been within the last year -- perhaps even the last several months -- that I'’ve finally accepted it and let go of having to be a grad student and academic.

And I suppose this term is sort of a test to see just how well I've let go. The Israel/Palestine class is in a building I've not been in much since my undergraduate days, so the inevitable contrast has occurred. As an undergraduate I worked there, as well as used the computer lab in the basement to write most of my papers. They were happy, busy days. When I could climb the stairs easily rather than struggle up them with a cane (not the fun, swishy kind but the metal, get-me-around-without-falling kind).

Now my days are a bit more leisurely by those earlier standards. Though in many respects more grueling. I mean, just walking to class is a major achievement for me.

In a warped sort of way, I’'m actually grateful for my illness. I get to appreciate so much that my peers take for granted. I get to see life in very different ways. Though I process information far slower than I used to, it'’s like it gets to simmer awhile in my brain so that what finally comes out has that rich complex taste of a sauce that has simmered for hours.

However, on days like today, when I shuffle along trying to get my stiff body to move and feel far older than my 32 years, being a naughty schoolgirl sounds so appealing. And the temptation to think that if I just got a good spanking I'’d get more done is still there, though has faded considerably. When I think back to that time with my disciplinarian friend, I wish I would have been kinder to myself. Not sought out someone to beat on me for expectations I couldn'’t possibly have met. It'’s funny how spanking can end up being an escape in more ways than one. And so very unhealthy if I'’m not careful.

The last time I took classes two years ago and started to feel overwhelmed with papers and bibliographies and Arabic courses I wanted to take in the summer, my godfather reminded me that first and foremost my job was to be the patient. I sat on the other end of the telephone line rolling my eyes, knowing the familiar lecture that was coming about pushing myself so much and doing everything all at once and how I had to take my illness seriously and use my profoundly finite amount of energy to go to doctor’'s appointments and rest and anything else gets whatever energy I have after that. But I HATE being the patient, I pouted to myself, though I knew he was right.

This time though, I haven'’t pouted. I went into the term knowing that my health came first, even if that meant (God forbid!) getting a B because I couldn'’t make it to class or keep up with the reading. I dropped a course as soon as I realized I couldn'’t do it rather than fighting on like I normally would (though the wiser course of action would have been to start with one class rather than three - I'm still working on channeling that enthusiasm). But that construct of the naughty school girl has still been there, calling me to think of my time spent websurfing as a dereliction of duty rather than an activity that rests my brain (you even see it in that earlier post when I talk about procrastinating). Yet now I realize how much I used the naughty school girl construct to live in denial. And though fake reality seems to be all the rage these days, I chose real reality. The reality in which I am a good girl who is finally learning to be a good patient.

Saturday, April 16, 2005

New voices in town

Several weeks ago there was a thread about gender and domestic discipline at the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. Unfortunately, I missed it while it was going on as I wasn't paying much attention to my newsreader. However, as I read through it once it had quieted down, I kept thinking that same-sex couples were so lacking in that discussion. I was particularly wishing there were lesbian voices.

Well, now there is a delightful spanking blog written by a lovely lesbian couple over at Pink Bottomed Girls that I heartily encourage you to check out. Brat is, well, a brat. And Pink tries to keep her in line. Both write sweet and articulate posts about their relationship.

Another new addition to the spanko blogosphere is Gemladi's Treasure Box, where Mary is finding her feet as she writes about her spanking relationship.

So many blogs, so little time. So keeping me from reading for class...

Friday, April 15, 2005

For future reference

Eek! Ten days since I posted!

Well, I tried to write out a thoughtful post about how school is going but I'm so damn tired I can't quite get it to make any sense, or at least convey what I want it to. But, it occurred to me that this post from my non-kink blog (which I'm hesitant to link to as it's a bit less annonymous) is also sorta relavant here. It repeats a bit of stuff from other posts, but gives a bit more background about me and my inner child (as reticent as I am to use that term with all its pop-psyche baggage) that relates to my spanking kink and upon which I think I will want to elaborate further in a kink context. So, I shall post it here for future reference.

Note: The character of "Allie" became "Natty" in a non-kink story I wrote several years ago about my relationship with her. Something mentioned in "My Natty Moods."

********************************

My little Michelle broke her foot the other night. She fell off the bed when I turned over in my sleep and crashed onto the hardwood floor. The next night as I curled up in bed with her, I noticed a clinking sound in her right sock. Probing softly in the darkness, I could feel pieces of porcelain where her foot should be.

A broken right foot.

Just like me.

I bought the doll a few years ago at my therapist’s suggestion. She thought it would be good for me to have a tangible representation of my inner child. I balked at first. It just sounded so very cheesy, pop-psyche like. Something forty-five year old yuppies from San Marin wearing crystals do. But, I figured I would humor her. Show good faith on my part in getting better.

So, I headed for the Goodwill thrift store. After looking through the piles of plastic, cloth and rubber dolls on the shelves, I found a brown-haired doll with hands, feet and head made of porcelain but a body made of cloth. She was dressed in a velvet green pinafore over a black and white blouse with a lace ruffle collar. Little ivory cotton bloomers and socks. No shoes but she did have a display stand. And though her eyes were brown and mine are green, and her hair was far thicker than mine will ever be, she felt like what I’d imagine myself as a little girl would look like.

Once I got her home, I ditched the stand. Decided maybe her hair could use a comb. Before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor brushing and braiding her hair. Planning little clothes to make for her. Trying to figure out the best way to shod her feet.

And when those times have come when the sadness of the past has overwhelmed me, I have found it very comforting to hold her and rock her and stroke her hair. Of giving some part of me the affection and care I did not get.

It’s not that my parents where horrible people. They were flawed, but not evil. Young and unsure about what to do with a child they weren’t expecting.

Actually, I say parents with a plural, but it was really just my mom. At least, until she finally told my father about me when I was eighteen. They met at a party when they were nineteen and broke up before my mom realized she was pregnant with me. But she was in love with somebody else by the time she did realize and decided what my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

Or me.

Or who would have been my grandparents and aunt.

And so she married this new guy she was in love with, thinking that he’d be my dad and everything would work out happily ever after.

Sorta like how teenagers think.

And when I started talking as a toddler and people thought I was a midget because I used big words, she figured I’d probably do just as good a job being left to “keep an eye” on her adulterous husband as any other adult would.

And I’d be just as patient and understanding at four years old when she divorced him as any other adult would.

And when she married again when I was eight, I’d be just as good a candle-lighter at her wedding as any other adult would.

And when she had another baby girl when I was ten, I’d be just as good at caring for her as any other adult would.

I mean, how many other ten-year-olds get to spend their summer vacations and holidays and days when the babysitter was sick with their own real baby doll to bath and change and feed and dress and push around in a stroller?

When I was a teenager I began writing a novel about my inner little girl. I named her Allie and set her in a small Oregon town in 1897. She had everything I lacked: a caring father, a healthy body, a willful spirit, a childhood.

I lost my healthy body a month before my baby sister was born when I broke my right ankle. At first I just thought it was another broken bone. I’d broken my arm the summer before and it healed up perfectly. During the three months I was in various casts, I understood that I couldn’t walk the mile to school and be on safety patrol. But nobody told me I couldn’t play kickball, so I did.

And when I played right after the cast came off, I ended up back in the emergency room where another one was put back on. After months of playing and more casts, I finally understood what no adult had bothered to tell me.

But not playing kickball anymore meant that I got even fatter. And it’s not like I wasn’t fat enough already as the doctors constantly harangued. And as my stepfather made certain to point out to me.

He also pointed out, in verbally and physically painful ways, that I was not allowed to have a willful spirit. After one particularly traumatic incident in which he broke it like porcelain on a hardwood floor, I created Allie. Gave her my willful spirit for safekeeping.

And my dream of a healthy body.

And someone to care for me.

And a childhood.

But now I want my spirit and dreams back.

I began trying to figure out how to get them back when I was getting to know my biological father, who six years earlier abruptly found out he had an eighteen-year old daughter when my mom called him up one day. And even more after he decided he couldn’t do the father-daughter thing. And particularly after I got to know my grandfather and he instructed me to be my own person a few months before he died.

I hunted for them madly after I had surgery on that right ankle and in the knee above it six years ago and ended up with blood clots in my lungs and then hemorrhaging on the blood thinners and clotting some more and developing some ephemeral but palpably debilitating condition called Chronic Fatigue Immune Syndrome.

But, several months ago when my nieces were spending the night, one of them saw my little Michelle doll sitting on my chair. “She kind of looks like you ‘Chell,” she said as she picked it up.

My doll.

Who is not fat.

Who has brown eyes.

Who has thick hair.

I wanted to grab my niece and kiss her and tell her that was one of the sweetest, happiest things she could have ever said. Instead, I smiled at her softly as she turned to argue with her sister about whose turn it was to use the computer.

Yep. My doll.

Who somehow absorbed the willful spirit I gave away for safekeeping all those years ago.

The willful spirit that refuses to be ashamed of my curvy body and has finally come to accept the leisurely life my illness has brought.

That insists on caring for myself rather than only caring for others.

That clings to my doll with all I have these days as I work at sifting through all the pieces of me.

The doll whose porcelain right foot I glued back together. Yet, whose feet still remain unshod.

Tuesday, April 05, 2005

Moderate?

Moderate
What kind of spanko are you?

brought to you by Quizilla

Saw this over at a new blog, Spankophille. Also wanted to mention another bloke new to spanko blogging, though not new to spanking or the internet, Alex Birch, whose site is also worth a visit.

Monday, April 04, 2005

Nanny 911

Right. So, I'm watching Nanny 911 on Fox right now (it's my mindless time), and all I can think is how much I want Nanny Deb to be my nanny. :)

You know, she'd have me on a schedule. Like, waking me up. Making sure I have a healthy breakfast. Did my yoga and/or qi gong. Reminding me to get up to take stretch breaks while I'm at the computer and to take my medicine (I almost always forget my mid-day dose).

And even though the real Nanny Deb would never spank, in my mind, I'd be over her lap at least every night at bedtime. With a hairbrush and thermometer on the bedstand. Of course, she would probably also have more, er...uh...old fashioned ways of treating a tummy ache.

Sigh...yes, I think I could use a nanny...

Sunday, April 03, 2005

Wrestling with punishment spankings

I read one of the most articulate discussions of punishment spankings within an adult disciplinary relationship that I've ever read over at Patty's blog, A Creative Spanked Wife. What I love about Patty is that she talks about DD as it really is, with all the complex aspects that intertwine when two human beings are trying to define their relationship. This particular post of hers specifically addresses what happens -- or should happen -- when two healthy adults decide to enter into this kind of relationship. That there comes a point where you let go of fantasy and deal with the utter reality of real life.

"The fact of my real life though, is that my husband is not my parent and I am not his child. I have learned the lessons I need to learn and it is not my husband’s role to “teach me a lesson” or “make me behave.” In my opinion, stripping both of these, the legacy of the social meaning of spanking and its initial childish sexual framework from the adult spanking partnership is a significant challenge. I strongly believe that it is essential if there is going to be a healthy power exchange and discipline construct in the relationship. In sexual role play “age play” may be very satisfying for many, but in an adult partnership where there is real discipline, age play is probably not healthy and can’t help but create an exploitive and abusive power exchange. Both women and men have difficulty grasping the nuances that differentiate adult from juvenile punishment spanking. For Fred and I, it’s in the goal of the exercise and the relative accountability and roles of the parent & child versus those of the husband and wife. Teaching and molding proper behavior are laudable aims for parents who apply discipline for their misbehaving children, but mighty presumptuous of a husband who himself has yet to master his own shortcomings and bad habits. I could go into a long winded discourse on ‘transactional analysis,’ but really I believe most of us have an instinctive understanding of the differences in communication dynamics that occur between parent and child and husband and wife. There is nurturing, teaching and role modeling involved in both and there is annoyance, frustration and applying consequences involved in both as well; but the rules of engagement are different. Treating his wife the way he would treat a child is a slippery slope that is very hard to climb back up from. Most men feel ill equipped to parent their wives, and quite a few feel resentful when they are put in that position… not to mention insecure. Children are needy and for the most part, not good partners when it comes to facing stressors and shouldering adult responsibilities, especially not adults who have regressed into the role of child.
"

Now, I know in my own realtionship with my partner, I can't say that there isn't an element of "age play" that occurs during punishment. Though, play is not really the right word as there is nothing pretend or fun about it. But there is a certain nurturing quality to it that would probably be associated with caring for a child that reflects a child-like part of me. Where I've found myself struggling in explaining to myself as an intelligent, compentent adult what I want in a disciplinary relationship is how much of that nurturing is healthy, both for me and my partner. I suspect the answer is whatever works for us.

"...the discipline scenario is not about fixing me, teaching me to be a better person or correcting me for being bad, it’s about using the catharsis of spanking to clean up stress."

I think this is probably the way spanking works on a punishment level for me. It cleans up the stress of having failed in some way. Yet, Patty suggests that reflects a very beginners approach.

"Most couples start out using peripheral things and making rules around them that are just not important to either of them, for us these are things like housework, and laundry...In the true sense of the word, though, these early ‘rules’ were ‘made’ to be broken. They’re spanking rules after all, and getting and giving spankings is part of the way couples develop DD. It’s hard to start out on the hard stuff though, so the fluff does serve for a while. Using them helps couples get the mechanics down, and talk over and work out what feels right and wrong with the nuts and bolts. From here tentative steps will be taken into the ‘real’ issues, and all the stuff listed and discussed up there."

Now, I'm not entirely sure that the rules that my partner and I set up are "just not important" or "fluff." They are usually things we both agree are valuable for one reason or another. However, I can't help but acknowledge that they do end up inevitably being broken at some point and so perhaps on some level they are set up to be broken. Because we've gone to the trouble of making a "rule" and setting up some correlating punishment, whatever should or should not be happening does increase or decrease however the case may be. But it doesn't ever completely end and so punishment ultimately occurs because of the rule being there. I think this is where I would go back to her comment about spanking cleaning up the stress. That the rule is going to get broken at some point and spanking is simply a way of cleaning up the stress that breaking it causes.

It's a lengthy essay, but I encourage you to read it. I'm still wrestling with a lot of it, but as Patty's been doing this for awhile, I think it deserves a bit of wrestling with.

Update: Patty wrote a bit clarifying her post over at the Punishment Book that I hope you'll take a look at.

Saturday, April 02, 2005

Spanked at church

Tonight after Divine Liturgy (the Byzantine/Orthodox version of Mass) we had dinner in the fellowship hall as we usually do. I had just filled my plate with casserole and salad and filled my Styrofoam cup with juice and was headed for the table when one of the little three-year-old girls (and we have a lot of them as most of the members of our parish are, er...uh, good, fertile Catholics) came up behind me and smacked my bottom three or four times while saying "spank, spank, spank." At first I was a little shocked, but then turned around to find her grinning mischievously and running off.

Her mother and I were chatting later and when I mentioned being spanked by her daughter, her eyes got wide. Then she smiled a bit sheepishly and said that this particular child of hers (her seventh) sorta does her own thing and you never know what that thing might be.

Though, it was probably only fair as I often play peek-a-boo with this little girl during Liturgy, for which she usually gets scolded.