Lending power

Just wanted to post a link to an article by Stacey May Fowles about BDSM at the left-of-center political site Alternet. It's actually an excerpt from a new book called Yes Means Yes: Visions of Female Sexual Power and a World Without Rape edited by writer Jaclyn Friedman and Jessica Valenti of Feministing fame. It argues that feminism and female sexual submissive fantasies can indeed comfortably co-exist.

Personally, the more I submitted sexually, the more I was able to be autonomous in my external life, the more I was able to achieve equality in my sexual and romantic partnerships, and the more genuine I felt as a human being. Regardless, I always felt that by claiming submissive status I was being highlighted as part of a social dynamic that sought to violate all women. Sadly, claims of sexual emancipation do not translate into acceptance for submissives -- the best a submissive can hope for is to be labeled and condescended to as a damaged victim choosing submission as a way of healing from or processing past trauma and abuse.

However, after several paragraphs of thinking "tell it, sister!", I was disappointed when Fowles then turn turned the frequent feminist mantra of "BDSM porn is bad". She argues that while members of the BDSM counterculture who understand the sacred BDSM rules are capable of understanding the artifice of porn,

the average young, male, heterosexual porn audience member begins to believe that forcing women into sex acts is the norm -- the imagery's constant, instant availability makes rape and sex one and the same for the mainstream viewer. Couple that private home viewing to get off with the proliferation of graphic crime shows on prime-time television and torture porn masquerading as "psychological thrillers" in theaters, and our cultural imagery screams that "women as sexual victims" is an acceptable reality.

Sigh. How many times do we have to have this discussion? Porn -- mainstream or fetish -- is NOT REAL. The majority of teenage boys know this just as well as seasoned BDSM vetrans. I mean, most teenage boys manage to watch all sorts of movies and television programs and know they are fiction. Why assume they are not capable of doing that with porn?

Now, she is right that BDSM is not a community exclusively made up of enlightened feminists. And there are plenty of those among our population who do tend to mix up reality and fiction a bit too much. But this is because the practice of BDSM gets messy. Damn messy. And that is not the fault of porn but the fault of people being fallible human beings.

It's almost as if the author, in letting go of the feminist dogma regarding mindnumbingly dull democratic sex, felt she had to latch on ever more tightly to the other part of feminist dogma that insists porn is bad. As one commenter stated, "There's the problem...You're tied up, butt in the air awaiting the crack of leather, and your mind wanders to feminist ideology. How about just having some good, consensual, kinky fun and saving the ideological crapola for the coffee house?"

Speaking of commenters, I highly recommend a read through the comments section. My particular favorite was one from someone named AMerrickanGirl:

The whole point of BDSM is not to "lose power". It is to allow someone else to borrow your power, with your enthusiastic permission.

Wanting to pleasure someone through pain is not the same as wanting to hurt them.

Sugasm #155 -- Sugasm'd again

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #156? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

This Week’s Picks

I'm kind of... insatiable.
"She’s gasping already. Each breath a moan, each touch connected to the noises she makes."

The most spankable day of the year
"And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday."

Private club
"It’s that kind of club - the kind you have to know about, the kind that doesn’t even have a name."

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: Being Childfree

Editor's Choice
I Wonder

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot's Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.

Seven things you always wanted to know about Natty

Still not much spanking going on here as I was even sicker last week and am only now starting to feel better, though I think there might be some spanking tonight. I have been working on a post about spanking blogging and women, but as my brain has been a bit mushy, I thought this might be a good time to write something easy and (finally!) reply to the meme for which Nadia at Diary of a Kinky Librarian tagged me all the way back in October.

So this meme involves sharing 7 facts about myself. They include the following:

1.) I always eat my french fries (chips) first, then hamburger, fish, whatever. Can't stand cold french fries (chips).

2.) My parents received a letter from then presidential candidate George McGovern on the occasion of my birth. True, it was a form letter the Senator from South Dakota sent to all servicemen who had a child. But hey, I have a bit o' history in my baby book.

3.) I am the oldest of nine, but only grew up with four of my siblings. See this post for the explanation.

4.) George H. W. Bush sent me an invitation to his inauguration, including the inaugural ball (at least one of them). I was a High School Republican (it's true -- hey, don't look at me like that! I was young and stupid!), and I was on a list of people who worked on the campaign (though, I really hadn't). Randomly selected and sent a big envelop with fancy calligraphy. It's more than Murphy Brown got.

5.) I have ten nieces and nephews -- so far. And they're all adorable.

6.) I only like slightly green bananas. If the bananas are completely yellow -- and particularly if they have bits of brown on the peel, I won't eat them as they just make me feel kinda icky.

7.) I am 60 1/2 inches tall -- like I have been since I was 12 years old. But I was one of the tallest kids in my first grade class.

I'm supposed to tag 7 other bloggers, but I suspect a lot of bloggers have already been tagged. So if you haven't been, consider yourself tagged.

The most spankable day of the year

That morning when Pa came in to breakfast he caught Laura and said he must give her a spanking.

First he explained that today was her birthday, and she would not grow properly next year unless she had a spanking. And then he spanked so gently and carefully that it did not hurt a bit.

"One-two-three-four-five-six," he counted and spanked, slowly. One spank for each year, and at the last one big spank to grow on.

-- Little House in the Big Woods

The first time I mentioned birthday spankings to A., I think he thought I was making them up even as he was willing to oblige me thirty-some spanks. Or rather, believed that in my spanking-dominated way of thinking, I was exaggerating the practice. Or confusing what happened in my pervy family with what happens in mainstream America. A quick Google search producing story after story of American co-workers suing after being spanked at work on their birthday or birthday spankings at American schools resulting in arrest persuaded him that perhaps they were real. Though I think he still views birthday spankings right up there with Santa Claus.

But, of course, birthday spankings are real. Here in America, birthdays are the most spankable day of the year. A day when even the most ardent vanilla will go for a scoop of chocolate. And for spankos, they are a high holy day to be approached with all the reverence and gaiety of a Pagan-cum Christian holiday.

While I'm sure I probably received a birthday spanking earlier -- especially given my maternal grandfather's generous distribution of them at any and every occasion -- the first one that I can really remember happened on my seventh birthday. I was in first grade at a private, fundamentalist Christian school where spanking was standard. It was customary for our teacher, before handing out the cupcakes the birthday girl or boy brought for the event, to beckon the little girl or boy to the front of the class, hold him or her by the arm and smack his or her bottom for each year of life. She would add a "pinch for an inch" in which she pinched the bottom and completed the ritual with a "hug to grow on."

As my birthday approached, I feigned apprehension about my impending spanking to my friends and family. I talked about what I should wear that would best protect my bottom. Apparently my birthday landed on a Friday because I remember settling on a pair of polyester red, white, and blue checked pants (it was the 70s) and girls at my school were only allowed to wear pants on Fridays. At one point, I even considered wearing some sort of padding.

It was all a ruse to hide the fact that the imminent spanking excited the hell out of me. I had recently discovered while reading The Story About Ping that spanking held an inexplicable appeal for me. Over the last few months I had been fantasizing about getting a spanking from my teacher, but I wasn't willing to risk my good girl status to get one. Birthday spankings were like a freebie. No getting into trouble. No looks of disappointment and guilt-ridden angst. Yet I still got the savory embarrassment of being summoned to the front of the room, bent over, and smacked like a naughty little girl.

December 8th finally arrived. My mom made yellow Betty Crocker cupcakes with chocolate frosting, placed them in a Tupperware container and dropped them off with me at the babysitter's before heading to work in the early morning darkness. As I sat on the couch before the bus came, watching Ramblin' Rod next to my plastic box filled with flour-and-egg festivity, the smell of the chocolate frosting had me craving sugar and spankings.

Class birthday parties were always in the afternoon. The long morning passed and it was time to break out the cupcakes, as well as the construction paper, crayons, and paste for birthday cards. But not before the spanking. Blushing, I made my way to the front of the class and stood next to Mrs. Leiser. She smiled, held onto my arm softly, and delivered seven gentle, careful smacks to my backside, along with the "pinch for an inch." Before I knew it, the birthday spanking was over and I was enveloped in her arms for a hug that was sure to keep me growing for years to come.

I only remember one other childhood birthday spanking after that. At my tenth birthday party, one of my friends (who were mostly boys by this point) mentioned that I hadn't had my birthday spanking yet and before I knew it, the lot of them started wrestling me down to give me my ten smacks. Laughing and blushing, I fought back without much success, especially as my stepfather decided to lend a hand. Those smacks were definitely not the "gentle, careful" smacks Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser handed out. But they were not exactly disagreeable either.

A. is slowly becoming accustomed to our fine American tradition. After a painful lesson on his birthday earlier this year, he gained a better understanding of how it works and how central it is to the birthday of any spanko. Not that I have to wait until my birthday for a decent spanking anymore, but I still look forward to a drawn out, ritualized spanking each December 8th as it just wouldn't be a proper birthday without one.

Though this year the birthday spanking -- and even my birthday luvin' -- will have to wait a bit as my pelvic/abdominal pain is as bad as ever (and quite possibly exacerbated by an infection...um...down there). And A. may have to take a few pointers from Pa Ingalls and Mrs. Leiser on delivering a birthday spanking as my appointment with the urogynecologist isn't until January 9th. But in a few days, once I'm feeling a little better, I think we just might be able to work something out with a pile of pillows and a belt...

"Can Michelle's ass come out to play?"

It's been very hit or miss these days on the spanking front.

The mojo has been there. It's just that about two and a half weeks ago the pain directly below and to the right of my navel became markedly worse. Which has made me a bit squeamish about getting spanked. The pain isn't very bad if there is no pressure on my belly -- which is most of the time. So it hasn't really stopped me from thinking and even talking about spanking.

As A. and I lay cuddling on the bed the other night, he asked if I was up to being spanked, mimicking a neighbor kid politely seeking the permission of his friend's mom for an afternoon of youthful frolics.

"Can Michelle's ass come out to play?"

Michelle's ass -- as most kids do -- wanted desperately to go out and play. But Michelle's body, being the cranky, over-protective old woman that she is, balked at the thought. She'd even of late been shooing away A.'s perfunctory smacks on the ass in the kitchen.

My ass, however, was undeterred. After thinking it over for a day or two, I decided that maybe the ruler would be okay. And the tip of the belt. Both are very surface-y implements without a lot of impact.

Thanksgiving night, after a day of massive carbohydrate-loaded sustenance at my mother's house (including my famous pumpkin pie and cranberry-orange relish -- though my cornbread-sausage stuffing didn't quite turn out right), A. treated me to a nice spanking and wanking with his belt and the Miracle Massager. I love the belt because it stings, but it's a sting I can get on top of. A., though, isn't as fond of this implement as he finds it a bit unwieldy -- something I've heard other tops say as well.

I seemed to handle that spanking okay. My body pissed and moaned a bit in the form of achiness the next day, though I suspect that had more to do with the wanking than the spanking. Because, you know, God forbid I have an orgasm anymore and not suffer for it...

But I digress.

Sunday is my traditional review and spanking day. When I came home from Mass, A. had my school uniform all laid out along with the ruler. And I must admit, dear reader, it did give me that delicious sense of foreboding mixed with excitement. The foreboding part took over, however, as the review ran into a problem. Namely, I hadn't even been keeping track of my bedtimes, much less actually gone to bed on time. That wasn't completely my fault. It had been a bit of a chaotic week with late night movies, as well as pie and stuffing making. Yet I had been very good about doing my daily yoga/physical therapy exercises and meditation. Indeed I had even done my meditation two days more than I had scheduled.

It had been awhile since I'd been spanked with the wooden ruler. I had forgotten just how much it stings! The spanking was only partly punitive, as well as partly a sampling of what would come should I fail to get back on track in getting to bed on time. One good side to the wooden ruler is that the sting is very temporary. At least, generally speaking, that is.

There is one way that the wooden ruler produces a sting that keeps on giving. Our wooden ruler has a little hole on one end with which to hang it up on a wall, should one so choose. On Monday night before bed, my ass was in a particularly provocative mood. Frankly, all I remember were a few pouty looks directed at A. I suspect he has another version of events. Needless to say, A. took the wooden ruler out again, with vigorous results.

It stung terribly, especially as my sadistic dear kept whacking me on the same spot. I couldn't help but squirm and jerk about. Okay, yes, there may have been the odd glare and complaint here and there. Perfectly reasonable, right? Well, A. didn't think so either. And since I seemed to be feeling well enough to brat, A. took out the evil clothesbrush and...gasp!...the rubber paddle.

To be fair, he didn't use either of them very hard. But my pain threshold was shit and they had me wailing and wriggling about in no time flat, which never bothers A. as he always says it saves his arm. He also accused me of playing up how much it hurt with all my writhing around on the bed. Which might have had some merit. Sorta. But...but...it really hurt, I tell ya.

What was odd was that it hurt a lot more on my left cheek than on the right cheek. As I rubbed my bottom afterward, I noticed a spot that was particularly stingy and sort of wet with some sort of fluid. Being on Coumadin, my first thought was that I was bleeding. A. examined it carefully and quickly concluded that there was no blood.

The next morning when I appraised my ass in the mirror, there was a particularly raw spot on my left cheek that hurt a lot more than all the bruising on my right cheek. Like, say, a popped blister. And that's when I connected it with the mysterious stingy fluid from the night before. Yes, that's right. A. actually blistered my ass. I always thought it was just a saying -- I'm going to blister your ass. I didn't think it actually happened.

It made me think of the "spank his ass raw" line from this old post.

Alas my grouchy gestapo of a body has cracked down on any further play. That pain at the base of my belly got a lot worse after that spanking, most likely from the pressure on my abdomen while laying on the bed. Two weeks earlier my doctor made me cry when he palpated the area during my pelvic exam and told me to call him back if it didn't get better. So yesterday I finally gave in and called. And he ordered another ultrasound (I had one a year ago when I fell down the stairs). Which sucked because any sort of palpation of the area hurts, so you can imagine what it felt like with a gooey joystick rolling around on it.

The lady who did mine this morning was very sweet and tried to be as gentle as possible. After she finished, I dressed while she reviewed the images.

"And I did get the spot that hurts?" she asked before I left.

"Oh yeah," I said with a rueful chuckle.

Radiology techs are generally cryptic when it comes to telling you what they see on your pictures. But I'm kinda thinking that's as close to "I didn't see nuthin'" as it gets. At least I won't have to wait too long to find out if I'm right as I see my doctor again tomorrow.

So, I guess you can say my ass is grounded for the moment. And I can't help but wonder, will Michelle's ass be able to come out to play on Monday for my birthday?

Sugasm #153

The best of this week’s blogs by the bloggers who blog them. Highlighting the top 3 posts as chosen by Sugasm participants. Want in Sugasm #154? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom .

This Week’s Picks

For tonight, we’ll forget who and what we are.
“I want to play with you all night.”

Please, please don’t
“It will hurt, but it will be fine”

Rough
“I want you on top of me.”

Sugasm Editor
Radical Vixen

Editor’s Choice
Sometimes You Find You Get What You Need

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

See also: Fleshbot’s Sex Blog Roundup each Tuesday and Friday.