More fun than spanking porn?

Saturday evening I watched the 1961 film version of Lorraine Hansberry's remarkable play, A Raisin in the Sun.* It was a fascinating movie to watch at this moment in the African-American experience, as well as American history as a whole. I was savoring Hansberry's complex characters and incisive dialogue when it happened: somebody mentioned spanking.

"Go on in there and get ready for your beating," says Ruth to son Travis after he returns from wandering around the streets at night. It takes several minutes for the action in the living room to finish so that Ruth can head into her bedroom where Travis has been sent to prepare for his beating, despite the fact that Ruth "sure don't feel like whipping nobody" that night.

You know how you're reading a book or watching a movie and someone mentions spanking but it's only a mention? There is no actual spanking or if there is, it's only alluded to. And that allusion will keep you going for days as you ponder the logistics. At least that's the way it is for me.

What does getting ready for a beating entail? What position will he be spanked in? With what?

This also happened to me last summer when I was feeling well enough to finally read A Hundred Years of Solitude.** Colonel Aureliano Buendia is trying his Conservative enemy (albeit a very friendly enemy), General Moncada, (who is mother has grown rather fond of) in a kangaroo court-martial. Along with several other women, Aureliano's mother, Ursula, pleads with the court to have mercy on Moncada and delivers a stern warning about what could happend if that mercy is not granted:

"But don't forget that as long as God gives us life we will still be mothers and no matter how revolutionary you may be, we have the right to pull down your pants and give you a whipping at the first sign of disrespect."

Yet as Colonel Aureliano Buendia tells Moncada after he's been condemned to the firing squad, "I'm not shooting you. It's the revolution that is shooting you." And as revolutions are hard to spank, Ursula ends up whipping no one. Well, except her son Arcadio a bit earlier in the story when he becomes a complete despot, but it was more in a "Jesus in the temple whipping the money-changers" sort of way rather than a maternal punishment.

At any rate, Ursula's courtroom warning had me entranced for days as I tried to picture this tiny, if strong 60-70ish year-old woman taking down the pants of a legendary revolutionary and spanking him. And I found myself asking many of the same questions I did on Saturday night about the spanking reference in A Raisin in the Sun.

Sometimes I think those references are more fun and provide more view for the imagination than spanking porn.

_____________
* A Raisin in the Sun: The Unfilmed Original Screenplay, Lorraine Hansberry, New York: Plume, 1991, p. 127.

**One Hundred Years of Solitude, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, New York: Avon, 1970, p. 153

Sugasm #157

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 #158? Submit a link to your best post of the week by emailing me directly at radicalvixenatgmaildotcom

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A 2009 Wish For Smut Writers
“Sex bloggers are on the cusp of what I see as being a new kind of sexual revolution.”

Q&A with Domina Doll
“I enjoy teaching others how to explore that aspect of themselves.”

Overtaken
“He kissed the side of my neck, sweeping my long hair out of the way, working his mouth across the side of my neck to press little bites along my collarbone.”

Sugasm Editor
Sex Work And Honesty: When The Truth Hurts

Editor’s Choice
Dictation with Davis

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Only a muddled rant about A. leaving

I was attempting to write a post threading the change in Washington that A. and I watched on Tuesday with the change happening to us that day, namely A.'s return to England the next morning. But my brain is goo. Liquidy gelatinous goo, matching my gooey limbs and gooey breathing and all around gooey ickiness.

Tuesday night before A. left was not nearly as erotic as last time. There was a little spanking (a few whacks of the ruler and the cane, respectively) and a lot less sleep (hence the current ickiness) as he had a very early flight so we just stayed up until it was time for him to leave.

This separation is probably going to be a long one thanks to the asinine vagueness of the Visa Waiver Program in which there is no rule about how many times a person can visit the US using the VWP, only that one cannot "abuse" it. And nobody from the State Department on down can say exactly what does constitute "abuse." It is solely up to the discretion of each individual border officer. So you can imagine the vicissitudes that accompany concentrating so much power into one lone bitchy bureaucrat with a small penis like the one who grudgingly let A. into the country when he arrived this last time, but only after a long lecture and final warning (implying earlier warnings that A. has no recollection of) about how A. is abusing the system by coming to visit so much. We are still trying to ascertain the nature of this "final" warning. Does this mean he can't visit anymore? Or that he needs to space the visits out more? Or...?

I can only hope that the change our new president is bringing with him will include, among other things, clearly articulated border policy. I mean, the UK manages to do it successfully. They state definitively that, say, I cannot be there more than six months out of any twelve-month period. Seems reasonable, no?

If only I was healthy enough to get on a plane for 14 hours...

Alright, enough of my rant.

My health has been really up and down lately -- and more down the last two weeks than up. My in plenum quickly vanished amid a bad reaction to a new medication that I still haven't quite recovered from. But once I do recover, I should be posting more, especially as I tend to do more writing when A. is gone.

Since this post has been short on anything remotely sexy, I'll send you over to this post I was reading a few days ago extolling the virtues of a well-arched female bottom awaiting a good hiding. Sometimes simplicity really is best.

Horror vacui

I'm trying to remember when A. first used the term vacuum to describe the absence of kink in this studio apartment. Sometime last month I think. After my birthday when the spanking that should have been wasn't.

It is natural to abhor vacuums, or so Aristotle said. Never mind that later physicists from Ibn al Haytham and al Jazari to Torricelli and Pascal concluded that nature was rather comfortable with her vacuums. And that since then we have found all sorts of ways to put nature's vacuums to good use cleaning carpets and lighting homes and sealing food and providing television.

Aristotle was merely wrong about the subject. It is not nature that abhors a vacuum but us. We cannot tolerate vacuums of power or money. Empty is almost always bad. Our very bodies will bloat and die after mere minutes in a vacuum. We need oxygen. Stuff. Someone. Spanking.

For weeks the libidinal pressure in this space dropped while the outside atmosphere remained saturated in sex, sucking up my nocturnal spanking fantasies -- the sedatives that put me to sleep each night. I had to switch my guided imagery techniques from imagining I'm a naughty girl having my pajama bottoms taken down and my bottom soundly spanked to imagining I'm releasing spent qi out of my fingers and feet. Low pressure indeed.

There is, of course, no such thing as a perfect vacuum, spanking or otherwise. A few weeks back I bent A. over the futon and filled our ephemeral vacuum with a cane and a riding crop and a strap and purples welts and red skin.

Apparently I did not fill it enough.

"Maybe next time you'll give me a proper beating," A. sneered later adding a handful of other smart-ass comments that I can't remember now. I never knew how adept he is at bratting for it. Like the bird in Boyle's airpump losing oxygen in the vacuum, he was losing the good sense to shut the hell up. A week or so later when I beat him again, he had to safeword out.

There was also the belated birthday spanking that I thought I was ready for. A. used the strap lightly and told me to tell him when the pain level got to 8 ½ or above. Except that once the strapping started, the pain clogged my brain to the point that I couldn't even think to say "stop!" I spent 36 strokes trying to evaluate whether my pain, or the strokes, or this pain compared to past strokes was at 8 ½ and if the strap would become more tolerable or if I could just bear a few more strokes or...

"Why didn't you tell me to stop?" he asked with the sort of worry that is both caring and cross as I sobbed and shivered in his arms.

The week before last I made it through a brief spanking with the ruler. On the bed over lots of pillows. With just enough sting to make me feel a little bit naughty and punished.

And last night he used the ruler on my backside again. Softly at first. Slowly building the sting so that I was soon squeaking and yelping. With his free hand he dipped his finger in my cunt. Circled my clit with it. Shoved his thumb up my ass.

"I think your ass is over due being violated," he whispered with a leer. "In fact, I think what you need is a giant piece of ginger up your ass."

"Like the ginger I bought a Limbo's last week?"

I gave him that look. The Do Me Now look.

A. made off to the kitchen. Returned a few minutes later and pulled my cheeks apart. Shoved a large chunk of peeled ginger into my hole and twisted it around inside. Left it there while the juices seeped into my sensitive tissues. Grabbed the ruler and spanked me several more times. Turned on the Miracle Massager and thrust the vibrating head against my cunt.

In vacuo gave way to in plenum. Lovely, wonderful plenum.

Gotta love the bubble butt

Another link to an Alternet article, this time about butts and the changing aesthetic in favor of big booties, which I imagine will please many a spanko.

In mainstream U.S. culture, "bubble butts" have typically been associated with "lowly" subject positions or "vulgar" sexuality. Calling too much attention to one's behind is considered uncouth in polite society, a nasty reminder of forbidden or distasteful acts. A big butt is associated with "unnatural" sex, excrement or the excess and physicality identified with "darker" races. This body metaphor helps us constitute social identities and subject positions.

...In recent years, however, Americans have been enjoying a butt fling. Voluptuous female buttocks have become a valuable commodity, exploited in advertising campaigns, music videos and specialty men's magazines. This butt appeal has produced a profitable commercial market for "bootyful" women.

One of the things I found interesting -- and rather puzzling -- was a reference to the fact that many men were reticent about saying that they like women with larger asses. This was particularly interesting in light of a number of comments following the piece in which several men agreed that they like women with voluptuous derrieres, but felt the need to add a disclaimer that the woman shouldn't be fat. The knee-jerk fat-phobia, not to mention blatant objectification of women in the comments section was a bit depressing. The article itself, however, detailing the sexual freedom and ethnic and class associations with bubble butts was fascinating.

"Is it a birch? Is it a cane? No, it's..."

Part of a selection of "the most WTF comic books ever" at King-Mag.com. The bottom in me does find a delicious sort of amusement at Pa/Principal Kent's poor hand...

Knock on wood there will be a post of substance tomorrow.