Five fantasies I'd like to forget

There are some spanking fantasies that have been with me for decades and are still as powerful as the day they first emerged from my psyche.

Like a medieval monastery fantasy I dreamed up during my sophomore year in high school that is woefully inaccurate historically, but still makes an appearance some nights when the lights are out (and begs to be written down). Come to think of it, there were a number of medieval fantasies that I had during high school -- all of which I still enjoy to this day.

But there are some fantasies I had when I was younger and less politically aware that make me cringe now. Or were even embarrassing at the time but my spanko imagination couldn't help itself. Below are five fantasies I'd like to forget:

1. Binyamin Netanyahu

You have to appreciate my non-kink life to understand how embarrassing this one is. Prior to becoming ill, I was an academic who studied an aspect of the Israel/Palestine conflict and at one point in grad school protested in front of the Israeli Embassy in Washington chanting "Netanyahu hey hey hey, how many kids did you kill today?!." My politics have changed substantially from 8-9th grade when I was a good little Evangelical Republican who woke up at 6am during summer vacation to swoon over Ollie North at the Iran-Contra hearings (though, oddly enough, I don't remember having spanking fantasies about him).

The fantasy I had about Netanyahu went as follows: I'd be in Jerusalem studying...something (you must indulge me regarding specifics as this was a fantasy from over two decades ago). For reasons that are utterly lost on me now, I'd end up amnesiacal in front of the Netanyahu residence where they would take me in and I'd become their adopted daughter and he'd be the strict daddy. I have some vague memory of doing something naughty that merited a severe spanking, but I'm afraid I can't remember exactly what it was (being out late maybe?).

So there. That is my most bizarre and embarrassing fantasy ever. Ever.

2. Mu'ammar al-Qadhaafi

This one is a very close second as Qadhaafi is the kookiest damn "Leader and Guide of the Revolution" ever to grace the League of Arab States. But it was 1986 and we'd just bombed Libya and I'd heard about how his adopted daughter had been killed. The idea that he had adopted a daughter -- and was mourning her loss -- gave him a sort of "caring daddy" image. Yet I was also a devout Evangelical girl with martyr fantasies. Combine devoted patriarch with cruel Oriental sheikh and a fantasy emerged where I was captured and forced to renounce my faith. When I refused, I was beaten severely. However I was able to finally win him over with my sensitive attention to his grief. It filled many a night with warm, tingling feelings I didn't understand; I just knew I kind of liked them.

Though I wish it might have been a real Oriental sheikh rather than some loony, flamboyant, wannabe Maoist.

3. Ronald Reagan

Again this was during my Republican youth and is a bit convoluted. It starts with a story that involves a crusty, stern grandfather and generous big brother who goes off to war and dies. This story would then be bought by Hollywood and I would be cast as his errant granddaughter (who would be getting spanked, of course) and Ronald Reagan, deciding to do a bit more acting after leaving the Oval Office, as the grandfather.

Not only is this fantasy utterly ridiculous, but as a pinko commie liberal (actually I'm too left wing to even be a liberal) the idea of being spanked by a guy who beat protesters, was economically reckless, subverted the Constitution to fund death squads, and dissociated Americans from the very government they comprise (to name just a few of my problems with his presidency) makes me wince a bit now.

4. A College Group Pastor

I have fantasized about almost every single pastor I've ever had save for a few. However one of the college group pastors I had was a guy I had very little respect for as a person (he was arrogant, thick, and manipulative), and when I fantasized about him spanking me, I couldn't help but feel a bit dirty. He had small children and we were Baptists so the topic of spanking was sprinkled throughout conversation, which invariably led me to imagine him spanking me for various misdeeds. When he left his wife and kids to run off with a girl from our college group a few years later (actually both of the college pastors I had went on to do this), I felt even dirtier.

5. Professor and Skipper from "Gilligan's Island":

I couldn't have been older than six, but might have been as young as five. It's not so much that I'm terribly embarrassed about who I was fantasizing about. They aren't your typical strict daddy stereotypes, but they can certainly work in a spanking fantasy. It's that my enthusiasm for this fantasy to be realized led me to tell some kids at the playground I was actually going to be on "Gilligan's Island," which was especially difficult given that the show was no longer being filmed. It only took me another year or so before I was old enough to understand what an ass I'd made of myself with the neighbor kids.

Unusual fantasies that I'm not necessarily ashamed of but are, admittedly, weird:

Supreme Court Justice David Souter: He was a single man who spent his nights alone reading law texts when George H.W. Bush appointed him, giving him an Atticus Finch sort of aura. The fact that he moved to the left over the years with me made that aura even stronger.

Uncle Jesse from the "Dukes of Hazzard": I was seven. He threatened to give Bo and Luke a whipping. I think I even thought up a whole fantasy but can't remember it now.

John Sager: When I was in sixth grade I went through a phase where I was obsessed with all things related to Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. In reading about them, I also read a lot about the Sager orphans they adopted, the oldest of whom was John, who had to parent his younger siblings on the Oregon Trail until they reached the Whitman Mission. In one story I read, he gave one of his younger sisters a spanking when she got out of bed to play while she was sick -- not to mention was spanked himself in that book if I remember correctly (I should also note the book was so historically inaccurate it might as well have been fiction). Needless to say, I was in love, albeit with someone who had died 140 years earlier.

A father ant: In fourth grade I wrote a seven page story about a family of ants with a father who was so real in my mind that I imagined being his naughty little girl ant. I'm not even exactly sure how one ant would spank another ant.

So there you have it, dear reader. As if getting spanked isn't embarrassing enough, I've now outed my very active but remarkably strange imagination.

oOo

And don't forget the 5th blogiversary contest continues. Please come help me celebrate my half decade of blogging about spanking.

Spanking and the spiritual imagination

Last week (when I started this post) I had a couple of comments from individuals of a spiritual nature. It's made me think about how much I've talked about my own faith over the years here. Indeed, when I did a search for the word "church" on this blog, I was surprised at how many posts came up. And how many of them were some of the most personal posts I've written.

My spiritual life began early. I grew up Conservative Baptist. Accepted Jesus into my heart when I was four years old. Later I participated in AWANA, where I wowed adults and kids alike with my Bible memorization prowess (I still own my gray uniform with all the patches and trinkets on it that, if it only still fit, would make a perfect outfit in which to be spanked). In junior high I was crowned Miss CBA -- a title I won based on my biblical knowledge and public speaking skills rather than my looks -- and my duties in that role included going to girls' retreats where I shared what Jesus had done for me. At 14 years old I certainly didn't have a testimony about a life steeped in sin and debauchery, but I was quite honest when I talked about how the Jesus in my heart and my mind was with me through my mother's divorce, dating, and remarriage, as well as life with my new, abusive stepfather.

Spanking, of course, was also in my heart and head. Being among Baptists meant my imagination was frequently fed with tales about daddys' belts and paddles with Bible verses on them from friends, youth leaders, and pastors. And even though I was about as good a girl as it gets (to the point that every now and then -- to my great chagrin -- parents would ask my friends why they couldn't "act more like Michelle"), I spent a lot of time wishing for and imagining some sort of strict but loving father figure, such as the angel in this story. Though that fantasy was not yet in its Byzantine incarnation.

The Byzantine part came in graduate school. While I remained a devout Christian all through college (I even went to an Evangelical university -- at least for my freshman year until I couldn't afford it any longer and had to transfer to a state school), I became an increasingly uncomfortable Evangelical. A great deal of that had to do with the fact that I was studying the history of Evangelicalism as part of my research, which is sorta like seeing how sausage is made. I think I was also bored with the liturgical aspects of Evangelicalism -- or rather, the lack thereof. I've always craved ritual. As a teenager during Holy Week I would try diligently each day to follow the events of the week in the Gospels. And in college I put together a mixed tape of contemporary Christian music that had to do with Easter. But it felt so woefully inadequate.

When I finally started attending an Orthodox church, the priest's wife -- who was herself a former Evangelical -- welcomed me to "Easter on steroids." I loved it. As well as the Divine Liturgy -- the equivalent of Mass. It felt so other-worldly. So vertical. So connected with my spiritual imagination and my hunger for ritual. There was an aesthetic about it that my very cells relished. Though I became an Orthodox catechumen, at the end of the day I ended up Catholic for theological reasons that seemed very important to me at the time but seem less important now. And thankfully there was an Orthodox liturgical equivalent in the Catholic Church -- the Byzantine or Greek rite.

Around the same time as my chrismation (or confirmation) I began to explore my spanking kink, and I feel certain that connecting with ritual and my imagination on a spiritual level prompted me to connect to ritual and my imagination on a sexual level. Indeed one of the things I loved about my new faith was how sensual it was. How the Byzantine church seeks to utilize each one of the five senses in worship.

I certainly don't believe sex and spirituality are contradictory -- at least not now. At the time, however, they seemed as diametrical as they come, and I had no idea how to reconcile them. And so, like all good Catholics -- and, I would argue, good Baptists -- I simply dog-paddled about in guilt. I mean, what kind of good Christian girl posts to a newsgroup called soc.sexuality.spanking? Or talks to strange men on the Internet in spanking chatrooms?

Yet the Bible never says you shouldn't spank or be spanked. Indeed one could argue there are a fair number of verses to suggest it almost encourages it. But I couldn't deny a link between my spanking kink and sex. And sex -- and everything that goes with it -- was certainly bad. Or at least felt like it was. After a night of heavy petting and spanking play with a guy I was going out with, I quickly sought out my priest for confession. He counseled me that the only thing the Bible prohibited was sexual intercourse outside of marriage and for everything else, I was going to have to decide where I wanted to set the boundaries.

Clearly spanking was going to be well within the boundaries upon which I decided. But eventually as I became an increasingly uncomfortable Catholic and no longer took the Bible (or the Magisterium) as literally as I had before, fornication also moved to well within my boundaries. As has embracing the sexualities of others including not just homosexuality or BDSM, but polyamory and sex work. I don't doubt that my inability to attend Divine Liturgy on a regular basis (it's been two years since I was last able to go, though I hope my improving health will change that) hastened my changing faith. Or rather, made its evolution feel a bit less dissonant and guilt-ridden.

But as I said above, kink and faith are not necessarily dissonant. I think my favorite example of this is the story Raven shared in this comment about coming out to her spiritual director. "...[H]e reassured me that he didn't find it to be problematic or strange and thought it was a wonderful gift that God had given to me." Isn't it just? I responded to her comment at the time by mentioning something my priest had once said about how, because we are made in the image of God, when we hide who we really are to the world, we hide some aspect of God. I can't say that I understand the Divine well enough to know exactly what aspect of being kinky is part of being made in the image of God. But I know it is, and that knowledge that God not only accepts me but wants me to be the person made in the image of God that I am -- kinky and all -- is a powerful and liberating thing.

I think it's when I'm getting a particularly hard or specifically disciplinary spanking that I feel spanking intersect with the spiritual the most. It's like communion in a way. Instead of the Eucharist binding us together, it's a hairbrush or ping pong paddle. There is sacrifice, suffering, and redemption. Something transcendent that binds the two of us together into one whole, if only for a few minutes.

And in those few minutes, I'm so grateful to be a spanko. So savor the spiritual. Am so at peace with myself.

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Note: I found an old freewrite this afternoon when I was working on the last paragraphs of this post that I published over at the Punishment Book.

Permission not to be perfect

Last night while roaming around the spanking blogosphere, I happened upon the new Eric's Spanking Blagh, where Eric has introduced himself to readers with a lengthy story about a naughty coed whose drinking and inattention to her studies gets her a bad grade on a test and a sore bottom. It reminded me of the spanking fantasies I had when I was in college about having my own strict daddy or uncle. Indeed on the Southern California Evangelical campus I wandered, there was a grad student who looked to be in his forties who stood out amongst all the teens and earlier twenty year olds. I never actually talked to him, but I imagined on several occasions him giving me a few over the knee chats in his apartment in the graduate housing next to my dorm.

By the end of my freshman year of college, having both a strict daddy and mommy was a dominant fantasy. I knew I wanted to study Arabic, and I imagined being adopted by a childless Arab couple who would use, er, traditional methods in teaching me their native tongue. If I tried to speak in English at all, I'd be spanked. You know, sorta like the Language Pledge at Middlebury College. And they would certainly see to it that I did my homework every night (no doing it in the middle of class like I sometimes did). They would probably even have very traditional views about boys and dating (i.e. mamnoo'a -- forbidden).

That fantasy remained with me throughout college and into graduate school, though I think I had a few fantasies about being spanked by my Arabic instructor in grad school, especially as he actually did rule our class with an iron fist. If the university would have let him get away with it, I don't doubt he probably would have included corporeal punishment along with the dictations he used to punish us with when he thought we weren't studying hard enough.

The thing is, though, that when I look back at what I was like in college, I had no real need for a strong disciplinarian, as much as I may have dreamed of having one. I never drank. To be sure, it wasn't readily available my freshman year at that Evangelical university where alcohol was prohibited. But then, so was pre-marital sex, yet that didn't stop a lot of my classmates from giving it up in their boyfriends' backseats. When I transferred to a state school where I could study Arabic, alcohol was readily available from my friends who at times pleaded with me to have a drink with them. But I didn't drink because I was a Baptist. And the family I lived with from my church maintained a most assuredly dry home.

Not only did I not party, but I also kept my nose in the books. Sure, I procrastinated at times, slacked off here and there. But I had to have some sort of a social life, even if I insisted on being home by 9pm so I could get to bed by 9:30-10 at the latest. Yes. You read that right. I went to bed most nights well before 10pm throughout college. It boggles my mind now. Even I want to tease my undergraduate self for acting like such an old maid, as my friends often did. The only thing that saved me from being the class goody-goody (at least in Arabic, in my Honors class I had the good girl position totally locked up) was a guy I'll call Clark, who transferred into our Arabic class after spending a year in Egypt. He did nothing but study Arabic when he wasn't in class. Well, that and go to church. By my senior year, he'd overtaken me in grammar as well as in being the teacher's pet. I hated him, even though he was a very nice guy -- a fact that made me hate him even more. Next to Clark I felt like the naughty girl, which a small part of me enjoyed a great deal.

Obviously at some point I moved into the real world. I mean, now I not only drink but fornicate -- and celebrate my deviant sexual behavior in a blog! It was a gradual change that started the second year of grad school when I finally had my first beer. But I didn't actually start exploring sex until after the surgery that triggered my ME/CFS and after converting to Catholicism. Perhaps my willingness to forsake the faith of my youth gave me the courage to forsake its mores as well. And as my body moved beyond my ability to rigidly control because of illness, I desperately needed an escape. As I explained in my earliest post, I needed to play. Badly. So I retreated into that world that before I had only allowed myself to escape to at night while drifting off to sleep.

It makes me smile a bit to look back and think of my longings for a disciplinarian as a college student. I still had a healthy sexual fantasy life despite how repressed I was. And even if the fantasies themselves were rather unconventional -- so much so that I didn't even connect them to sex at the time.

That hunger for more discipline is also perhaps a bit disturbing. I clearly had no need of a disciplinarian. But all I could see then was the failings one would have kept me from making, even as everyone around me was constantly in awe of how good I was. I wanted to be perfect and surely a disciplinarian would have taken me to the Promised Land.

Or maybe I did need one, but only as a way of telling me it was okay to be bad. You can't live the fantasy of being naughty and getting spanked unless, well, unless you're actually naughty, or at least pretend to be so. If I was still the good girl who went to bed at 9:30 every night and whose only fault was that she procrastinated a bit, there wouldn't be much fun.

Yes, in many ways I think there is a lot about this kink that, for me at least, is about having the permission to be naughty, even if -- or perhaps, so that -- I get spanked for it. I think in many ways what I longed for in college was the freedom to be a naughty coed without the world falling apart. I had worked too hard to get there, and had too many great plans (even if illness quickly whisked them away) to risk pregnancy or the zillion other things that could have gone wrong. The only way I could make sure (or so I thought) that everything went as they were supposed to was to be perfect.

I'm really glad I'm not perfect anymore. So very glad.

Coming out

A few months ago my best friend T. and I were talking about the process we each went through in discovering our core sexuality (homosexuality for him, spanking for me). At one point we began comparing when this exploration took place and he suddenly exclaimed, "oh wow -- you came out the same time I did!"

I had never really thought of my spanko discernment as "coming out" but as I thought about it some more, there were certainly a lot of parallels to the experience gay people have in processing their sexual orientation. Though to be fair, some of my experience also reflected a combination of situations specific to me. But hey, isn't that the way it is for everybody?

I never really dated growing up. As I considered why this was, my first thought was that I was a very devout Evangelical and very adamant about saving myself for marriage. In addition, I was generally too busy with raising my siblings and church activities and school to have much time for it. And besides, I was fat and guys weren't really all that into me.

Yet I knew plenty of other Evangelicals who were just as adamant as I was about sexual abstinence and somehow they managed to date (though I don't doubt that some of them eventually abandoned their refusal to fornicate). Likewise my sister -- the next one down from me who was supposed to help out with babysitting -- also dated (it helped that she started working fast-food when she was 15 and therefore was out of the house a lot more than I was). And though I was fat, there were guys who were into me. It's just that I wasn't really all that into them.

That lack of connection really is what kept me from dating. Like most teenagers, I certainly fantasized about having a boyfriend and doing all those things girlfriends and boyfriends do (with the exception of sex), but that cultural expectation wasn't enough for me to date guys who were very sweet yet lacked that certain something I wasn't even aware yet I wanted.

And, of course, I fantasized a lot about getting spanked. Mostly by a stern but loving father-figure. Which caused me a great deal of angst because I didn't want to marry a guy in order to obtain the father I didn't grow up with. I wanted to be my future husband's partner. I mean, who wants to be married to someone who is a perpetual child? What sort of intellectual and emotional communion can exist in such a relationship?

Eventually Google came along and I found that I could have both: a loving disciplinarian and a partner. I remember those heady early days of exploring my spanking kink. Meeting all sorts of guys to spank me. Suddenly dating was easy. I finally had my first kiss -- at 27 from the first spanko guy I dated. Before I knew it, I was spanking around. I was a spanking slut, even if there was no sex involved.

Yet I worried what my friends might think. It felt weird hiding a whole part of my life -- and an increasingly important one at that -- from my friends and family. Indeed at one point T. complained that I was withdrawing from him, and he was right. I was so afraid I would accidentally spill the beans about my alternative life and I knew he would be horrified to know I was meeting guys off the Internet to spank me.

T. and I are very close. He was actually my sponsor when I converted to Catholicism and in the Byzantine rite I'd chosen, that made him my godfather. My priest even had to make sure that we wouldn't end up married down the line as it would be "awkward." My soon-to-be godfather hadn't come out yet, but like many fag hag relationships, we'd already explored the possibility of marriage and assured my priest there would be no potential bishopic dispensation needed. Looking back I know I was attracted to T. because he's such a natural disciplinarian. But like him, I hadn't come to terms with my own sexuality enough at the time to know the sort of verbal discipline he was so good at was not at all what I wanted. We did know, though, that there wasn't any chemistry even if we didn't know why yet.

In many ways I think the act of delurking on soc.sexuality.spanking five years ago really was a form of coming out, complete with coming out narrative, as it is for so many people introducing themselves in online forums. And the relief and euphoria that accompany finding other people like you probably is similar in some ways to the excitement T. felt when he first started dating and fucking guys, even if it lacks the pain and profound lifestyle change being gay was for my Arab-Catholic godfather.

It's funny but that above linked post, my spanking memoir, is invariably among the most popular pages -- if not the most popular post -- on this blog each day. This post, I suppose, is now a sort of adjunct to it, made possible by five and a half years of hindsight with which to analyze a bit deeper some of the issues I didn't understand quite yet then. Obviously, it was written before I met A. And I've also clearly decided against saving my hymen for a future husband. But then, how I came to that decision and my thoughts on marriage as an institution would be far more appropriate for an entirely different post. Probably on my non-kink blog.

When pervin' leads to thinkin'

Now that I lead a life of leisure, I've been working my way through my Netflix queue trying to catch up on cultural reference points, one of which was Midnight Cowboy. And not only did it helped me contextualize, "hey, I'm walkin' here!," but it even had something to feed my insatiable inner perv.

There's a dream sequence in which protagonist Joe (Jon Voight) is remembering a traumatic incident when he and his girlfriend are dragged naked from their car by a group of sneering, salivating men. Interspersed amid the haunting event are memories of Joe's grandma, including one in which she is giving him a spanking.




Half the men drag off his girlfriend and rape her, while the other half bend Joe over the front of the car and rape him (totally understand why this movie got an X rating back in 1969). As they pull his legs apart, there's another flash memory of his grandma preparing to give him an enema.




As you might imagine, the dream sequence was terrifically sexually charged for a pervert like me. Rape, spanking, anal rape over the hood of a car, an enema -- it's enough to get a girl rather hot and bothered.

But as I watched the dream sequence again to catch the spanking, it seemed like the boy was naked, which felt odd. I mean, it could have been that he had just gotten out of the bath or something. But the only children being stripped completely nekkid for a spanking I've ever heard of have been in spanking porn. And while it turns out that if you look at the picture closely there are pants scrunched up around his knees, it did make me wonder how much sexuality intermingles with the discipline of children, whether consciously or not.

I think about it a lot in terms of the environment in which I grew up. Not just in my family, but within the Evangelical community I was a part of throughout my youth. In first grade I went to a Fundamentalist Christian school where spankings were a daily occurrence. And on our birthdays the teacher would have us come to the front of the room, give us a traditional birthday spanking, as well as "a pinch for an inch" on our bottoms and "a hug to grow on." That's right, my first grade teacher pinched my ass. Now, I don't think she molested me or anything (though I doubt such a practice exists today at that school). She was a wonderful woman who would never have done anything to consciously harm a child.

Yet sexual awareness can be a lot like eating from the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil. Though I think there are better ways to teach kids other than hitting them, I also know I couldn't possibly spank any children I'd have because sexuality is so attached to it for me. And I'd feel profoundly uncomfortable playing "spanking tag" with my nieces today, while I didn't at all many years ago before I began exploring my spanking fetish.

I wonder if that's why today pedophilia has become worse than mass murder. Now that we've eaten the fruit of knowledge, it's opened our eyes, but now we're banished from the paradise of ignorance. Don't get me wrong, I in no way condone pedophilia. Those who cross the line from ignorant, harmless bottom pinching to purposely hurting kids to get their jollies should indeed be locked up. Yet, what happens when the line isn't clear? When a person gets her jollies, but isn't always aware of it? Or gets his jollies from spanking young girls, but only spanks girls over the age of consent who look like they're not? I feel safe about where the line is regarding the later question, but not necessarily about the former.

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned...

Between Mija's post at the Punishment Book and newsgroup pal Domino's story "Secret of the Confessional," a priest/penitent fantasy had been sounding mighty appealing. Then tonight I turned on PBS (yes, I know, I'm a total nerd) to watch "Secret files of the Inquisition" and when they talked about the practice of making repentant Cathars wear a yellow cross (which, in this show, were all women), well, what can I say? I think my spanko fantasies are now going into overdrive.

It's funny because I think one of the reasons that the priest/penitent fantasy works for me is because within the Roman rite (i.e. the vast majority of Catholics in the world), confession is so very different than in the Eastern Church. We have confession face to face, which makes it harder in some ways. Though the priests who have been my confessors (see here, for example) have generally been very kind -- including their facial expressions. The prayers are different. The listing of sins is discouraged in place of focusing on themes (at least in my experience). And, of course, penance is not meant to be punishment but medicinal. Going to confession is like going to the doctor.

So, reading Mija and Domino's posts almost felt like reading about a different culture. A culture that felt uncomfortable to my spiritual self, but tantalizing to my kinky self.

Inspiring saints

I get daily readings from the Greek Orthodox archdiocese each day in my email inbox. It includes the epistle and gospel reading of the day, as well as the apolytikion and kontakion (types of hymns) for the saint whose feast day it is.

And -- lordy I'm going to hell -- frequently the biography of the saint so sets off the spanking fantasies for me.

Consider yesterday's - St. Marina:

This Martyr lived during the reign of Claudius II (268-270). She was from Pisidia of Cilicia and was the only daughter of a certain priest of the idols.

On being orphaned by her mother, she was handed over to a certain woman who instructed her in the Faith of Christ. When she was fifteen years old, she was apprehended by the ruler of Olmbrius, and when asked her name, homeland, and faith, she answered: "My name is Marina; I am the offspring of the Pisidia; I call upon the Name of my Lord Jesus Christ." Because of this she endured bonds, imprisonment, and many whippings, and was finally beheaded in the year 270.

You do kinda wonder if whoever put together the lives of the saints had a bit of a BDSM thing going.

Sexual submission

We've been having a thread over at soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup about sexual submission and innate personality traits and someone asked me what I thought makes someone sexually submissive. So here's what I said.

What makes you submissive, or even into spanking (if you prefer it on that basis)?

What makes somebody gay? What makes someone a switch?

Sexuality is an enormously complex phenomena involving neurophysiological aspects, environmental factors, spirtuality -- you name it. Therefore I think it's impossible to state what one thing does it.

Environmentally I grew up in a family and went to schools where spanking was present. But I like spanking and my sister doesn't. What made me go one way and her the other?

My boyfriend claims his desire to dominate sexually has come from growing up with five older sisters. However, because he grew up having to be submissive to women he could have just as easily grown up to express his sexuality in a submissive way. What made him go one way instead of the other?

Now, I do think the way I grew up has flavored the way I express my sexuality. And as I've been reexamining a life that has been very influenced by the Church and the medical profession (due to chronic illness) I am also appreciating there are aspects I don't want to be apart of my sexuality.

For instance, my illness has involved a number of dietary restrictions (at the moment, sugar because of antibiotic-induced yeast infections). While a couple of my fellow bloggers at the Punishment Book have utilized their kink as a means of enforcing dietary restrictions, I know because I grew up as a fat girl who had food frequently withheld as punishment for being something I couldn't help, using the threat of spanking would be an extremely unhealthy thing to add to my relationship with my boyfriend. Food and my relationship to it and my body are something I have to work out on my own and any sort of spanking would just muck up the whole thing for me.

I would also go further and say that I am concerned about the way others who express their sexuality submissively utilize D/s. Like those who say they want a DD relationship with their husband so they'll stop fighting all the time or have stopped fighting after starting one. I feel like this is an unhealthy substitute for developing good interpersonal skills.

I can say that I, and some sexual submissives, can at times lack a certain connection to who they are and therefore exhibit a certain inability to set boundaries or make healthy choices (and I know some sexual dominants who have the EXACT same problem) and being submissive can seem easier because it lets someone else do the thinking for us. I DON'T believe D/s is a good way to deal with this problem. Only I can decide who I am. Only I can develop that sense of self that can provide the foundation for making healthy decisions about boundaries and behavior. Attempting to use D/s to provide that is an ineffective way to learn healthy coping and behavioral skills and can even get in the way of ever doing so.

Ultimately I'm sexually submissive because, well, it's a hell of a lot of fun. :)

A few things

Okay, gonna try and post this again. Tried to last night but my laptop shut down abruptly when it got too hot (one of the downsides of the Averatec) and I lost the post. Though I had already been online for about four hours, so it was probably some divine way of making me go back to resting (A. will be so pleased).

At any rate, one -- I'm out to my godfather, aka...er, what do you call your gay best friend when you're the hag? He's my godfather because he was my sponsor when I became Catholic six years ago and in the Byzantine rite that makes him very distinctly my godfather (indeed my priest quizzed me about whether or not there was a chance we might get married because that would be "awkward" and involve some sort of dispensation from the bishop). When he came out of the closet a couple of years later, it took our godfather/goddaughter relationship to new levels -- for the best, I believe.

Like many hag/gay guy relationships before the guy realizes he's gay, we tried going out for a bit but, of course, had no sexual chemistry. So we were talking the other night about how neither of us really understood what sexual chemistry was like until we started to explore our sexuality as it was meant to be. And I had to explain that happened for me when I typed "spanking" into Google.

"That's a huge one [fetish]."

Yup, it is indeed.

Second, I just watched All About Eve a few nights back and -- omg -- is the relationship between Margo and Bill not just gushing with spanking tension? You could cut it with the proverbial, cliched old knife. Oh, and brilliant movie by the way. Great writing.

Third, being out a bit more now has bumped up my spanking mojo a bit. The liberation of it all, perhaps? Chatting with him helped me clarify in my mind a bit more how to explain my attraction to the sub-fetish within spanking that is the punishment kink.

However, I've been on the laptop another four hours now after reading email and chatting with A. so I'll have to write more about those thoughts another time.

Still no spanking mojo

Well, I didn't want the month to go by without posting something.

My health is a little bit better. Under the care of the urogynecologists up at Oregon Health Science University, I'm sans UTI for the moment, most likely because they are keeping me on antibiotics indefinitely. Aside from the persistent yeast infections that aggravate my pelvic pain (which all the yogurt, probiotics, garlic supplements, aloe vera juice, caprylic acid, Shen Bai wash, elimination of sugar and yeast, and just about any other home remedy you can think of have not eliminated), my pain level has dropped back down to the point where my narcotic use this month has been about half of what it was last month.

But there hasn't been much sign of my spanking mojo.

Even now that A. has gone back to the U.K. (we kept joking that it'd come back the minute he left).

Yeah, a lot of it is just pain phobia and lack of any sort of a libido. While the bladder pain is mostly gone, my skin is now having problems with heat (I itch like crazy after a hot bath or doing the dishes or now even turning the heat on). I normally have minor problems with eczema but this seems to be different and any friction aggravates it to no end. I see the doctor on Friday to see what fresh hell this is.

However, the issue has been more emotional. I guess it's just that the idea of being controlled, even just for play, isn't at all appealing. Some of that probably does have to do with the lack of control over my body I've had these last several months, though I haven't had a lot of control over my body for years now. And maybe that's just it. I think that lack of control has accumulated to the point where I just feel like rebelling. Of telling those wanting to control me -- doctors, the Church, society -- to fuck off.

And, well, needless to say, it's seeped into my sexuality for the moment.

Now, I've been fantasizing about being spanked just about every day of my life since I was six or so. And not having those familiar fantasies to lull me to sleep at night has been rather disorienting. But, I know that once the dust settles, I'll be back to my naughty little girl self.

In the meantime, I'm sorta coming in touch with my feminist self. Which doesn't bother A. too much. His only request was, "please don't stop shaving your pussy."

Oh what I do for the Patriarchy... ;)

Curious about control

I've been thinking a lot lately about the idea of control and spanking. People often talk about the loss of control they feel when they are spanked and the appeal of that loss of control. However, I've never really had that loss of control. I always know the spanking is something I agreed to. Maybe not that specific one, but in general I agreed to do or not do whatever and the consequences for doing or not doing whatever. That I can stop it at any moment, but chose not to even though it hurts a ton.

I suppose it's something I'm more curious about than anything. The only times I've ever felt a real loss of control, it's been the few times A. and I have played "Master and slave" and then it's been a horrible feeling, despite being very aroused when we talk about it doing it. Like what I used to feel with my stepfather. So, we're going to change some of the ways we play so I don't end up in that headspace.

But I guess I wonder about it in terms of that feeling of being little -- that Natty part of me -- that I really do like. Do I reach that little feeling better when I'm not in control like an adult? If so, then I how do I do that?

I suppose I always approach spanking as an adult, even though the appeal of it has to do with feeling like a child. Of being able to be this childlike part of me that rarely gets to come out. Yet, I need to approach it as an adult in order to protect that childlike part of me.

Plus, well, there's a lot about being an adult that I like. I remember a few years ago I was standing on a curb next to a mother and her child waiting to cross the street. The mother told her child that they couldn't cross the street because the big orange hand was up. I looked to my right and left and noticing that there wasn't a car coming, went ahead and crossed the street. "Mommy, why is she crossing the street?" the kid asked. I chuckled to myself and thought, because I'm a grown-up and I can.

Or the other night when I was in a chat room with a friend while I was watching "South Park." She happens to think it's um...well, not the most edifying show and as she switches, suggested maybe "mother" should come in and make me stop or else. I laughed and said "oh, I'd just leave then."

Yeah, I don't really like someone controlling my viewing habits either.

I dunno. I suppose having been a parent of sorts, I don't believe parenting is about controlling children, but about providing a safe environment that allows them grow as human beings. For my stepfather, it was all about control. And I suppose when it comes to being that child-like part of me, the adult part of me doesn't really want her to be controlled but to grow as a human being.

Though, I suppose there is also the appeal of an all-wise parental figure, sorta like the tradition of the spiritual father/mother we have in the Eastern Orthodox/Byzantine Church telling me what to do and following him or her regardless. But then, they don't really make good partners for, um, other things...

I do think there's still an element of the adult-me taking over during a spanking when I really need to let that Natty part of me be the one getting spanked. I guess you could say that in subtle ways I can be a real control freak.

Hence my utter wonder at the whole "losing control" thing.

Naughty priest

Nah, not THAT kind.

A chat pal was telling me tonight about a conversation she had with the priest at a wedding she attended this weekend. They sat across from each other at the rehearsal dinner and talked about how they both had problems getting to places on time. "I need a spanking," the priest told her.

Hmm...maybe he should consider joining Opus Dei.

A. tends to think spanking is a good remedy for tardiness too. ::sigh:: Six strokes with the brush for every minute I'm late. And, well, I have to admit, it's pretty damn effective. I haven't been late to a medical appointment in months and months. Granted, Medical Transportation has been taking me to my appointments over the last several months. But even when I've been able to go on my own, I've actually arrived a few minutes early. You know, just to make extra sure I don't get that damn brush. ::shiver::

Stripedy like a zebra horse

Oh my - two posts in one day! (A. has been out for the afternoon -- he he he.)

One of the cool things about not being able to use use my computer as much has been that I've been reading more. You know, books.

Like, The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingslover. A brilliant book about about a family of Baptist missionaries from Georgia who go to bring the Word of God (whatever that is) to the Congo in 1960 as told through the wife and four daughters of the misogynist, racist, clueless minister. And being a Free Will Baptist minister (indeed I remember hearing once that Conservative Baptists were found to be the most frequent users of corporal punishment), he is liberal with his use of the rod so there are frequent spanking references. My favorite is from five-year old Ruth May:

"That razor strop burns so bad, after you go to bed your legs still feel stripedy like a zebra horse."

Confessions of a structure junkie

Well, my academic career is over. At least for the foreseeable future. Two years ago when I started taking classes after a leave of absence for illness, I managed a good productive six months or so catching up on incompletes. Then last year it was one health crisis after another and aside from a bit of reading and publishing a couple of book reviews and a review essay, there wasn'’t much progress.

[...]

Though by this winter I was feeling better and thought maybe it was time to dive back into the thick of things. So, I registered for some classes thinking that the interaction and structure of the classroom would help me back onto the path of academic accomplishment from which illness had led me astray.

Yet, as I recounted in the "“school girl pt.2" post, I was pretty damn tired by the end of the first week. After dropping a class and just focusing on the one, I struggled along for a month. However, by May I was bedridden and began to finally face the painful truth: it's over. Over after six and a half years of stubbornly insisting that I was going to get better and get back onto the academic fast track I spent my undergraduate years and first year and a half of my MA program doggedly pursuing before surgery and blood clots in my lungs and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome reared their hideous heads. I cannot push my body anymore. And frankly, I can'’t push my brain anymore either. At the end of the day, my illness takes all the intellectual energy I have that would otherwise be spent on examining how a series of Christian historical fiction novels about the founding of the State of Israel in 1948 reflect and shape a collective memory among American Evangelicals.

Aside from the gaping hole in my personal identity with academia taken out of the equation, the big issue for me in finally giving up school was that I would have no structure. I found myself becoming depressed each morning when I woke up. What would I do today? Not that I've had much structure for the last year and a half. But that was supposed to be temporary. I always had something hanging over my head waiting to be done. Now it was gone. What on earth was I going to do from now on? What was there to wake up to?

School has always defined my goals. It was what provided structure growing up when there was none at home. I hated summers. Summers were this excruciating ordeal of housekeeping and television. There was some reading and writing. But, without a teacher and an assignment and a deadline, there wasn'’t anything to make sure I really accomplished anything. By the beginning of August I was always jittery with school withdrawls. Need...structure...{leg bouncing while reading old textbook} must...have...assignments... (Funny episode of the Simpsons where the teachers strike, and Lisa gets out her emergency school kit--that was so me.).

Sure, I did read my share of books. But, I wanted so much more. I wanted to learn more. To be pushed more. Obviously my spanking fantasies converged with this and still do. When I read Mija'’s and Haron's punishments a few months back for not working on their respective dissertations, I was rather envious. And when I read Claire'’s description of enacting a "sixteenth-century boarding school"” regime to get some of her work done, all I could think was, omg, I soooo want that.

Have always wanted that.

Of course, all the punishment in the world wasn'’t going to change the fact that I wasn'’t getting much done. But I wanted it to be something a good spanking could cure.

School in real life was not nearly that draconian, even if I wished it was. And the threat of getting anything less than a perfect grade was far more motivation than spanking would have been. Though there were moments. There were teachers who would give me "A" minuses for work they would give other students "A"”s. My undergraduate French professor (who I think was a spanko and at the very least was a nun sans habit) was the most egregious in this respect. She often pushed me much harder than the other students in class. At first I thought she just didn'’t like me, and I certainly wasn'’t too keen on her. Indeed, she almost made me cry in class once. It wasn't until that summer I learned the truth when a friend of mine pointed out that this prof only pushed me because she liked me. And you can even say there was even a bit of corporal punishment when, at a wine and cheese event we both attended, I made a comment to her that my Arabic was taking over my French and she smacked me on the arm--only half playfully. By that point I took it as the highest form of affection she could have shown. :)

But, even if school life was hardly that of Tom Brown, there was structure. Goals to accomplish. Degrees to pursue. Schools to get into. Courses to take throughout the summer. I liked doing homework outside in the sun.

And now that I can't handle assignments and deadlines, life feels like one very long August.

Okay then, if I am to be the patient, I will find structure in that. Create structure for that. And I have a boyfriend who likes enforcing structure, so surely something will be accomplished.

So, I tried to set up a daily regime. Ride my exercise bike. Do some yoga or qi gong, as well as forty-five minutes of meditation. Eat a low sodium diet. Write in my journal every day. Take all medicine and supplements every day. Do the moxa and massage every day. And physical therapy exercises every day. And...and...

But there were also medical appointments to attend. Transportation to coordinate. Case workers to meet with. Housing options to figure out and applications to fill out. Insurance denials to appeal.

And, of course, get some rest. Something my body was as determined for me to get as I was about creating structure in my academy-less life.

When I announced to my boyfriend that I was going to start sending him a schedule again with my new illness-related to-do list, his response felt tepid. When I then promptly forgot to send it to him and he didn't say anything, I figured he wasn't too keen on the idea. Granted, I think he just hasn't been in the mood to be much of an "enforcer"” but as I was exhausted with anemia by that point, I decided to forget about it. Not because I wanted to but because I was just too damn listless to discipline myself to do much of anything.

But I could be doing so much more as a patient. I should be...

A few nights back my godfather and I were talking. He is only a year older than me but was my sponsor when I became Catholic five years ago and in the Byzantine rite that makes him my godfather. He feels closer to me than just a friend and has a paternalistic streak about him that makes him feel very godfatherly sometimes. At one point as I told him about all the bureaucratic shit I'’ve been having to deal with in addition to being sick and all that I was doing to deal with being a good patient, he stopped me. "Do you remember right after I came out and I kept calling myself a ‘faggot’ because I was angry at myself for being gay?"” Of course I did. He was a good Arab Catholic boy who was supposed to marry a good (hopefully) Arab Catholic girl and have lots of good Arab Catholic babies, except that he finally realized he was attracted to boys. I knew the rejection of his Church and culture were agonizing for him and it was agonizing for me to watch him reject himself. "“And remember how you said to me, '‘have mercy on yourself?'’ Well, now it's my turn. Michelle, have mercy on yourself. You'’re dealing with so much right now. Please be kind to yourself. All the other stuff will come in its own time."

Yes...yes, it will.

So, in addition to letting go of my academic career, I'’m also trying to let go of my incessant need for structure. It'’s funny because the stereotype of the top/bottom relationship is of a control freak and passive submissive. In reality, I'm the one who is the control freak and has tried to use spanking as a way to control my world (again, see "school girl pt 2"). But I think for right now, I'’m going to just rest. Quit trying to impose structure on myself and just be. And let the structure rise up on its own, however long it takes and in whatever form it takes.

Spanking dreams

Have any of you ever had a dream where you get spanked (or are spanking) in a dream?

I have before but the one I had this afternoon during a nap was the first one where I woke up rather aroused.

I don't remember it all that clearly, just that I was talking on the Internet and then my boyfriend was suddenly around. First he spanked me with his hand otk. Then there was some sort of audience in what looked a lot like the balcony in my old church but with a swimming pool below. My boyfriend was at the front and people were sitting there and I had to walk down to him and then sort of kneel down or something and then he whipped me with a riding crop.

[...]

That's when I woke up.

Yeah, I miss my boyfriend a lot. And getting spanked. :)

Though, my fantasies of late have been far more tame. More the little girl otk thing. Real life has been tough these last few weeks. My foray back into the classroom has been a disaster health-wise. I'm now being added to the elite group that, along with those 65 and older, gets to participate in Meals on Wheels (though I should say that I'm so relieved as I've been struggling to cook myself healthy meals on a regular basis). There are times when I start to think my therapist's suggestion about using a walker may not be such a bad one. And my mom made a comment the other day that by the time I am a senior citizen, I'll have the whole thing down pat.

That made me feel oh so much better.

Needless to say, ageplay has a lot of appeal at the moment.

Think I'll head to bed now and drift off to sleep to memories of past times when my boyfriend and I have dabbled with ageplay and I sat in his arms on the couch as he read me Amelia Bedelia...

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.

Mighty Believer v. Catholic School Girl

Which Circle? Archives: Mighty Believer v. Catholic School Girl


If any of you are familiar with Campus Crusade or InterVarsity or any sort of Christian campus ministries, you'll appreciate this site. And if you're a perverted spanko like me, you'll love the above link.

Hell, I think I'm going to make that the wallpaper on my computer.

Thanks to Domino for posting this on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. She always finds great stuff online. And probably deserves a good spanking for being on the Internet too much. (So, if you're a no nonsense Scotsman with a thick tawse, I know a naughty lass in your neighborhood ;) )

My blessed willow switch

In my Carpatho-Rusyn Byzantine rite Catholic parish we call today "Flowery Sunday" rather than "Palm Sunday" because, well, let's face it, there aren't too many palm trees in Eastern Europe. So, instead of blessing a bunch of palm branches and marching around the church, the priest blesses a bunch of willow switches and we all march around the church.

And being the pervert that I am, all I could thinking of was, "hey, if these switches are blessed, does that mean the spanking you get with them is a blessed spanking?"

It also occurred to me that the Easter Monday tradition of boys spanking girls with a pomlazka in Moldavia and Bohemia, from where our particular ethnic branch of the rite hails, may have just as much to do with, well, doing *something* with all those blessed switches as it does with fertility and gettting rid of all the bad stuff accumulated during winter.


pomlazka

I know that's all I could think of during church as the kids whipped the thin, green switches through the air during the procession.

And in the fellowship hall afterwards.

And all I can think of still as my blessed willow switch sits on my table (which will probably not be quite so green and swishy by the time my boyfriend gets back over in a month or so).


My blessed willow switch

Wholeness of being

Most people think of spanking exclusively in terms of sexuality. And well, certainly the buttocks are physiologically set up for a great deal of erogenous potential. However, I find that spanking is a core part of me that taps into almost every aspect of who I am, with sexuality being only one part.

I've been reading a book recently entitled Being Human that has helped me be able to articulate all the different ways spanking is a part of my being. The authors synthesize comparative religion, biology, neuroscience, and psychology to form a model or construct for explaining the different aspects of what it means to be human that includes four basic aspects or forces. The material aspect relates to our genetic makeup and family history. The vegetal force is made up of the sensory information we translate into feelings as well as our connection to the Divine. The animal force is that part of us that is protective, always alert to danger, is ambitious, aggressive, and manifests our sexuality. The human aspect is the steward of the first three and is the part that takes all that exists in those lower three forces and combines them with analysis, thought, and language. Integrity or wholeness is what links all of them together in proper order and proportion.

Spanking touches on each of those four. It was someting I first learned of in the setting of my family and whether it's environment or genetics (or both), it is something I have inherited. Spanking is a sensory celebration. I relish the pain/pleasure dynamic, the explosion of endorphines, the feel of the hand, wood, or leather on my skin, the care, trust and love it requires. Not only does it tap into my sexuality, but I have also used it to try and enforce my ambitions through discipline. It encourages, and indeed, demands that I reflect, analyze, and discuss.

Yet it is in regard to integrity where I have found myself thinking about spanking the most lately. While I like to think of myself as a person with integrity in the normal sense of the word -- honest, principled, good -- I lack the sense of wholeness the authors mean when they talk about integrity. When I try to imagine myself as one whole person, I can't. Instead I imagine a number of dissperate shards strewn about or a disjointed, abstract Picasso. The very purpose of my blog is to give voice to one of those shards -- a quite significant one that I often think of as an entirely different person called "Natty."

There's a reason for it, of course. It's what I have done to survive. I separated certain parts of myself that were not safe in my environment or that impeded me from doing those things which felt safe. In the Being Human model, my animal force is completely dominant. My ears are always pricked up waiting for danger, whether that be emotionally from years of child abuse or physically from years of chronic pain and illness. I've been constantly striving to be better than my peers academically for the sake of my career, as well as for the approval of my advisor, professors, etc. or striving to be a better Christian for the approval of God or my priest or the people at church. Approval that I've falsely equated with self worth.

A couple of weeks ago I was sitting talking to myself as I am prone to when I'm alone. At one point, I stopped and thought about what a silly habit it was as obviously no one else is listening. At that moment, my gaze happened to stop upon my small, laminated, paperboard icon of Christ above my computer, and I had one of those moments of Grace that those of you who are not religious will find quite possibly a bit uncomfortable to read about (and for which I'm not entirely unsympathetic), but during which I felt Christ remind me that He is always listening. Suddenly I felt that feeling of wholeness that I've been made aware I lack. Like all the pieces of me just suddenly lined up. Like I could feel them snap into place. Almost palpably down my chest. It was an amazingly profound moment of wholeness. A profoundly healing moment. Like Jesus had just extended his hand and healed me. Like someone-from-the-Vatican-was-going-to-be-
visiting-me kind of moment.

Later that evening I was waiting for my boyfriend to call. One of those days when I just really missed him. When he didn’t call, I felt very annoyed. I was desperately craving attention. And I think a part of me was a tiny bit envious of some of the recent experiences of my fellow writers at the Punishment Book. So, I decided that I wasn’t going to do any of the things on my list that I was supposed to do. Instead of reading and meditating and going to bed on time, I web surfed and hung out at chatrooms until the wee hours of the morning. But by the time I went to bed, I felt very embarrassed for what I’d done. What an absolutely silly, irrational, ineffective thing to do! I mean, it’s not like it really affects him if I don’t do what I’m supposed to do – *I* lose out. And if he’s in England, it’s not like he can give me that attention I was trying to get anyway. I was rather angry with myself. I’m 32 years old, not 8.

A few days later it occurred to me that I had done something similar last summer and wrote about it in my journal. Sure enough, on August 12th, I wrote:

"...Last night when I was reading for a review essay I need to write and having a hard time concentrating, I found myself doing something that I often do when it comes to academic stuff: I pretend I’m Natty and should be doing my homework and will get a spanking if I don’t. And often I’ll seek out a spanking for not doing my work as a way of giving Natty attention. Just like how real kids act up when they aren’t getting enough attention, even if the attention they get is not quite what they really want."

I had written about it in terms of *Natty* not doing her work in order to get spanked. As I thought about this, I smiled. What I had done that night when my boyfriend didn't call I did as *Michelle* not Natty. Maybe Jesus did heal me. Maybe I’ve finally integrated her into who I am as Michelle instead of some compartmentalized, separate piece of myself.

And it's not just "Natty." My body has also been a separate shard. I have become increasingly aware that almost from the day I was born there has been a full scale attack on who I am as a physical being. The more I think about it, the more I understand how my body and my mind/soul became separate. My body was clearly bad. It was fat and therefore clearly not reflecting the "victorious life in Jesus" my evangelical Protestant upbringing said I should have nor the healthy body my doctors bullied me about not having. It developed sexually too early when I finally had to start wearing a bra when I was nine years old because my breasts were large enough to fill a C cup. It hurt and was ill in ways laboratory tests could not explain.

But in my heart I was desperate to be a good girl. To follow the rules. Since my body was bad, I had to separate it from me. There was my deviant, disobedient body and my ever so obedient mind/soul craving what I understood to be "normal." As I’ve begun to appreciate the cultural, familial, medical and possible sexual violence done to my body, I’ve been able to integrate it into who I am as Michelle.

Who is fat.

And short.

And has a beautiful smile.

And soft, luscious skin.

And voluptuous curves.

And large, droopy breasts.

And a jiggly ass.

And a heart that breaks.

And hands and feet that hurt.

And a brain that thinks too much.

A body I want to protect. And nourish. And love. Not be drafted into, or even actively enlist myself into hating.

Spanking has been such a powerful way of integrating my body into me. It has provided a link between the physical sensation that I get from spanking and my soul. A way of loving my flesh, as ironic as it may be to others, by embracing the deviance of both my mind and my body.

It also becomes a tool that can remind me that I’ve lost that sense of wholeness, that connection to myself. An external way of connecting me back to whatever part of me I disconnected from, whether it be the academic, or the CFIDS/ME patient, the needy child or the protective adult. Or perhaps a means of putting back into proportion one of those aspects or forces that has come to dominate the rest of me. That makes me drive aggressively or push myself beyond what is healthy.

However, it is *a* way – not *the* way. A method I chose because it feels right for me. It has nothing to do with being an emotional female who requires a rational male to set me straight. It is genderless, as the amazing diversity of spankophiles demonstrates. Indeed, for me, spanking transcends sexual orientation. While the sexual aspect connects on a heterosexual level, the other parts of me find the same connection regardless of whether it is a man or woman who has me over his or her knee.

It's Lent now and in the Eastern Church we say a prayer each day by St. Ephraim of Syria that includes "Grant to me, your servant, a spirit of wholeness of being..."

Who would have thought that God, in part, would answer my prayer with a good, hard spanking.

[Cross-posted at The Punishment Book]

Story: Window into Heaven [MM/f, child]

As it's Lent, this seems like a good story to post. Please note that while this story does contain some autobiographical elements, it is fiction. The angel part? All made up. Not real.

Enjoy.

A Window Into Heaven [MM/f, child]


They are called “windows into heaven.” Depictions containing the energies of Christ, the Holy Mother of God, the saints, an event. As Julia stood in front of the rows of icons in that little shop, she could feel their power. St. George atop his white horse, lance stabbing at a dragon. St. John Maximovitch holding the Cathedral of San Francisco he helped build. The Theotokos of Vladimir, her head tilted toward the Christ Child, her smooth, maternal face up against his, her melancholy but caring eyes looking out. At Julia. She kissed her middle three fingers and pressed them against the Holy Mother. Crossed herself. Resumed her search. There. Between St. Michael the Archangel and the Annunciation…

His hair was longer than she remembered it being. But the eyes were the same. He was holding the hand of a small girl. With eyes remarkably like hers. In the other hand, he held a scroll: “He shall give His angels charge over you to keep you in all your ways.”

*****

The babysitter’s house was only a few blocks from school. Convenient for Julia to pick up the baby on the way home. Books on her back and baby in hand, she made her way the next several blocks to the house. Threw her backpack full of homework aside, put the baby in her walker and flopped onto the couch to watch cable reruns of Good Times and Little House on the Prairie. At 4:30 she shaked and baked the pork chops, heated the can of green beans, and mixed up the box of Stove Top stuffing. Her parents liked her to have dinner made by the time they got home. The parents who often forgot that Julia was only 11.

Dinner was done and dishes were safely in the dishwasher as Julia headed back to the living room to watch TV. Her stepfather stopped her at the doorway.

“Where’s your mother?” he growled. Julia’s eyes glazed with fear. He was mad. Dangerous.

“I…I don’t know,” she said with her most submissive voice.

“I wanna know where your mother is.” His eyes were wild. She gulped.

“I don’t know. I’m not sure…” She wanted to look around for her but she dared not look away from him. He asked again. And again. Frustrated, she raised her voice slightly. She didn’t know any other way to tell him that she really didn’t know.

“Don’t you talk back to me!” He grabbed her arm, yanked her toward his left side, and began delivering heavy, sharp blows to her bottom. Blows that did more than hurt her backside. That took something from her. That left a blackness in her soul.

“What’s going on?” Her mother asked as she walked in on Julia still in her stepfather’s grip.

“Where were you? I’ve been looking all over for you. The baby has a fever…”

“I was just in the attic – what’s the matter?” She stared at the two of them.

“Don’t interfere with my discipline.” His eyes were sharp. Narrow.

“I wasn’t. I was just asking what happened…” She glanced at Julia with a mixture of fear and irritation. Finally freed, Julia wandered toward the living room as her parents argued about whether or not to call the doctor.

Report cards came out the following week. Julia left hers on the kitchen table with anticipation tinged with guilt. She waited for her parents to scrutinize it. To ask her why she got an “A” in social studies (she liked social studies), but an “F” in math (she hadn’t done any of the homework). Two days later she found the report card in the garbage as she took the bag out to the can in the garage. They hadn’t said anything. Not about the “A.” Not about the “F.”

A strange, confusing feeling swam around in Julia’s stomach as she laid in bed that night. On the one hand, she was terrified of her stepfather and his spankings. Her whole body tensed as she heard him downstairs in the kitchen. What if she hadn’t wiped the counter right? He’d be mad…

Yet, she had really wanted her parents to be upset that she got an “F” in math. To scold her for not doing her homework. To tell her how she was capable of doing much better. To even spank her and tell her that she could not watch TV until her grades were better.

To be like real parents. To let her be a real kid.

“Dear God,” she began, her hands folded over her chest. “I wish so much I could have parents who didn’t make me scared. Who care about what I’m doing in school and all…I mean, I know these are my parents and you can’t just give me new ones or anything – not that I want them to go away. I love them. It’s just that…” She sighed. This prayer was turning into a rambling mess. “Well…maybe you could at least send me an angel to be with me or something. To sorta help me, you know?” Julia wasn’t even sure if she knew as she drifted to sleep.

Her homework had not left her backpack since arriving home with the baby the next afternoon. And it was the furthest thing from her mind as she slipped into her nightgown, brushed her teeth and headed down the hall to her bedroom. Upon crossing the threshold, she looked up to see a man sitting in a chair next to her bed.

“Do not be afraid, Julia,” he said with a soft smile as Julia opened her mouth to scream. “I am your guardian angel. The Lord has heard your prayer.” Her mouth snapped shut. Her eyes gaped. Then a smile slowly broke out across her chubby cheeks.

“You’re…really…an angel?”

“I am.” He chuckled yet maintained a distinct seriousness.

“How come you don’t have wings or anything?” Julia skimmed over his average looking khaki pants and white shirt.

“Well, you remember from Sunday School the story of the angels visiting Abraham?” Julia nodded. “Yes, I know you do,” he said. “I know how well you pay attention at Church.” She beamed. “So then you remember that the angels in that story looked just like men. When we take on human form, we look human. No wings.”

“So, what’s your name?” Julia asked as she sat down on the bed across from him.

“It would be unpronounceable to you, so you may call me Malachi.”

“Okay.” Julia glowed before him. A real angel. Her angel. He gazed back at her with that soft, gentle smile.

“The Lord knows you’ve been very lonely, Julia. And that sometimes you’re very afraid.” He lifted her from the bed and set her down on his lap. “He sent me to comfort you. To let you know that you are not really alone. Even when you’re scared.” For several minutes Malachi held Julia against his chest.

“How long will you stay?” She looked up at him.

“I’ve always been with you, Julia, even if you couldn’t see me. And I always will be with you. I’ve been given charge over you. To keep you in all your ways.” He picked her up off his lap and placed her back on the bed. “But, there are times when you really need me to be in the flesh and during those times I will take on human form so that you can see me and touch me.” He held her hands as he sat across from her. “Times like now when you really need someone to hold you. As well as to help you.”

“How are you going to help me?” Julia stared at Malachi.

“Well, what did you mean when you prayed last night for someone to help you?” He looked right inside of her. The intensity forced Julia to look at the floor.

“I dunno.”

“I think you meant someone to help raise you. That it’s hard trying to make sure you’re doing your homework all by yourself. Or being kind to the other kids at school. Or going to bed when you should.”

Julia blushed as she continued to analyze the carpet shag. Malachi cradled her hands.

“Though you’ve done such a good job so far. You’re obedient to your parents. You go to church every Sunday and listen quietly during Sunday School and the service. You even memorize all the Bible verses they give you and believe them with all your heart. You’re really a very good girl.”

Everything was still – the room, the house, the air outside – as Julia looked up at Malachi. With his warm smile. And gentle eyes.

“But, much of the reason you are good is because you are afraid. Of your stepfather. Afraid that people won’t like you. That God won’t like you. I’m here to help you not be afraid anymore. To help you be the person God created you to be – the smart, vivacious, playful, passionate person you hide away because you don’t know where the boundaries are. I’m going to help you by giving you boundaries.”

Boundaries. She had heard this word before. At Church probably. About how good parents set boundaries for their children. Rules…

“Yes, Julia. That does mean rules. With rules, you know where the boundaries are so you don’t have to be afraid you will cross them accidentally. You will know exactly where you are.”

Not like with her stepfather where she never knew where she was. When or what would make him mad.

“I will start with something you already have a good idea about: your schoolwork.” His smile faded into a stern, but not unkind look. “Your mind is a precious gift. And school is a wonderful way to grow that gift. But when you watch television after you get home from school instead of doing your homework, you are throwing away that gift.”

Malachi still held fast to Julia’s hands as she pulled her bottom lip into her mouth with her upper teeth and fixated once again upon the carpet shag.

“And so, another way I am going to help you is by disciplining you.”

It took a moment for Julia to really hear him say that. As it traveled along to the recognition circuit in her brain, she raised her gaze back to Malachi. With his firm stare.

“You mean, like…spank me?”

“Yes.” He paused as she searched his face. “It will be different than any spanking you’ve had before. For one thing, it will be on your bare skin. But the most important difference is this: it will not be done to take my anger out on you, but rather as a sign of my devotion to you. To help you.” The soft smile mixed with the firm stare.

Julia nodded. Stood. Malachi let go of her right hand and gently pulled her by her left arm to his right side. Then over his lap. Swept her nightgown up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Set his left hand on the middle of her back. Slapped her unprotected bottom. Again. And again…

It stung terribly. Much more than her stepfather’s. But, it hurt less. Gave something to her. Brought a light to the blackness her stepfather had left.

****


“Ah, the icon of the Guardian Angel. It is a lovely one, isn’t it?” Father Demitri, in a long, black cassock with a beard that looked like St. Nicholas, studied the price on the back of the icon and punched it into the cash register.

“Yes it is,” said Julia with a smile as she pulled out some cash.

“You know, the little girl in the icon – her face looks a lot like yours.” He held it in white tissue paper in his hand. Julia blushed. Smiled again. Father Demitri grinned and finished wrapping the icon. “Don’t forget to have your priest bless it during Divine Liturgy on Sunday,” he called to Julia as she walked to the door.

“I won’t, Father.” Another smile and she walked outside to catch the bus coming up the street.

The key to her apartment had a habit of getting stuck in the lock. Julia jiggled it. Coaxed it. Pushed it.

“Damn this lock!” It came out of the keyhole then snapped back in, pinching her finger. “Son of a bitch!” Julia brought her finger to her mouth, winced, and then tried the key again. A click. A turn. She sighed and muttered as she opened the door. “Damn it I hate this lock…”

“Julia – what kind of language is this?” He was there. Sitting at her desk. Chair swiveled toward her. That soft smile with the stern eyes.

“Malachi…you’re here…” She gripped her bag holding the icon as she stood before him. Turned to look at the door, then turned and faced him again. “Oh, um…well, I was angry. The key…and the lock…it gets stuck…and…”

“You’ve developed a nasty habit of swearing lately. I thought I had helped you with that years ago.”

“Well, you had…” She fingered her keys as she looked him in the eyes. “I guess I fell back into it.”

“Apparently.” He nodded. The soft smile overtook his stern eyes for a moment. “You’re so passionate, expressive, confident – not at all like you were that first time I became visible to you. And I’m so glad.” Then he sighed. “But, part of my job has always been to guide that passion. To give it boundaries.”

Yes – those boundaries. Julia pursed her lips together and nodded. She knew where this was going.

It was during high school that Malachi started using the rod. A thin, swishy stick. Her freshman year. Julia had skipped school with her friends to go to a movie. Now as he stood up from the chair in front of her desk, he grasped the rod and motioned her toward the back of the chair. She set her bag and keys on the table, bent over the black cushioned back and grabbed the edges of the seat. He swept her skirt up to her neck and her panties down to her knees. Sliced her unprotected bottom with the rod. Again. And again…

It still stung terribly. But still gave something to her. Still left a light in her soul.

“The icon is a very nice one,” he said later as he stroked Julia’s hair while she lay on her tummy under the blankets in bed. “The icon writer did a lovely job letting you see into Heaven.” Julia almost giggled as she turned to him.

“Is your hair really that long in Heaven?”


Copyright 2002 by Natty.