Sugasm #160

There was a lot of great writing this week on Sugasm. It was hard to vote for the top three -- indeed I settled on three totally different posts, even though these three were also very good. If you get a chance, head over to Sugasm and check out more.

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

This Week’s Picks

He beats me
“I bite my lip in anticipation as I follow his direction.”

Jerking Off: You’re doing it wrong!
“However, I’m in it now. And I need it.”

Love Languages
“How do I best show my love?”

Sugasm Editor
Faking A Four Way

Editor’s Choice
Sugarbutch Star: Matt (part 1)

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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

SpankingTube: Family-friendly porn?

Thanks to a spanko friend at soc.sexuality.spanking, I've discovered a new web addiction: Spanking Tube. Yup, that's right -- YouTube (which I love) and spanking (which, um, I'm clearly a fan of) -- merge together like peanut butter and chocolate into one yummy site. For many of you, this site is not new, and I'm wildly behind the times. But I'm sure there are at least a few of you reading for whom this will be an exciting discovery as well.

After watching several videos, I decided to sign-up so that I could subscribe to various users' latest videos. And this, dear friends, is what popped up after I registered (click on the picture and note the bit circled in yellow with the big yellow arrow):


Because I'm sure you've always wanted to share a recently uploaded video of your adult diaper play with Aunt Betty or that night at the dungeon with Grandma...

The ghost of abuse

It haunts every stroke, every word of a scolding, every moment anticipating a punishment. Years of being afraid and worse. Sometimes it seems so long ago, I start to wonder if it was really me all that stuff happened to. Sometimes the memories are still hot and raw, so much so that a year or two ago when I tried to write this post, I had to walk away lest it break the pieces I've spent years gluing back together.

While there hasn't been a lot of research on those who engage in What It Is We Do, research regarding BDSM in general suggests that child abuse is not the reason practitioners have the sexual orientation they do, even if those outside our community may think otherwise. In my own case, I started fantasizing about being spanked years before the abuse started and I am convinced that I'm a spanko despite the abuse.

oOo

My stepfather has delicate lips and a front tooth that is slightly crooked, and when making certain expressions, A.'s mouth reminds me of him. Sometimes when A. coughs or clears his voice, it's almost the same pitch as the muffled coughing of my stepfather that I listened ever so carefully for from my bedroom. When I'm over A.'s lap and he's giving me the full force of his hand, the motion feels almost identical to the full force of my stepfather's rage-filled palm.

There are so many ways that my punishment kink interacts with the abuse I experienced as a child. Memories that I've not thought of in years will suddenly terrorize me as I approach a punishment. Feelings that I can't quite articulate will harass me after, especially when a phone spanking doesn't allow for tactile cuddling.

Of course, communicating with my partner is vital. It means telling A. when I'm beset by the ghost of old chastisements and cannot deal with any new. He faithfully discharges me from whatever disciplinary session is at hand, no questions asked -- even though I may have spent all day worried that he would be mad, would not understand my fear. Sometimes the desire to continue with whatever regime we've agreed to is there, but I just need to make him -- and even more so, myself -- aware of the turmoil brewing just below the surface.

What I have learned is to never repress, though admittedly the habit is hard to break completely. Ghouls of all shapes and sizes never fare well in the light. The more I write (journal) and I talk out loud (mostly to a therapist) about my memories, the more power they lose. Not that it isn't painful. And it scares the living shit out of me at times. But it gets easier. Really.

After my mother and stepfather divorced, I kept having this recurring dream where I was in my old bedroom and it was littered with piles of old clothes, books and knick-knacks. A move was imminent, but I was completely overwhelmed with the disarray, as well as bewildered about what to do with all the stuff. I always woke up distressed and fatigued.

I still have the dream, except now the room is almost empty save for a handful of things that I'm still not sure what to do with. But I always wake up knowing they will find their place.

Yes, there remains a nagging interplay between my punishment kink and my history of child abuse. However, embracing my discipline fetish has been a means of empowerment through choice. It is also a means of healing because this time, there's no yelling, no rage, no belittling. And when there is fear and shame, it's yummy and magical and completely therapeutic.

(Cross-posted at the Punishment Book)

A spanko in a non-spanko world

I've joined a writing group as a way to actually interact with real, live human beings. It's just next door, which is what allows me to participate given my limited mobility. I'm really enjoying a bit of camaraderie and surprising myself with some of the writing I've done thus far.

I suppose it was bound to happen at some point. We write based on prompts and one of the prompts tonight er, prompted me to write about a character interested in spanking. As different people read their pieces, I debated about whether I would share mine or pass. In the end, with a warning about its racy nature and what I'm sure was a bright red face, I shared. And it was received well. A few people even said they wanted to hear more, though I suspect that it had more to do with the characters rather than it being about sex and spanking.

Of course, that's just my guess. There well might be some kindered spankos in the class for all I know. However, I didn't get that sort of vibe.

I'd share it here, but it was only a few sentences, and I'm not sure if it might turn into something more that I might want to publish.

But it was sort of my small step for spanko-kind in the non-spanko world.

VibeReview Fantasy: Lily vs. Silver Bullet

I knew it would be naughty. Shopping at Safeway with the Lily firmly ensconced in my labia, delivering a steady appetizer of arousal to my clit. But taking the Senior Shuttle to and from Safeway while the Lily buzzed between my legs was particularly naughty. The very thought that a woman who walks with a cane could be so depraved...it merits not just condemnation but severe chastisement.

And that's exactly what I got when I returned home and the frozen yogurt was put away and he felt between my legs.

"You dirty little slut," he said with a tut while groping my cunt.

A moment later he jerked my trousers and knickers down. Dragged me to the bed, pushed me over its edge, and spanked my full, meaty cheeks with his hand and a ping-pong paddle until they blushed with shame and sting. Turned me over and pulled my legs apart to expose the wicked gadget still teasing my clit.

"Don't you dare move those legs together," he ordered before disappearing into the kitchen.

When he returned, he placed a claw of peeled and scored ginger up my ass. Removed the Lily. Slid his belt out of its appointed loops and whipped my cunt with firm, measured strokes. Divided my labial lips and pressed a disk of ginger against my clit with the Silver Bullet.

"Let's give that clit of yours some real attention," he said as he nudged the control toward high.

My pelvis flickered and lurched. My legs squeezed together, then released. Soon my pelvic floor was convulsing from the provocation. My clitoris throbbed and twitched and soon it came...I came...

oOo

I'm beginning to realize that I'm a veritable Tim Allen when it comes to clit stimulation. My constant refrain is always, More Power!. Though I generally forgo the Neanderthal grunt.

In this review I thought I'd do things a bit different. Aside from beginning with the fantasy rather than ending with it, I also decided to compare and contrast two toys ostensibly prescribed with the same task, namely, vibrating the clitoris.

The Lily is the pretty rich girl with all the latest accouterments. She's got a pink (or black) phthalate-free silicone exterior, multiple speeds and settings, a charger to keep her running without batteries or cords, and comes in an inconspicuous black box along with a black satin bag to travel in style. The settings allow you to run her with short, fast pulsations. Or longer pulsations. And a couple of variations on that theme. Being cordless and quiet allows you a great deal of freedom in how you might choose to use her.



Like all rich girls, she's not cheap. Figuring out her settings can be tricky, as well as a bit awkward when she's down there. So play with her a bit before putting her to work. And when it comes to work, well, she has some breadth to her abilities, but not a lot of effort. The Lily will whet my appetite but never make me come. Even when I used it along with the Silver Bullet coated with cayenne ointment in my ass (that often makes me come all on its own). And like most pretty, but expensive dresses, hers stains easily. My Lily has all sorts of marks on it after sitting in its black satin bag, as well as from sitting in my bedside drawer sans the bag.

The Silver Bullet is the working girl that may not be all that fancy, but she knows how to work hard and get the job done. She's so affordable even I could buy her and I live well below the poverty line. The hand-held control makes her incredibly easy to use – just slide the knob up or down. No frantically digging in between your labia to change the setting. And the Silver Bullet has the power to make me come, which is any clit vibrator's ultimate objective. While the orgasm isn't as intense as it is with the Miracle Massager, I sometimes prefer that as it leaves me with enough energy to come a second time.



Sure, she does require batteries. And she may or may not be phthalate-free. The hand-held control is attached to the Bullet itself so it's not as portable as the Lily, though I imagine there are ways around that. She doesn't have a fancy satin bag or special box. But, well, she makes me come, and that's what really matters, no?

So there you have it. If you don't need something too powerful and want the fancy bells and whistles, Lily is your girl. But if you're like me and need your clit vibe to work hard for the money, you can't go wrong with the Silver Bullet.

Both the Lily and the Silver Bullet are at reduced price during VibeReview's Winter Sale, along with many of their other toys. Follow any of the links in this post or via the ad in the sidebar and you'll help out your favorite invalid spanko.

Not as perverted as it used to be

Don't ya love news stories that state the obvious? "Kinky sex is on the rise," is the headline at ABC News. The line following lists several fetishes and then asks, "is it the Internet?" Um, need you ask? And as always there are a few things that are mostly right but the language seems a bit awkward.

But today, according to sex-perts, couples are looking for more intensity in sex lives, and interest in sado-masochism appears to be rising.

"After the pain threshold is crossed, they describe a type of ecstasy called 'flying," Dunlap found in his research. "It is no longer painful and gives an entirely sexual as well as psychological, transcendent place. Flying is bigger than any drug."

I've heard of "sub space" but "flying?" Have any of you heard it called "flying?"

I also wonder how it works for vanillas -- er, teleiophiles (ya learn something everyday!) -- when they use sex manuals suggesting BDSM to "spice up" their relationships. Spanking and bondage have been the core of my sexual fantasies before I even understood what sex was. It comes as natural to me as breathing. But does adding some handcuffs and a paddle really "spice up" a relationship for people who don't breath it?

The article was a nice reminder, however, that being a pervert isn't as perverted as it used to be.

Front page spanking: Bankers Flogged

Oh how those tarts at CNN tease us.

Personally, I'm thinking it's time to get all French Revolution on those bankers' asses. And maybe throw in a few Republican senators for good measure.

All about the blows

Slapping isn't just good for the ass. Sometimes it's exquisite right across the face, as Angela Connor details in this delectable essay over at Nerve. I particularly loved the following passage:

Peter asked about the sex, and I told him it was sweet, but I wanted to talk about the blows. And he asked the questions friends ask to make sure you're being honest with yourself.

"I'm just wondering," he said, "why isn't it abuse?"

Without thinking, I gave my most honest answer: "Because it feels good."

Talking about kinky sex can feel so strange with vanillas. Intercourse is nice and all, but it's the blows, the implements, the stern looks that are so much more interesting. And feel so good.

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.

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* 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

This Week’s Picks
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

More Sugasm
Join the Sugasm

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.

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 .

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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.”

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