Turning the other cheek

There I was: on a boat with the most powerful clients my company had, drinking wine, mingling, making important conversation with Mr. Bank President and Mr. Creative Director. And then I felt a breeze.

Someone dropped his cocktail napkin, and I graciously bent to pick it up (I now distinctly recall that movement). I flitted between groups of my own clients and introduced myself to others, imagining myself a great hostess on this trip around the lake as I networked with the mostly male big wigs. And then I felt a breeze.

Finally, after wondering about that “breeze” for far too long, I reached a hand back to double-check my bottom. My cheeks were still encased in the fabric of my brand new, bun-hugging pants, but….wait a second! I felt bare flesh down the middle. LOTS of bare flesh!

I quickly moved to the railing and pressed my back against it, knowing my face was infused with that tell-tale blush I often wear. Mind racing, I sorted through my purse hoping to find safety pins or something to close my pants and restore my modesty. Nothing. I contemplated jumping ship.

Instead, I worked my way over to the lower deck, careful to keep my back to the railing, engaging in polite conversation here and there. Scurrying down the steps to the lower, vacant bar I caught the eye of the female bartender and crossed my fingers.

“I have a problem,” I announced to her. “I’m hoping you have a sewing kit or pins behind that bar!”

She stooped to check and stood up with bad news. No sewing kit. No pins. “Why do you need it?”

“Ummm…look!” I said, turning around so she could see. I only had an idea how exposed I must have been; I had specifically chosen an extra-skimpy thong to avoid panty lines so I imagine a great deal of naked flesh was exposed. I heard her gasp and, turning back to her, noticed she was swallowing her laughter.

“Oh, my. Hmmm…,” she said, rummaging through more bar paraphernalia. “I have duct tape!”

“Duct tape it is!”

I excused myself, tape in hand, to the ladies’ room to inspect just how bad the situation was. It was bad. The whole back seam had come unsewn, leaving a gaping hole where the material met. I had shown a lot of cheek and nearly all of my thong-filled crack. Swearing to myself, I got to work, taping the inside of the pants so the repairs were hidden, I managed to close it enough so that I could return to the upper deck.

First I had a shot of whiskey. Well, two. Armed with liquid courage and a plastered smile on my face, I rejoined the gentlemen clients upstairs.

I only have so much confidence, Readers. And I have even less confidence in the strength of duct tape. So I hope you understand when I tell you that for the rest of the trip, I remained mostly seated, hiding my mortification with lots of wine and an embarrassed silence. Surveying the audience I realized just how many attractive older men had seen me in my compromised state. And yet, no one had said anything, including any of my colleagues.

The only positive thing I can say is that my cheeks were unmarked, not having been spanked for quite some time. Had my cheeks been pink…well, let’s just say that jumping in the lake would have been a far more viable option.

Oh, and on follow-up calls the next week to some of those clients, I closed a few rather large deals. Anything for the job.

I blew out every candle…

My naked calves pressed firmly against the cold windows of the Ford Explorer, under my hips was a rolled-up blanket that slightly irritated my skin. In my hand was the unforgiving bath brush and the car’s interior echoed with his voice demanding, “Again. Harder. Again,” drowning out the October winds that rocked against us.

I gave it my all, imagining he was there delivering the thwacks and cracks against my chilled, but warming, bottom.

The absurdity of my surroundings were soon forgotten. I was no longer in my parents’ SUV, parked in their driveway, worried about discovery. I was over his knees, his hand wielding the bath brush with unrelenting force as I breathily counted out the strokes.

How did my birthday spanking come to this?

For a month I was without a home, caught between the sale of my old house and the purchase of my new place. And a girl turning one year older has needs! The fact that I lacked for any privacy posed a serious problem, a problem only creativity and ingenuity, of which I do not lack, could solve. The matter of a long-distance relationship…that was solved, for a time, with the miracle of speaker phone.

Now, months before I turn over another year, I’m fondly reminiscent of that last birthday spanking. There is no need for the phone anymore — I have mine delivered up close and personal these days. But perhaps, maybe, I might borrow my parents’ driveway again. Practice does, indeed, make perfect.

Super spank!

Hello, my name is barely.pink and I’ve been a spanko since I could remember.

During my early years I lived in typical middle-class suburbia: rows of brick ranch houses on a quiet cul-de-sac, lots of neighborhood children, and playing outside until dusk. I had two particularly close friends during that time, Michelle and Brian.

Michelle and I would spend hours playing in her finished basement. We created a house under her father’s pool table and played Barbies inside. And we would spank each other, taking pauses between the Barbie drama. Sometimes we would argue over who would “get” to be spanked; neither of us much enjoyed spanking the other, the fun was in receiving.

And occasionally we would rope our good friend, Brian, into the fun & games. He would play the daddy while Michelle and I would alternate between mommy and child.

Brian was a good-natured sort. Being the youngest of three older brothers, he was used to being steamrolled. So when Michelle or I would say, “Spank me! I’ve been naughty!”, he would unquestioningly oblige. Over the knee we’d go for a quick round of smacks to our covered bottoms. Oh! The tingles!

One memorable day, Brian dressed like Superman. His costume was a good one: utility belt, cape, built-in pecs with the “S” emblem, he even wore tights! Dressed as he was, he looked the spitting image of the superhero with his dark, wavy hair, strong chin and piercing blue eyes.

That day Michelle and I were playing in his tree house while Brian ran around below, cape flying behind him, making “whoosh!” and “POW!” sound effects.

He clearly needed to save someone and he was armed and ready for the task. So, I, being the damsel-in-distress type (no longer) and his cooperative accomplice, climbed out the window of the tree house and hung there.

“Help! Superman, help me!” I called while kicking my legs and desperately hoping that I would not, in fact, fall.

Brian loyally sprang into action. He bounded, as only Superman might, up the tree house ladder and got to the window in a flash. Michelle dutifully played her part and said, “Thank goodness you made it in time to help my friend, Superman!”

And there we were, Superman leaning out the window attempting to rescue the foolish girl who endangered herself to garner his attention. Resting his elbows on the ledge, his hands locked around my upper arms and he pulled with all of his might to bring me to safety, his face screwing up tightly with the exertion.

After I was safely inside and caught my breath, I realized that Brian really was angry. I had worried him with my foolishness. I watched the boy, in his Superman gear, wipe his brow and breathe in deep huffs and puffs as his face resumed its normal color. He could barely look at me!

And then, free of preamble, he pulled me over his lap and delivered the mother of all spankings! A Super Spank! He lectured; he scolded; he paused to make sure I was paying attention. It went on forever, with Michelle giggling next to us, undoubtedly wishing it was her that had devised the “window plan”.

And afterwards, we remained in the tree house until our parents called us home. Three children emerged, seemingly innocent, who had just had the earliest costumed role play perhaps in the history of spanking.

The Stranger

Though we share so many secrets,

There are some we never tell.

Why were you so surprised

That you never saw the stranger?

Did you ever let your lover

see the stranger in yourself?

-Billy Joel, “The Stranger”

By nature of what we do, most of us are liars. I know I wore several faces in the beginning of this journey, even went so far as to play a switch (which by nature I am not). To borrow, once again, from Billy Joel: “some are satin, some are steel/ some are silk and some are leather/ they’re the faces of a stranger but we love to try them on.”

Driving to the store today, “The Stranger” shuffled through my ipod and I was surprised to find such personal meaning in the lyrics. Billy wasn’t foreseeing the online dating world, was he? Certainly, people wear their masks in person, but this internet thing makes it so easy, so tempting, to stretch the truth, to create a persona more in line with who we want to be or what is expected of us. Younger, older, thinner, stronger, more accomplished, more dominant, more submissive, single, male, female. Some are more harmless than others, but they all erode the delicate nature of trust.

So do we ever know who we are really talking to? And even after meeting, are those masks so firmly in place that the truth is inscrutable?

And while I may have stretched the truth a time or two, more recently I’ve been committed to full disclosure. What is to be gained by the masks we wear? Aside from the momentary escape, the ability to be someone who we aspire to be, in the long-run we do ourselves no favors living in the fantastical roles we create.

I want to be wanted for myself: my desires, my needs, my age, my size, my imperfections, my story. And the person I choose should have enough respect for himself to demand the same.

No more pretending. I’ve had too many strangers in my life. Strangers are disposable, far too easy to leave but harder to forget. My trash can is full and my heart is bruised. But I’m not afraid to try again, in fact I am happily and eagerly doing so.

Nice hair

4th grade. Valentine’s Day. Mr. Roach had us staple together 4 x 6 pages, one page for each kid in class to write something sentimental.

I, ever the romantic, took this to mean that Robbie might finally have a means of declaring his undying devotion and love for me.

After having everyone else write something sweet & sappy in my book, I finally approached Robbie, shyly.

“Could you please write something in my pages?” I asked hesitantly.

I remember he grabbed my book and quickly scribbled something without seeming to think about what he would write. Hope bloomed. This was it! Finally!

Back at my seat I hurriedly flipped to the last page and my breath caught. Tears formed in my eyes. In his messy scrawl, he had written, “You have nice hair.” Nice hair? Nice hair?!

Surely he meant to say more but felt pressed for time! Surely he would have written a more committed declaration had Brian not been looking over his shoulder!

Nice hair?

Well, I held onto the belief that he carried a hidden flame for me until we were well into middle school. And then that hope was extinguished when I caught him french kissing Rachel G. (the whore!) after school.

Now, with an adult eye for nuance & a more mature understanding of the back-handed compliment, I understand that Robbie never held any flame for me at all. After all, the only compliment he could give me was one on my frizzy, blonde ‘do.

I realize this now more than ever since I recently paid the same compliment to someone who sent me a picture of himself, garbed in 1970s attire, complete with coke-bottle glasses and a big mop of hair.

“You have really nice hair!” I mustered, not knowing where to begin.

And that, my friends, is full circle.