As you might imagine, What It Is We Do can be a bewildering concept for both kinky and vanilla feminists alike. Hell, it’s a bewildering concept for us feminists who engage in it, as the epic thread that followed my post from a little over a year ago at the Punishment Book can attest. In her article, “Slap Happy,” in this month’s issue of Bitch Magazine (Spring, No. 39) author Jessica Wakeman doesn’t necessarily provide any answers to make it less bewildering, but she does give the reader plenty to think about.
In her weekly brunch, Bonnie has asked readers this week a question that I think most of us here on the PB have discussed at one time or another (and for some of us, numerous times) on the soc.sexuality.spanking newsgroup. Namely, if we spankos actually enjoy being spanked, can punishment spankings even work? I left a short comment on Bonnie's blog but the more I thought about it, the more I decided I wanted to write more, especially as it coincides with something I've been thinking about for a few months.
This particular question is an interesting one for me as my partner and I switch but I alone get punished for real life transgressions. It's not because he's perfect and I'm not. Far from it (though not too far…::smile::). We are both equally human and fallible. Indeed, we even have a lot of the same bad habits. We both procrastinate. We both markedly underestimate how long a task will take. We can both be slightly impulsive shoppers. We are both extremely competitive (though I'm not sure that's necessarily a fault…)
It was December 2002 and A. was my
ambiguously undefined cyber-guy. We had been chatting (and flirting)
online for months and finally declared over Yahoo Messenger that we
really cared about each other. That we were a couple – you know, in
an ambiguously undefined way.
Even more ambiguously undefined was how
we’d ever be a couple in a clear and defined way. I was in Oregon. He
was in England. I was bedridden. He was on the dole. I was praying just to
get on the dole.
One afternoon – at least afternoon on
my side of the Atlantic – we were doing the Nick Cohen End of the
Year quiz at the Observer website. A. told me not to cheat by looking
down at the answers. Which meant, of course, that I totally had to
"You really need your backside
tanned, young lady," A. typed.
"Nuh uh," I replied.
"Hrm…well luckily for you, and
your bottom, I am a few thousand miles away."
I grinned at first. But that longing to
be together quickly stole my smugness and replaced it with grim
Tuesday night I was dogsitting for my sister for a few hours when A. called for our daily chat. And in the course of our chat I had to confess that I had gone to bed 40 minutes late. Which was bad, but especially naughty as I had gone to bed that late the night before and gotten off with a warning.
"I think your sister’s dog is going to witness a little domestic discipline," A. said. "Better fetch the ping pong paddle." (Which I was surprised he was even bothering with as he said the day before he can never take it seriously as an implement.)
"But," I whined. "I can’t do this in front of the dog. She’s looking at me."
And she was too. A tan, medium-sized, short-haired dog with big floppy ears sprawled out at the end of the bed who raised her head up and turned it toward me with big dark chocolate eyes.
"Bare bottom, please."
I pouted and pulled down my leggings and underwear. And felt weird
as hell as the dog stared at me while I laid down on the bed, paddle in
Dyke Grrl's explanation in the comments section of the last post regarding why the term "domestic discipline" doesn't work for her reminds me of a conversation A. and I were having a few months back. It was about my bedtime and there were a number of factors complicating what should be a fairly straightforward issue. "I'm just following your lead," A. said finally. "Let me know what you want me to do and I'll do it."
I remember chuckling to myself at the time and thinking you'd never hear that sort of thing on most domestic discipline sites. But then, I've never really considered our disciplinary arrangement "domestic discipline."
Last week I was proofreading a news story for A. and remembered that I had a post here that I started several months ago but never finished. Now that I have my new laptop and have become a manic blogger again, it’s time to dig up it up and finish it, especially as I really enjoyed what I remembered. Or rather, I enjoyed the remembering. The actual event remembered was not so enjoyable while it was happening. Indeed, it was rather painful.
A. has developed this new affinity for including soap in any punishment he delivers over the phone — much to my consternation (though, thankfully he hasn’t been savvy enough to make sure the bar is wet or that I bite down on it, so it basically just gets on my lips, but still…).
When I whined about it this evening, he told me I should just be grateful I wasn’t getting lines.
"Uh, I think I’d rather go with the lines," I grumbled while wiping my lips yet again.
Not that I really get to do any picking, but my question for you all would be to ask what you would pick: soap or lines?
So, on my personal blog I told the scary tale of bad bad buggery that made me very sick for a few weeks. For the first couple of those weeks I was too sick to do anything remotely naughty. But after awhile, I found myself feeling very cranky. My inner ten-year old had had just about enough of the whole staying in bed thing. Trouble was, I still wasn’t healthy enough to really get out of bed much. Which just made me crankier, and yet, really wanting a spanking.
Most of you are familiar with that feeling of being annoyed by just about everything and wanting to bitch about it all (and maybe even doing so) but when all is said and done, you’d really rather just get a nice, long spanking — though you’d probably be irritated if it was offered (or told that’s what you were getting).
I was feeling that big time.
As I return to my punishment kink, I’m running into a problem that’s been there since I first started getting spanked as an adult: getting punished. Yes, I know. Getting punished is sorta the point, right? And a part of me really likes the getting punished part — or at least the before and after. But for another part of me it feels profoundly unhealthy as it heightens my primeval fear of being bad.
Punishments often come with a myriad of emotions. Frustration. Ambivalence. Fear. Intimacy. Love.
Tuesday’s punishment for several days of missing my bedtime included all of those. A. had told me the night before he was going to sort me out the next day, and I woke up Tuesday with that familiar mixture of excitement and fear. But also a great deal of ambivalence.