Spanking

"Sorry I missed you on Paltalk last night," I told my sister Iris. "I was out grocery shopping."

"No problem. I was having computer problems anyway. I went over to the help rooms but no one would help me. Too busy. So I decided to go talk to this Dominatrix instead."

"A Dominatrix?" I laughed.

"It made sense to me. I mean, after all, she was a Dominatrix. You know. . . strong, female, in control and all that. I figured she'd know what to do."

I love this about my sister. She's the sort of person who goes to Niagara Falls and ends up having tea with an 80-year-old artist who weaves clothing from hair shed by his dog.

"So did she help you?" I asked curiously.

"No," Iris sighed. "I don't think she quite knew what to make of me. She wasn't really even into spanking. Can you believe it?"

I shook my head. "I never really understood that whole spanking thing myself."

I've pretty much dedicated my life to avoiding all forms of violence against my butt.

"Still," my sister insisted. "You'd think it would be part of her job description. And then the foot fetish guy came in so I left."

"The foot fetish guy?"

"Don't ask."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

I never did like the whole idea of spanking--probably because I was always being singled out for one.

My first grade teacher was an Evil Midget named Mrs. Hooker (I know you guys think I make this stuff up so I've attached our class picture as proof). At least twice a week that woman turned me over her knee and swatted me with a wooden paddle for talking in class.

Because that's what they did back in the 60s. Scary.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Sometimes adults would try to trick us into mistaking a spanking device for a toy. Remember the bolo paddle? It was a plastic or wooden paddle with a little red rubber ball attached to it by a long rubber band. The idea was to try to bounce the ball off the paddle. This worked great until the ball came off--which it always did--after about 15 minutes of hard play.

The first time our aunt used a broken bolo paddle on our behinds, my sister and I vowed to never let her get her hands on one again.

We took to burying them whenever they broke.

At last count, we had about thrity paddles buried in our backyard.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . .

A friend of mine once tried to explain to me about a Zen meditation technique she practiced.

"You sit facing the wall, your back straight in proper sitting posture, and try to clear your mind of all thought. If you become tired, or distracted, or begin to slouch, the Master strikes you on the shoulder with a stick to bring you back into focus."

"Ohhhhhh," I said, suddenly comprehending. "Now I know what you mean. I used to practice that all the time."

My friend look puzzled. "You did?"

I nodded sagely. "Yes. Only we called it 'punishment'."