"First, He Said..." Part 2: "A Dangerous Dive Down"

The evening started wonderfully. The the mood was, quite literally, shot through the heart. The light of what was supposed to be a great night had been sucked out – and things had turned dark. Very dark. Her tears were a flood that morphed into my own waves of self-doubt. I wanted to remove the post. But more than that, I think, I needed her approval to leave it there. And then I realized that neither, my removal nor her approval, could salvage what I was trying to hold on to: my quaking Domdentity.

Things went from bad to worse when SugarAnne bolted on me. She just got up and walked out. I sensed it was going to happen. I could hear the rustling of keys out in the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" I called from the den.
"OUT!" she spat.
"NO YOU'RE NOT!" I shot back.

I have a smooth voice, not a deep voice. People sometimes say that I have a voice with the cushiony quality of a smooth jazz station deejay. From the tone of it no one would even remotely suggest that I might have clackers the size of mutant gelatin coconuts.  Actually, what I hear inside my head when I speak is the squeak of Michael Jackson with sinus congestion. But I knew she had heard me. Maybe she heard Michael deliver a faint squeak:

“No you’re not”.

Whatever. I knew she had heard me. But she left anyway. She frickin’ left anyway! I didn’t want to physically restrain her. Maybe I did. I don’t think I would’ve. I wasn’t close enough to her to exercise that option anyway. And, I certainly wasn’t going to chase her down the public hallway of the building. I mean, if I can’t stop my woman with my voice alone, what kind of HoH - hell, what kinda of man am I anyway? When the door slammed another brick tumbled out of my Domdentity. I was left sitting there feeling like a eunuch who didn’t make the cut for the Vienna Boy’s Choir tryout. Funny thing though, I wasn’t mad at her. I was mad at Me. Mad at me for NOT being mad at her. I begin to question myself. A torrent of questions washed over me and I began a deep sea dive that had me swimming in an ocean of self-doubt.

“I guess I’ll have to run every post by her now, huh?”
“That’s it for me, no more blogging, I'm done.”
“Hey! Do I tell her what to put on her blog?”
“Yo, she just walked out on you dude, and you’re not even mad?”
“What the fuck?”

Over and over again, for I don’t know for how long, I considered and questioned and doubted. We had actually had a “talk” about the walking out on me thing in Jamaica. A “talk” about communicating before cuttin’ out. This new walk out was clearly punishable conduct. Punishable as clear as if she had boldy lit up a cigarette and defiantly blown the smoke into my face. Punishment was imperative and, I thought, “should be” administered swiftly and effectively. I couldn’t say “would be” to myself. I no longer had the Domdentical fortitude to be certain that I actually would – that I actually could.

I wanted to be able to meet her at the door when she came back. I thought about it. I didn’t know if I should. I wanted to have the conversation that was aborted when she walked out. I thought about it. I wasn’t sure I would. I wanted to have my chosen implements of correction laid out already. I thought about it. I didn’t know if I could follow through, so I didn't lay them out. I wanted to be able to. I wanted desperately to be able to follow through.

When she came back I just lied there frozen on the sofa in the den. Neither of us acknowledged the other. She went straight to bed. I went swimming. Swimming deeper and deeper into an ocean of self-doubt that began to gel into a self-suffocating self-disgust.

“You chicken! You call yourself a man?”
“What a puss. What-a-frickin’-puss!”
“I guess we see who’s really running this show, don’t we? Punk.”
“Maybe YOU are the one who should be paddled?
“Maybe you’re not cut out for this HoH stuff, huh?”

“You don’t have the temperament for ‘This-Thing-We-do”! I mentally enunciated through teeth gritted with disgust.

For the rest of the evening and into the morning, save a couple of hours of sleep, I struggled with my Domdentity. Just as I was about to drive my spade into the floor of this ocean of self-doubt to mine the vanilla life that lives just beneath, SugarAnne came out to the living room. We traded “hellos” or "good mornings" or some such civil greeting, and sat for a few minutes - in silence - in the fading darkness just this side of daybreak. She suddenly stood up and stomped back to the bedroom in a huff. This, for some reason, was a maddening reminder of the bad ole B.S. (before spanking) days. Even madder than madness I was experiencing with this maddening self-doubt. I knew right then that I couldn’t go back to the old life. More importantly, I knew that old life wasn’t even me anymore. It was time for me to look up. Time for me to stand up. Yeah, I had leaned too far. Fell down in fact. But it was time to stand up now and recapture my growth -to  recapture OUR growth. It was time to get a grip on what was trying to slip through my fingers.

I stood up and headed toward the bedroom – headed toward the surface. Standing up was the turnaround: the beginning of my swim back toward SugarAnne, back toward my Domdentity and back toward a life of breathing freely again.

"First, He Said..." Part 1: Leaning Leads to Falling Sometimes

This is a scary post for me. Because it leaves me exposed. That’s what I like about it. It means I’m leaning just beyond the edge of my comfort zone.

Late last week an uncharacteristically crude post appeared in this space. It has since been removed (along with an equally – if not more – crude post from February). Mind you, I find nothing wrong with the crudeness of these posts. I do not think that they exceeded the etiquette of an anonymous blog setting. If such an etiquette even exists. I even assumed that it might offend some who might be following this blog. That’s not the problem I had with these posts. That is not why they were removed. Additionally, the posts were not lacking in truth or authenticity – at least as to the extent of their content. That is not why they were removed. There are two reasons why these posts were removed. The first I have lightly alluded to: leaning beyond the edge of my comfort zone. So let me expound on the first reason first.

I am persuaded that leaning beyond my level of comfort, my edge, is essential for my growth. As I strive to reach the fullness of myself in any area of life I’ve always believed that it is essential to step just a little bit over the edge – out of my comfort zone. I have found that especially true of my Developing Domdentity”. For me, being HoH is a struggle of monumental proportions. A struggle against a veritable tsunami of inculcated societal norms and popular culture ideas that, simply put, say, “Hey! Don’t do that!” I have a clear idea of where I’m going in TTWD and confess that I am a bit anxious to shed the confining strait jacket of upbringing and misguided feminism.

Leaning beyond the edge of my comfort zone is not a bad thing. It’s a good thing. It’s a good thing, that is, until I make the mistake of so aggressively violating that edge, that it actually leads to a distortion – if not false – presentation of who I really am at the moment. After all, isn’t it in the moments where life is played out - for real? Isn’t it in the moments where life is lived - for real? Isn’t it in the moments where life is enjoyed and love is made - for real? Clearly the moments are for being real. These posts were an aggressive violation of my edge. In other words, although they were how I felt, they are not authentically who I am.

I'm not so concerned about the external “presentation”. That's least important to me. I mean, where else can one go to express themselves in a socially unacceptable way but their own anonymous weblog? But when I aggressively violate the edge of my comfort zone in that way, there is an internal distortion of myself – a lack of authenticity – that goads my soul toward higher wisdom.

At the root of it all is my fear; fear of not advancing; fear of not growing. My fear of not being the man, the husband, the champion, the hero, the HoH that I desire to become. Fear has sometimes left me short on effort. I don't wanna be short on effort in "this thing we do". That’s the last thing I wanna be. But that same fear sometimes makes me lean way too far. Aggressively far. This lack of compassion for my own comfort zone – and the fake fearlessness – invariably leads to falling – and oftentimes foolishness. Both are regression – especially foolishness. And regression immediately puts one into recapture mode, that is, trying to recapture past advances rather than moving on to new ones. So wrapped up in all this you can see both the reason the posts appeared: fear of stagnating and a desire to grow. And you can see the first reason for the removal of the posts: I reached too far out of myself.

The second reason for removal of the posts began a quake that would shake my Domdentity to its core. It created personal consternation, prompted self-examination and exposed all of the self doubt that that bleeds through the first reason for removing them. You can imagine what a personal struggle it was for me when SugarAnne strongly requested that I remove the post.

One of the reasons I struggled with this was that she wasn’t able to explain to me why she felt it should be removed. Nevertheless she was highly upset. So in an attempt to appease her, I initially edited the post. Grossly edited it. In a lot respects I was okay with that. But she wasn’t. I had already reconciled on a personal level that the post really shouldn’t be up there. I knew I had aggressively violated the edge of my comfort zone. I knew it wasn't me. I didn't fool myself and I didn't fool the person who commented, "Are you all right BabyMan?"

But at that point to totally remove a post that concluded with the bold statement, “Cuz-I-can!” would clearly send the message that, well, “I can’t”. She wanted it removed. Totally. Completely. I needed an explanation. I didn’t want to remove it based on her request alone - without a clear explanation. If I did that it would be a death blow to the Domdentity I was already struggling with. Who’s blog is this anyway? And what was she so hurt, angry, mad about. A couple comments made her look like the envy of the TTWD community that day.

My developing Domdentity spiraled downward with the plans of the evening. And by the time the beams of the morning sun sprouted above the horizon, it had unraveled completely. More about that struggle in Part 2.

Here’s what “She Said…”.

"Return to Tender"

Without vision and without hope, death is certain to follow. I don’t mean death death. The only way to beat death death is through a living faith. But in many aspects of life we die a thousand times in a thousand different ways because of a lack of vision and the absence of hope. Our sense of family dies if we don’t have a vision of who we are as a family along with the hope of accomplishing it. Our friendships die if we don’t have a vision of what kind of friend we are along with the hope of becoming that kind of friend. Same with fitness. Who works out without a vision and a hope for what it will accomplish, how it will make you feel and what you will look like? Without vision and hope important aspects of life are as perishable as sirloin in the summer sun.

SugarAnne is coming out of it now, but over the past few days she has been in a fog of funk as thick as a kettle of unstirred split pea soup. I don’t know whether it was perimenopausal power surges or butt demon nicotine urges, but the “foulest stench was in the air: the funk of forty thousand years”. The last few days has been no “Thriller” for either of us.

For me it has been a fearful reminder of our B.S. (before spanking) days when SugarAnne was battling depression. She would too often disappear into this thick fog of funk. I would try to feel my way through it hoping to see a glimpse of friendship and feel some semblance of a relationship. But the lack of vision would sometimes cause me to misstep and I would slip into my own trough of moodiness. In those days the only hope we had was that we might rest for a moment on some plain of normalcy between the long and deep valleys of depression. When she did “come back”, the hills of bliss just didn't seem worth the climb. All I could see in the future was another bout with this fog of funk that was surely right down the line. I could not see our friendship. I could not feel our relationship. I had no vision and I felt I had no hope.

This affected our relationship in a profoundly negative ways. She would sometimes suddenly reappear out of one of those bouts with the joy of a kid turned loose in a chocolate factory. Only to be met with my own reactive fog of funk. When she "returned" I would be bitter, resentful and angry not only because she had "left" (as if she had any control), but also because she expected me to immediately jump for joy like a munchkin celebrating the sudden death of the most wicked witches. And maybe I should have been jumping for joy. To not is a lot like blaming your woman her for her monthly (of which she has no control), and then refusing to have sex with her when it's gone because she hadn’t been available for a week. I mean, why have sex? She’s only gonna have her period again right? (Yeah, I know, I know, I jump for joy then don't I? Shut the hell up.)

But I've noticed that “this thing we do” has had an affect on me. When there is a fog of funk TTWD has helped me see beyond that fog. It has given me a clearer vision for our relationship. And it has given us hope for the future. So now, I’ve noticed, when Sugaranne goes into a now rare fog of funk, I’m actually able to help. And two very lengthy, very firm, very loving "die for you" stress relief spankings this week (her stress not mine) can attest to that. But more importantly, I’m noticing, when she “returns” to me out of a fog of funk she's not being met with the cold shoulder of my own fog of funk. She's not being met with anger because I don't feel angry. She's not being met with resentment because I don't feel resentful. She's not being met with bitterness because I don't-feel-bitter. When she returns to me she returns to a friend, and a husband, and a lover who has clearer vision of who we are - and a firm grip on a hope that was absent - but is now everpresent.

When she returns to me, she returns to something tender.

"What?!! Divorce?!!"

How can a divorce be evidence of something going too well? I’m not sure I am able to explain that. Maybe the passion is too hot. Is that possible? Perhaps we’re growing too fast. You would think a mature couple (I don't mean old!) could handle growth, especially with communication, right? Could it be that the spankings are too good? Nah. The actual spanking is her least favorite part of this entirely favorable life we’ve been living for the past 6 months. Divorce: A word long ago banned from usage in our relationship and here I am using it, acknowledging it; watching it happen in our lives – and even encouraging it! “Heaven’s to Mergatroid!” What the hell is happening over here?! (He sings paraphrasing Steely Dan):


Ah – No hesitation;
No tears and no heartbreaking,
No remorse.
Ah – Congratulations
This is your weblog divorce.

Yup, “weblog divorce”. BabyMan and SugarAnne are still BabyMan and SugarAnne, married for life – so get a hold of your self. No tears. No hearts breaking. No remorse. Just congratulations. AND, furthermore, “BabyMan and SugarAnne” weblog will remain “BabyMan and SugarAnne” weblog (for now - at Sug's request). But I (we? she?) now submit to you the opportunity to get to know my – conspicuously absent from this blog – better half; and a chance to see things through her eyes.

Now, I happen to think she's "some kind of wonderful". I wouldn’t say that the woman is so sweet that they named sugar after her. You wouldn’t believe me anyway (psst, it’s true). But look for yourself. In her blog, “The Sweetness of Sugar”, she’s writing about some of her experiences in “this thing we do”.

And this is not a bad thing.

Ah – No hesitation;

No tears and no heartbreaking,

No remorse.

Ah – Congratulations
This is your weblog divorce.

Sorry, "weblog spinoff" didn't rhyme.

"Die For You"

Maybe the “silicon chip inside her head switched to overload because of one of those perimenopausal power surges. I don't know. But thank goodness it wasn’t Monday. Mondays are bad days for stuff like that. It was Saturday. And she was snappy as hell. Yes, she WAS right about the situation in question. But for some reason it just wasn’t enough for her to be right. It just wasn’t enough for her to accept my concession. Instead she, for hormonal reasons perhaps, had just flipped. She was still spewing “snappy” venom in a quantity that was way above the charm of her normal personality. I was trying to be patient, hoping she’d get a hold of herself. “Bang, zoom Alice!”, was my warning. I already had the “weapon of ass destruction” in my hand. I slapped it against my thigh as if to punctuate an unspoken “bang frickin’ zoom”. She looked. “What’s that for?”, still snappy. That’s right, “weapon” notwithstanding, she was still snapping!


I like her cat scratchiness. It’s cute. To a degree. It shows SugarAnne’s rising self-esteem and growing confidence. Love that. The charm of her delightful personality (wouldn’t quell it; wouldn’t sell it), is flowing freely from holes tweezed of the shrapnel of years battling depression and stuff. But it sometimes over-reaches. Not the charm, the snappiness. Well I’m thinking, “snappy, snappy? Ass get slappy”, I’m thinking that to myself, you see. There’s only one way out and that’s to go in. Go in and slay the dragon. “Get over here!” She’s still snappy even as she lays across my lap. Even before the first stroke! THWACK! The first stroke comes down hard. Real hard. “It’s nice to be right, isn’t it?” I say as she is wiggling and waggling, squirming and squeaming under a steady application of bun toasting strokes. She must’ve been “sorry” (“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, oh, ow! I’m sorry”) about 10 or 15 times before I was convinced.

When is was over, as she lay across my lap, I whispered tenderly, “Die for you”. I knew where it had come from. I just hadn’t been down that deep in a while. I was surprised by the verbalization of my genuine sincerity. Surprised by my emotion.

“Without thinking about it?”, she asked inquisitively, referring to our age-old joke about how I’d do it, die for her that is – if I DIDN’T have a chance to think about what I was actually doing.

“Even if I DID think about it”, I assured her, squeezing her tightly and pulling her to me in a warm post spanking hug. I looked down at her face. A little tension whispered from a wrinkle right between her eyes. Damn. I hadn’t got it all. The dragon lives to fight another day. But for now, I gently ran my thumb over the wrinkle and rocked her gently.

“Relax.” Again a whisper followed by a gentle kiss on her lips. I was having a moment. A tender moment. A “muskrat love” kinda moment. A serious moment. A defining moment. The kind of moment where the sincerity that pours out of your mouth surprises you. You knew it was there all the time but it still surprises you. This was real: this love. Is real: “this thing we do”. I was helping her. At least trying to. And there was a deep sense of certainty that I had about it.

You know what? She worth it. She’s worth championing. She’s worth the jealousy I have for her honor. She’s worth fighting the damned dragon. She’s worth dying for. So I whispered tenderly, “Die for you”. And I meant it too. I know where it came from. It came from a place down deep. I won’t be surprised by it anymore. I had just stepped into its flow.

You know, this doesn’t seem like such “a bad time to be in love”.

"A Bad Time To Be In Love"

OMG! Somebody fuckin’ hold me back! Perimenopausal?! Perimenopausal?! Perimenopausa-I’llbeattheSHITouttathiswoman!! Naturally, being the loving, patient and understanding husband that I am – AND, having the stellar, sweet adorable wife that I do (details coming in a post near you), I say that in jest.


It started right before our vacation. We thought it was “Clyde” – our name for her period. We were expecting to “lose” a couple of days of our vacation because of him. We didn’t. “Clyde” never came home. We have not seen hide nor hair of that chump yet. He’s a month late today. I’m shooting blanks – and have been for over 20 years – so I ain’t worried about that. So don’t even go there or I will jump through this LCD screen, slither through your feeble comment, pop my head through your computer screen and pour my displaced wrath out all over your grimy QWERTY keyboard! Don’t.Uh-uh.Justdon’t!


But I AM worried about all of this moodiness, this snappiness and this hyper-sensitivity. It’s not everyday, but over the past couple of weeks SugarAnne's been rising and falling with seiche-like intensity. Just when we got a handle (a paddle’s handle) on this relationship and things are running along smoothly I get this?! Perimenopause? I know. I know. All the dames are saying, “Hmmpff! You get this?!” As you thump your electronic index fingers on my electronic chest in disdain and disgust - not to mention shock and amazement. “You get this?!” Go on, get your husbands, use their chests as my proxy. “But we get THAT!” As you point, with other finger, to a whole list of serious symptoms that accompany this dreaded stage of feminine existence:


• Hot flashes
• Breast tenderness
• Worsening of premenstrual syndrome
• Decreased libido (sex drive)
• Fatigue
• Irregular periods
• Vaginal dryness; discomfort during sex
• Urine leakage when coughing or sneezing
• Urinary urgency (a pressing need to urinate more frequently)
• Mood swings
• Difficulty sleeping


To this point "we” – yes “we” the sensitive me, not only feeling, but sharing your pain (and also grabbing your wrist firmly to put a halt to that thumping on my chest!), “we” don’t have all of these yet. Just the moodines. And least of all, the decreased sex drive (perimenapause does have its benefits in our home, and all I have to say to that is: fuckin’ yay!). But the mood swings – OMG! I’m gonna beat the shit outta this woman!!


I’m trying to get a bead on exactly when to tame this dragon. That is, if the dragon can be tamed. Do I spank that ass on the low? I’ve done that and it’s lifted us to higher – and safer – ground. Do I spank that ass on the high? I’ve done that. And that’s been fun but apparently not at all preventative. Do I just don't spank? That would leave us vulnerable to the intentions of the fatal wave.


“I still love the little girl I'm talking about,
I'm in love with the girl I can't live without.
I'm in love but I feel like it’s wearin' me out"


Who does that song? I don’t know. I don’t even remember what the dang song is about. But the refrain is speaking my language more often than I care for it to be these days.


"I'm in love but I must have picked a bad time
To be in love, a bad time to be in love”

"Let Freedom Sting"

Sometimes the greatest discoveries are right under your nose. All you had to do was open your eyes. We were out on a horseback riding tour when I “discovered” it. After about an hour I took a break to sit by the ocean while SugarAnne, who grew up riding, opted to ride bareback in the ocean.

When she came out of the ocean she was talking about the chaffing that would occur. For some reason SugarAnne made the mistake of wearing short-shorts for this journey. And the riding apparently began to irritate her thighs. I had cargo trunks under my cargo shorts and, like the gentleman I am, I offered my outer shorts to her.

I don’t know why I never noticed it before but that’s when I “discovered” it. I hadn’t given it any thought in regard to our vacation but there it was. Right there, under my nose. Under my belly button, as it were. I reached down to my waist to unbuckle my belt and there - WAIT! Wait just a cotton picking minute now! Unbuckle my b-b-belt?! I “discovered” that I had brought more than “these hands”.

SugarAnne looked at me. I looked at her. We both looked down at the belt now released from its sheathe of waist loops. I looked back at her and with a mischievous smile and a gleam in my eye. Her rebuttal was a look that said, “Oh no you don’t!” I slowly doubled the belt over. I folded the bottom third up creating a handle for “these hands”. A rush of adrenaline ran through me like a 5-hour energy shot. I began to slap, with a playful rhythm, my open palm with the looped end of the belt. The tour guides didn’t know that it wasn’t just a tease.

Needless to say, I used the belt at the first opportunity. And frankly, I think I was a bit intimidated by the thing. Over the next 3 1/2 days I would apply it to her booty with not more than a tickle – although she would likely disagree – during spankings with “these hands”. But it would become instrumental – quite literally – in the second monumental moment of our vacation.

One day an unholy trinity of hormones, issues from home invading my “crack”berry and – get this – SugarAnne’s desire to smoke weed, had her crawling the walls. It’s probably been 20 years since she last smoked a joint. But in Jamaica it is readily available and she was quite challenged by the temptation of enterprising Jamaicans milling about right outside our resort.

She was having one of those Romans 7 struggles, where you can’t make yourself do the thing that’s good for you, and you can’t stop yourself from doing the thing that’s bad for you. You know, that feeling you get when you’re on a strict diet and the smell of chocolate is wafting through the air tempting your nostrils to follow the scent. She was really struggling. In fact, she was certain that she was going to fall.

She looked at me with wilted disposition tangled in a web of desperation. And with a plea that was reminiscent of that classic scene from the 1958 movie “The Fly”, she said, “’Help me. Help me’. I need for you to help me.” I asked her what I could do. Here it is ladies and gentlemen – that monumental moment. She looked around, locked eyes on what she was looking for and bent down to the floor to pick up the belt. She stood. It was like Lady Liberty handing me the torch of freedom. I accepted this offer of monumental proportions and had her lie face down on the bed with her behind propped up by a pile of pillows.

SugarAnne, who is quite wise, can be masterfully subtle sometimes. Perhaps she was just saying, “Be a man motherfucker.” She can also be artfully cunning sometimes. Perhaps she wanted to test the waters to see if she could take the punishment – IF she did fall. But characteristically, she is genuinely sincere. (I found out later that she was actually being artfully cunning!). I slowly walked to the most advantageous position doubling the belt over as I eyed my target. I folded the bottom third of the belt up, creating a handle for “these hands”. I sternly slapped my open palm with the looped end of the belt. That 5-hour energy shot of adrenaline rushed over me and I proceeded to give SugarAnne the “therapy” she needed. The “therapy” she requested. I torched that ass to high levels of squirming and wiggling. When she protested and resisted and tried to rise up, I firmly placed my hands between her shoulder blades, pushed her back down and thrashed some more all the while dispensing a relatively lengthy soliloquy about the dangers of marijuana and cigarettes.

I lit that ass up! I whomped and walloped over and over. I’m telling you, if she’d’ve farted, flames would’ve came out! I left her crimson, with a “hot spot” clover in the middle of her right cheek. For days she would reach back subconsciously give it a soothing rub: the universal sign of the spanko. Awww, how cute is that! I would give no more spankings for the rest of vacation. Poking the “hot spot” was all that was necessary to buy her attention, to guide her direction, to “use” her deliciously.

It would take the rest of vacation for me to wrap my mind around what had happened, what it meant and where we go from there in “this thing we do”. One thing is certain. She’ll probably never ask for “therapy” again so, going forward, it’s my job to see when she needs for me to let freedom sting.

"Wagging the Paddle"

She’s been “going to do” the laundry for the past 2 days. But I don’t see no clean clothes. Sure, she thinks she’s relaxing but as stuff begins to unravel little by little around the house, a nagging guilt will step in. Anxiety will follow and cloudy dullness will begin to tread upon her sunny disposition. Then, finally, runaway depression will attempt to stampede everything we’ve accomplished in the past six months. So, as free as Sugar is, I can’t let things begin to get out of hand. For her benefit, for my benefit, for our benefit, I’ve got to “Nip it in the bud” (Barney Fife 3:16). So, after I dressed for work, I typed out a list of tasks for her to accomplish today.

“I need for you to do something for us today” said I as I reached for the “weapon of ass destruction” which hangs by the bedroom door. Nude, she climbs out of the bed with a willing, “Oh, let me get my robe”. “Uh-uh – no”, I say shaking my head and wagging the paddle, “no robe.”

I went through each item on SugarAnne’s list, wagging the paddle on each one. "Why are you wagging that thing?" I walked her through the house, naked as a tree in winter, with the threat of a WHACK! hanging over her head . As she received clear and specific instructions on what needed to be done and how, she giggled with surprise. Not a disrespectful giggle, but a giggle that basically said, “uh-oh (gulp) the gig is up”. Through the bedroom, to the bathroom and over to the kitchen, I wagged the paddle as I, with loving firmness rendered my direction.

The list isn’t all work, there’s not that much that needs to be done. The parts where I’m involved will be quite enjoyable for her (and me). So it does offer some fun, some expectation, some hope.

SugarAnne's List
• Clear path
• Clear dresser
• Clean sink
• Do Laundry
• Ask about book

• Light Workout (cardio, stretching)

• “Girl up”

• Be spanked

• Make love

• Be fucked

• Eat dinner

• Computer time (visit forum, etc)

• Get sleep

I don’t want to be wagging the paddle everyday. Frankly, that’s just too much work. But my direction is just what she needs in order to be able to relax; just what I need in order to stay cool; and just what we need in order to grow.

As she turns and walks back to the bedroom, WHACK! The wagging paddle punctuates my instruction and accentuates my direction. It hits pay dirt on the nether cheek - right side. A smile is born where a giggle was aborted. It grows up into a warm hug with a sweet kiss that sends me off with an extra boost of energy for the day's toil.

Talk about being relaxed! Mmmm.

"I'm Just Me"

I had the pleasure of “taking” my wife for the first time on our vacation. For me, one of two monumental moments of our vacation. And possibly for her as well. I have always been a little anxious about exerting physical strength with SugarAnne. The last thing I ever wanted to do was hurt her or cause her to not trust me.


We had already been as wild as mink in heat for the first couple of days. I had christened the room with a spanking almost immediately. And everyday – twice a day sometimes – SugarAnne found herself over my knee the recipient of all that “these loving hands” had to offer. Passionate “closing ceremonies” usually concluded our "festivities".


The circumstances around the event are not so important, except to say that a controlled madness comes over me whenever I see SugarAnne’s naked behind. I suppose all the guys who enjoy “this thing we do” are booty men. But it all started with a playful spark. Then, as tickling led to wresting, things fanned into a steady flame. We wrestled and wrestled and wrestled some more. Her resisting, me insisting.


I know I hadn't read this article before we went on vacation. Perhaps it was this article that I had read long ago. I might’ve been informed by bits of the book “The Way of the Superior Man” by David Deida which touches on this sort of dynamic. Perhaps it was just primal promptings. But whatever it was, somewhere in the midst of all that rising wrestling heat something inside me said, “I must continue. If I pull back like I normally would, will this woman be certain that my protection is sure?” I had to overcome her efforts. I had to be victorious. The flame blossomed into a raging bonfire. I knew I had to conquer her and, ultimately, "take” her. And “take” her I did. Took her, and made her mine. It ended playfully. And we both basked in the warmth of embers that glowed for the rest of vacation.

Monuments connects us to our past and inspire us toward the future. There are not only a reminder of important events but also instill in us a sense of present and future responsibility. In the “taking” of SugarAnne is the monumental reminder, the heart-felt inspiration and the implied assurance that I could take care of her, protect her and shield her from harm. I think that’s quite a responsibility. And - I think that’s kind of scary.  Understand me, I know that I will try to take care of her with all my heart, soul, mind and strength. But don’t I desire to love God in the same way, and yet, fail more often in that than I’d like to admit? The stink that rises from all this is the fear that I just won’t be able to measure up.  What about my own human frailties and imperfections. I am not without “spot or blemish”, you know. I am prone to an unwise decision, an untimely word, an ungracious act. All of which can have rippling effects. And frankly, there are still the ripple effects of decisions that I’ve made for us that have yet, but are bound, to come to be. Plus, there are so many unforeseen occurrences of life: economic; emotional; physical. Unforeseen occurrences that are way out of my control. Am I worthy to “take”, and then leave this implication of protector? Hm.

I’m geared up for planting seeds of protection from this point forward. That inscription is already carved in the proverbial stone. I’m just not sure I can shield her (us) – us (her) – from seeds of folly sown before we began “this thing we do”. But come what may, I gotsta bring my "A game".

I do know one thing: that may be the Washington Monument up there but I ain't no Denzel.  I'm just me.