"An Open Letter to EHarmony.com"

Dear EHarmony.com,

Where the hell were you when I met SugarAnne?! I’ll tell you where you were. You were nowhere. You were frickin’ nowhere because you weren’t even launched until August 2000. Hell I was already stir frying in the marital wok like moo shoo pork.

But if you were there back then we would’ve been the same – or at least similar. We would have the same interests, hobbies, principles and habits. We would have the same (bing!) hell, I coulda married myself if you were here back then. 

Instead we’re opposites. We're virtual opposites. It’s gotta be some kind of miracle that we get along at all. God probably keeps us together so that he can have a really loud belly laugh at lunch when he’s standing around the water cooler with legions of angels.

Damn you EHarmonyDOTcom! Damn frickin youuuu!! How am I supposed to get along with someone so opposite of me?!

She is a starter: with all of her great ideas and zeal up front;

I’m a finisher: Deliberate determined committed to the very end.

I am a morning person: More done before 7 than most people do all day;

She an evening person: Often awake for a while after I’ve crashed out.

Me? Even-tempered and unexpressive;

She? Emotional: face quick to betray her feelings.

The other day she woke up with a face longer than an early morning shadow. I didn’t know if she was in a “crumble into a puddle of tears at the drop of a dime” sorta mood. Or if she was on the cusp of vomiting up the slime of some perimenopausal demon. My first thought was to “paddle whack her knick knack”. That’s always my first thought because it tends to help her (and it gets the dog a "bone"). But that’s never my only thought. I try to do something else before I take that route. So I decided that we would shower together.

If you had existed back then EHarmonydotCOM I’m sure we would’ve figured out that:

She likes hot showers; I like cool showers.

I like short showers; She likes long showers.

Uuggh!! Frickin’ ugh.

Where were you when I needed you?! I had to discover all this the old-fashioned way because YOU WEREN’T THERE!

I didn’t wanna retreat on her. Retreating makes the day worse. And I didn’t want to tolerate this mood of hers. Tolerating makes for a mountain of resentment. I wanted to move her out of this. I wanted to be e-ffective: to go in there and slay this embryonic beelzebub; and I wanted to be a-ffective: to move her body with my body. And I needed to do it in way that was beyond rubbing up against her like a horny leg-humpin’ dog. Even though she likes horny leg-humpin’ dogs.

So borne of a desire to connect (and my own pure genius of course), I said to Her Royal (on the edge of depression) Sweetness,

“SugarAnne, we’re going to ‘bridge’ our showers today.”

"’Bridge’ our showers? “The long early morning shadow had scrunched up like the bellows of a hard pressed accordion.

"Yes ‘briiiiiidge’ our showers.” The short "i" arched from my chair creating a bridge to her ears on the sofa. 

"What do you mean ‘bridge’ our showers?”

I crossed the bridge and plopped my nakedness prostrate upon her own and began my horny leg-humping dog routine. I DID NOT learn that from you EHarmonyDOTcom. I thought of that leg humping thing all on my own! You probably don’t even have any horny leg-humpin’ dog questions on your website do you? 

“I’m going to go in and start my shower” (hump-hump)

“And when I’m ready I’m going to call you in.” (hump-hump).

“We’ll shower for a short time together” (hump-hump, winky-wink)

“And then I’ll leave you to finish at the temperature of your liking” (humpity-hump-hump-hump).

“Got it?” Slow nod. “That’s ‘bridging’ our shower. That way we get to enjoy each other.”

And that’s what we did. We 'bridged' to connect and it saved the day. That’s how we’ve handled our many acute differences: we connect with bridges.

Me, I’m essay (see this “wordy-logged” blog); Her, she's storyteller (see her word efficient blog).

She's drama (she picks the best movies); I’m romantic comedy (I pick the worst movies).

I’m cats (“Cats are just animals”); She’s dogs (“Dog’s are people too!”).

She’s a maximumist (every open space must be filled!); I’m a minimalist (“Put that thing away!”).

I’m socially conservative (“Just do the right thing”); She’s socially liberal (“Just do anything!”).

Our bridges range from the precarious rope bridge requiring lots of blance; to tippy toe wood bridge with the missing planks; to sturdy concrete bridges that are easy to walk across. They keep us connected and yet we remain ourselves.

Oh by the way, I’m foreplay (slow pet; long sniff); She’s intercourse (“Quick, just get it stiff!”).

And in that regard “this thing we do" is a huge suspension bridge that handles lots of paddle traffic.

We're as different as Brooklyn and Manhattan SugarAnne and me. But we're the same city - connected by our bridge. She’s she. And I’m me. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. God knew what he was doing when he brought us together EHarmonyDOTcom! He knew we would've never, ever found each other through you.

Signed,

Miserably Happy and in Love Without You

Sadie Hawkins MY Ass?! Uh, No.

One of my favorite things about our early morning pillow talks is just being naked. Naked physically, naked mentally (save the cobwebs of sleep), and naked emotionally. Pillow talk is when me and SugarAnne discover things about each other that come from a naked place. A vulnerable place. For some reason during these early morning talks we are more conducive to revealing some unknown fact, or secret desire, or even some previously undisclosed embarrassing (even shameful) event in our lives. For some reason, I think we are more readily accepting of each others quirks and kinks and lapses in judgment during our pillow talks.

The value of these early morning talks far exceed the risk of the occasional argument. And since we began “this thing we do” the richness of our pillow talk has produced some of our most profound moments of relational connection and growth.

If you’ve read SugarAnne’s blog lately, you know that one of our most recent pillow talks had a ring of Sadie Hawkins Day to it. "The basis of Sadie Hawkins Day is that women and girls take the initiative in inviting the man or boy of their choice out on a date [or, in our case, to a spanking], typically to a dance [a spanking party?!] attended by other bachelors and their aggressive dates."

My brackets [-] tell you where I’m going. Now here me right, I wouldn’t say that SugarAnne has been “dying”, as they say, to spank me. But, she is very interested in having me know how it feels to be spanked. She’s mentioned it here and there over the past couple of months (mostly before or while she's being spanked). The topic injected itself into our Pillow Talk recently prompted by Charlie’s post reporting that her Tom went under the knife, so to speak, of a professional disciplinarian so that he might better understand Charlie's side of the experience  in "this thing we do".

Let me say right here and now that I have a lot of respect for Tom through what he’s done. And I mean that sincerely. He is quite a guy. Perhaps more man than I’ll ever be. And I also fully accept my personally imposed implication for imputation in his sacrifice. In other words, I contend that he did it for all Tops so that all Tops would never, ever, ever have to do it themselves. I would love it if he posted about his experience so that all of us Tops might share even more deeply in his sacrificial experience.

But to think that I, BabyMan, would even consider such punitive surgery, even for the sake of science or sacrifice, well… (voice trails). (I figure at this point the eyeballs of many bottoms are scraping the top of many ceilings). But waitwait&wait, whoawhoa&whoa don’t go jumping down my proverbial throat. Well, jump if you absolutely must. However, howEVER, if I did consider it, I would have to wonder about a couple of things.

On the one hand:
If it hurts, the spanking that is,(and spankings truly hurt, I know that they do, they simply must with the way this woman thrashes around and screams and shouts), if it truly hurts, in the future she would likely not get the type of spankings that she needs. Because, the thread of estrogen that runs through me and makes me the nuturing, kind, loving, sensitive, patient, forgiving husband that I am (and now completely understanding thanks to Tom's courageous sacrifrice - hurry up with that post man!), would be inclined to take the edge off any future spanking. She just wouldn't get to that "place". And of course we don’t want that, now do we? (I see some eyes rolling).

And on the other hand:
What if I liked it and it became a burning need for me (I won’t like it; it won’t become a need; and it won’t happen - but let’s just say rhetorically, IF it did), SugarAnne would not be able to follow through with the fulfillment of that continued need. She’s just not wired to advance this beyond mere novelty. I’d be left hanging out there with this burning need to be "spanked like I stole something". And of course we definitely don’t want that, now do we? (Roll on.)

“I know Sadie Hawkins, and SugarAnne is no Sadie Hawkins.”
Sadie was a homely girl. SugarAnne is hot.
Sadie had to be aggressive to get a date; SugarAnne would have to be aggressive to go dateless.
Sadie probably had to spank her man to keep him [captive], SugarAnne can easily captivate a man who needs to be spanked.

Just so you know, it’s not about squeezing testerone out of her like the rising puss in a hideous pimple. SugarAnne is by no means testosteroniacal. And besides, I have great admiration for the level of genetic spunk the good Lord has blessed her with. But I truly love what Dark Knight said in his mountain climbing post, “Submission from a woman with some spunk [makes the Sugar] so much sweeter”.

So suffice it to say, Sadie Hawkins my ass?! Uh, I don’t think so.

Are Lessons Learned Like Bridges Burned?

I could feel her nervousness and worry the moment I walked through the door.

“Hello”. Her greeting was soft and submissive.

I liked that. It was comfortable for me, like a cool pillow on a warm night. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time to rest my head. I was due across town in a couple of hours. Besides, I can never really stand to see her pre-spank misery for too long. She had already stewed in that crock pot of anticipaton for over 3 hours.

As instructed on the phone she had compliantly “girled up”. She went with my favorite hairstyle of late: a loose curled ‘fro sorta thing with a headband that pulls her hair back to present all of the pretty in her face. She added a solid blue shell-like blouse to match the headband. And a light blue floral print skirt, that sways when she sashays. Her skin was aglow with a fresh coat of oil-based lotion. I like the shine. Very pretty. I mean, a big part of me don’t wanna spank someone so pretty. But the other part of me wants to give someone a pretty good spanking.

“Let’s take care of this now. Get the paddle and the bath brush." There’s a purpose in my voice that peeks over the edge of matter of fact.

With little reluctance, a small amount of planning and a tinge of fantasy (I confess, I just might be getting the hang of "this thing we do"), I put my adorable wife into punishment position. I placed a dining room chair sideways next to the sofa in the den. “What’s the hell are you doing?!” She's still SugarAnne. Isn’t she charming? I think sarcastically.

The den is where this type of iniquity (as she just might call it) takes place in our home. “I’m constructing a spanking station." I patted the chair with the paddle. "Kneel on the chair." She hesitated but, not wanting the situation to go from bad to worse, she complied. I made her fold herself over the arm of the sofa where I had mercifully (I'm just that sweet) placed a pillow to soften the rub on her mid-section. Her head rested on the seat cushion of the sofa just a tad below the level of her knees. This caused a high rise to her behind - a vulnerable and ready target for my "ass-crackin" assault. It was quite a position – if I must say so myself. I’m thinking about calling it “the bend and slap”.

Why? Why why, why? For what reason is SugarAnne getting her “bubble popped” again you might ask? Phonecalls, Workouts and Lies, that's why.

I pulled up the big leather chair from the desk. I bent down low as I sat to bring my eyes level to look into hers. The heat of my glare – like a high watt bulb – forced her head to turn away from me. “Look at me!"  I demanded.

Locked in, a stern but controlled interrogative tirade began:
“You went to the gym when I expressly told you not to didn’t you?!”
“You know I told you not to go for your own good, right?!”
“You should’ve called me and asked about it before going, shouldn’t you have?!”

Quivers of trepidatious regret became her affirmative responses. I continued:

“You’re supposed to contact me everyday between 11:00 and 2:00 right?”
“You had time to chat with online friends though didn’t you?" She froze. "Didn't you?!”
A near imperceptible quivering nod confirmed my aggravated suspicions.

“You had just two more days of that rule and you would’ve been scot free right?”
“Now you’re extended until the end of July!” I pointed a finger to emphasis the edict.

Then I said, “You’re lucky, SugarAnne”. She knows better than to be duped by the word “lucky”. She’s pretty much knows she won’t be pulling one of her neo-Houdini escape acts this time. “You’re lucky because that little going to the gym against instruction act gets you a little bit extra. Consider it the warm up you would not have otherwise received.” I snicker inside myself.

I lifted the hem of her pretty skirt and gravity inhaled it. It landed perfectly on the small of her back. Her "virgy whites", made taut by the flare of her ass in this position, appear laminated onto her roundness.  When I “delaminated” her I exposed a world of beauty. Booty. Considering my previous post this ain’t bad…not bad at’tall. I can't help salivating - or bending down to steal a very personal predatory kiss.

At two strokes for every minute beyond 2 o’clock, she had earned the full weight of 26 strokes with the dreaded and feared bath brush I call “Heatstroke”. The so-called “warm up” with the paddle, the “Weapon of Ass Destruction”, wouldn’t be easy either. She writhed and squiggled and squirmed and jiggled. At one point I had to “Captain Morgan” her by putting my foot on the chair to keep her from kicking her heels to protect her bottom.

Ah! She took it like a champ though. Nah...no she didn't. SugarAnne never takes her punishments like a champ.

She still working on the spanking dignity and grace she so admires and desires to attain. If this lapse in conduct isn't nullified she'll get more practice at it before the end of the month.

"Let the Jelly Roll!"

Call me shallow. My name might as well be BootyMan rather than BabyMan cuz, frankly, that’s what I am: a booty man. SugarAnne’s bottom inspires me! I mean that. It inspires me sexually (you know what I’m sayin’?). It inspires me socially (can you say “trophy wife”?). And, dare I say, it inspires me spiritually (as in, “OmG is she frickin’ hawht!”). Psst…I think she’s become a milf! (I hope that’s complimentary).

Lately I’ve been as protective as I am desirous of SugarAnne’s gorgeous behind. In fact, I’m on a mission to save the right amount of bottom fat because I need (yes, capital N-E-E-D need) to see some mature woman jiggle with this youthful new wiggle she’s got going on.

Since we began “this thing we do” nine months ago I’ve watched SugarAnne go from really good looking, to looking really good, to really great looking! In that time she has managed to span the full spectrum of what I prefer in a woman physically. At the beginning if she had put on just nine more pounds she would’ve risked dousing the home fires. Now, here it is nine months later and she's 25 pounds lighter. If she takes off nine more pounds she’ll land her booty in the same hot water (although cold might prove more soothing).

Just to prove that I’m not completely shallow, over those same nine months I have not fail to observed and deeply appreciate a mature grace that has swelled and is flowing from within SugarAnne. A kind of grace that rarely comes without the benefit of years.

She said to me recently, “I still can’t get over the fact that each one of those people are going to die”. When she said it (more than once) she wasn’t watching the devastation of an earthquake or some other natural disaster. She wasn’t tearing up, as she is wont to do, at the 4th of July season’s tireless replays of 9/11. Nor was she being befuddled by the memory of hurricane Katrina, which has found its resurrection in the darkened waters of the Gulf of Mexico.

Nope, she was just watching people. Everyday people doing everyday things. People at an art fair. Sitting in a stadium. Sunbathing on the beach. No specific catastrophe had invaded her existence to warrant the sober thought of death. No tragedy – save the pervasive calamity that time will swallow all of us into the vacuum called eternity.

The statement, although tinged with darkness, is not only revealing in its compassion for others but it also brought with it a flood of clarity to what I’ve been seeing in SugarAnne. SugarAnne appears more alive than at any other time since I’ve known her.

Over the past nine months, her episodic depression have gone from a weekly horror series to a once a year comedy special. She’s divorced herself from “Camel Joe” and his nicotine laced lung darts. She is more comfortable and at peace with herself than ever before. And more confident with others too.

Her vibrancy is attractive; her radiance magnetic. The benefit of years has been a blessing. Side note: for some reason this maturity fails to manifest itself during a spanking. (Even though her biscuit has a radiant glow when it’s all over.) And, I submit, that getting in shape is just added gloss to SugarAnne’s shine. She “gets her sweat on” 5 days out of the week; she has a taken a firm grip on her diet; and, like I said, she has reduced the rate at which gravity tugs by nearly 25 pounds (actually accomplished in three months!)

I love my wife. I’m diggin’ all of her. But frankly, I lust (capital L-U-S-T lust) after her butt and I don’t want no narrow booty. I love her cello shape. I love to look. I love to see. I love the jiggle of maturity (rhyme not intended). I love that she has a four stroke bottom: eastside (right cheek); westside (left cheek); northside (upper cheeks); southside (sit spots).

Don’t get me wrong she’s not threatening anorexia. But I'll be watching every one of those nine pounds with an eagle eye. What can I say? I’m as shallow as the next guy. BabyMan needs some butt to buff. I'm not looking for rows of jelly, but my preference is still: “Let the jelly roll!”