"Spankable Wit"

                                    

   B’Man: What’s it feel like to be married to a genius, huh?

 

                            Sugar: I don’t know. I was gonna ask you!

 Tell me, how can I not love (to spank) such wit.

"Jump Start"

It’s fall. Well, almost. In a couple of days. I’m sure they call it fall for some reason (other than the fact that darkness drops like a hammer, sits like an anvil and lifts with the reluctance of a bronchial infection). Some good reason I’m sure. But I don’t know what that reason is. All I know is when I left the gym this morning it was still dark and I thought, “Hm…that’s rather sudden.”

The way it affects SugarAnne is even more sudden. I have to keep my eye on Her Royal Sweetness around this time of year. Stay on my dominant P’s and Q’s. The mornings are particularly tough for her. It’s SAD really: Seasonal Affective Disorder: the dragging around of the body, the sagging of the eyes, and the laborious sorrow in her voice. It’s not difficult to detect. I don’t share the affliction but I do share the pain (at least some of it) and also the affect that it can have our relationship.

When we began “this thing we do” it was well after fall started last year. So we haven’t crossed this dimly lit, change of season bridge until now. As a matter of fact, depression hasn’t been an issue for us at all over the past 10 months. I don’t know why. I’m not a psychologist. I’m just trying to avoid the potholes. But it’s hard to see in this dark. I can’t see where I'm going. I think she’s gonna need my help during this change of season. But I can’t see what's coming. I’m not a psychic.

One thing’s for sure, it was easy to see she needed help this morning. And that’s what I tried to give her: help. A jumpstart. A jumpstart to the season hopefully. A jumpstart to her day at least. The “weapon of ass destruction” (our standard leather paddle) massaged her misery with gentle, I should say gentle enough, “pat-pats”. And the “Angel Maker” (the loopy Johnny our friends gifted to us) connected, intermittently and appropriately, with an electrical current that brought to mind the starter cables that inspired the title of this post. Her lamentatious tears - the kind that you know are good – flowed and were met with my reassuring caresses and testimony of timeless commitment:

“I love you sweetie. We’re in this thing together. No matter what.”

I mounted her. She winced beneath me. We made love. A tender kinda love. She, tinged with desperation to be saved; me, desperate to save; and we, both knowing that neither had completely occurred. The battle would no doubt be revisted. It all seemed to lift her spirits a little bit though. But I don’t know. I mean, our thoughts are exclusively our own aren’t they. When it comes to knowing the thoughts of others, SugarAnne included, I’m not telepathic; just tele-pathetic.

But it’s obvious I’m doing something right. We’re doing something right. Because when she closed out our online chat later in the morning she typed:

“I love you. Thanks for this morning I actually feel better. But that loopy really hurts!”

"When the Prairie Dog Runs Free"

We had a visit from that Spanko Couple from the East. But even if you’re “the most interesting man (or woman) in the world” somewhere, somehow, at sometime I’m gonna to need to get away from you. Nothing personal. It ain’t you. It’s me. I’ll probably need to take a nap to rejuvenate. Or just get back to my own headspace for a bit. Simply put, I ain’t one of those “spend an entire day with you” kind of a guy.

If I had any concerns about spending the day with that Spanko Couple from the East, one would be that somewhere along the way I would need a break. I am not very friendly when I need my break and with our visitors - I didn’t get my break. Funny thing though, I didn’t need my break and, frankly, I didn’t want my break.

We met for lunch first. And the subject of spanking, other than an accidental pun, seemed held in check by its freedom. It rested, as the subject of spanking usually does when in the company of others, right beneath the surface. On occasion, a double entendre would cause it pop out of its hole like a prairie dog on alert, sniff at its new found freedom, take a nibble and then scurry back into its hole.

We stopped out our place after lunch. I popped the trunk to grab the case Bibles that Mr. and Mrs. Spanko Couple from the East had the heart to donate to the ministry. Mrs. Spanko also grabbed one of their bags and we all went inside. She opened her bag to what seemed like an arsenal (3 or 4 implements) of “shock and awe” “weapons of ass destruction” that would make the 101st Airborne Division envious! I was in awe. My preconceived names for not yet acquired implements came flooding to my mind. I began to mentally attach names to implements like they were children being born.

“Ahhh…”, I thought on seeing the loopy Johnny, “that’s the ‘Angel Maker’ right there.”

“Oh-aww!” I continued inside myself when I saw the next heart stopping implement, “That, that’s the ‘Frying Pan’ of love”.

And “Oooooh…awwwww! That’s gotta be ‘The Homerun!’” I was thinking (cuz it’ll knock the cover off the ball). I was actually tempted (“Lord, lead me not into this temptation”) to name that one “GEEEEEE-ZUSS!!” cuz that was my first thought (and no doubt who Sugar’d be praying to with every ever-loving stroke).

I was in awe. And Sugar was in shock when I teased her playfully with the “Angel Maker” (“Yowie! That thing hurts! Don’t leave that thing here! Take that thing home with you!”). We all laughed and it was clear that we had become fast friends. But the "prairie dog", out momentarily, scurried into its hole as we headed outside. 

From our place we took a short drive to the center of the city; a long walk; a speedboat tour on a river; a short walk; a short drive and a quick stop to check into their hotel; back to our place; and a ballroom dance lesson. Foxtrot. And to see the way Mrs. Spanko looked lovingly and submissively at Mr. Spanko as he led her in dancing (in the same way he led her to and opened every door throughout the day) – well, it was a quite a gift!

Throughout the day that “prairie dog” bobbed in an out of our conversations. A joke, a tease, a spank tinged pun here and there. And it even knew to stay in its hole when I lightly admonished SugarAnne for getting untimely “testosterony” on me.

By the time we sat down for dinner, nearly 12 incredible hours had rolled under time’s precious bridge. We ordered pizza and ate informally at the coffee table. And as the waves crashed gently against the shore outside, we talked. I don’t know exactly when it happened, it wasn’t a planned conversation, but the “prairie dog” was out of its hole and running around freer than Nelson Mandela. Joyfully free! We talked openly and honestly about “this thing we do” and about our “issues” relating to it. Four friends, just sittin’ and talkin’ without even a hint of a threat of a judgment. Only the aroma of hope, the taste of help when needed - and love. It was the best two hours of the best day with a couple we've had in a long time.

I am persuaded fully that we all came away with a better understanding of who we are and where we are - even if we didn’t come away with a complete understanding of “this thing we do”.

What special people are Mr. and Mrs. Spanko Couple from the East! There was something about them that constantly rejuvenated me throughout the day. Something refreshing. And what a special day it was too! A very special day when four people, two couples, came together, really got to know each other and, "as iron sharpens iron", sharpen each other too.

The "prairie dog" came out and ate well that night. But not so well that he didn't fit back into his hole - under cover-  where he belongs.

"Anticipating a Dive"

I’m a bit thirsty for my diet of pixels. We had a “malicious computer virus” this weekend. Well, we thought it was malicious. Uh, we thought it was a virus too. I dismantled the entire network. But there was neither malice nor virus. It was just the failings of “big broth-“ – I mean Comcast. But for a moment it did look like the entire home network was affected and every program on every computer was completely obliterated. Said faux virus caused such tragedy of life it actually made it into Sunday’s handwritten (can you say Amish?) sermon: “Is a computer a computer if you can’t get the internet?” No. Just a calculator. And, “Is a believer a believer without good deeds?” No, just calculating.

Upon returning home (with very little Post Traumatic Sermon Syndrome I might add), I called the purveyors of  “xfinity”. It's no suprise that I spent an eternity spiraling downward into Dante-like levels of a fiery voicemail hell. It turned out that said life-giving home network was actually fine and dandy. Whew! It's now up and running and it is with great anticipation that I’ll be diving in to get my "pixfix". But for fear of diving in too deeply I should perhaps tether myself to a stationary object. Do they have mouse extension cords?

But my Olympic swan dive will have to wait until tomorrow because today we have spanko visitors from the east on the horizon – a first encounter for “yours truly”. But I am not as trepidatious about the whole thing as Her Royal Sweetness may feel. We’ll show them the area we live in, the “church” perhaps, and also grab a bite to eat. I’m looking a little bit forward to it actually. Not overly excited. Just “am” about it. It’s right. It fits. It’s good.

I suppose that Her Royal Sweetness is thirsty for her own diet of pixels. Yep, she’ll need to get her chat on. That could be a problem huh. You know how she gets: tunnel vision, highly focused (distracted?), “mainlining” chat and all. So, if you see a pair of boots sticking out of a computer screen somewhere just know that I sacrifically cut my own cord, dove in with paddle in hand to extract the needle out of her arm.

"Reconstructive Surgery"

On Tuesday some dirty balloon knot had the gall to break into SugarAnne’s locker and steal everything. EVERYTHING! Clothes, purse, cell phone, house keys, car keys, ID, credit cards and money. E-V-everyfrickin’thing! She had to stop her credit cards, put the credit agencies on alert, suspend cell phone service and, to add insult to injury, go to the Department of Motor Vehicles to replace her driver’s license. And you know what kind of a nightmare the DMV can be. The nerve of some people. I mean, really!

To compound the matter, when yours truly (that’s me) was informed of this vile rape of the soul, I was in the middle of a lunch meeting. Ministry. And for 10 reasons, none important enough to offer a defense, I delayed my arrival for 45 minutes. It might as well been 45 hours as far as she’s concerned. Yep, BabyMan dropped the ball on that one. A thousand apologies, though forgiven, would never be enough to turn back the hands of time to make the correction.

When I arrived on the scene I was greeted with a hundred sobs, a river tears plus an angry eye that could burn a hole right through your medulla oblongata. I mean, if looks could kill my carcass would have been strewn among a parking lot already littered with the bodies of the innocent – and perhaps the guilty party too. If you’ve ever been ripped off like this you know that it makes you feel violated, and angry, and bitter and cynical. And that’s how SugarAnne felt. She never wants to go to that gym anymore.

Over the next few hours I observed the crumbling of SugarAnne’s psyche. A dingy cream of negative thoughts and unproductive feelings begin to rise to the top: feelings that this thing was her fault; thoughts that she deserved for it to happen to her; and the worst (because of the ripple effects: I had to leave work early; have the locks changed; replace her pocket money; and get her a new phone), a feeling that she is a burden to me. An edginess descended upon her usually sunny disposition that my verbal reassurances could not seem to penetrate. It became apparent that I would have to perform “reconstructive surgery” so to speak.

When I told her to pull her shorts and panties down she was surprised.
“Why?!” she exclaimed in protest.
“Because you need this. I’m here to take care of you”, I replied with loving firmness. 
I left the den to get my “surgical tools”. I knew I’d need at least 2 implements for this procedure. I returned with three. I sat down on the sofa and guided her over my lap. The belt right out of my work slacks functioned as my scalpel. It made the initial incision and was used to extract the poison.

“You did not deserve this honey”, I said gently. Tap-tap, tappity-tap. The strokes were light and airy, just enough to make her maturity jiggle. It was the verbal caress that opened a floodgate of tears and accompanying sobs.

“This is not your fault sweetie”. More tap-tap, tappity-tap-tap-tapping – and cued by sobs - an occasional WHAP!WHAP! on both globes. I leaned on my elbow to bring my face close to her crying eyes.

“You are not a burden to me baby”. I spoke tenderly and gently rubbed her behind giving it a squeeze here and there as if to force the poison out of her. It was not yet warm to the touch. But that would change.

The “weapon of ass destruction”, our tried and true, and most often used paddle, would act as a hypodermic needle. It would inject the love necessary for re-calibrating her mindset. With the WAD I had her climb a couple of hills. At the bottom I started with slow and gentle strokes. I spoke to her lovingly. I reassured her of my commitment to her. Then I rained the strokes down with ever-increasing speed and intensity - the top of the hill being the most intense. By then she was wiggling her maturity. And finally, I eased her down to the bottom with slow and gentle strokes with more reassurance that I absolutely love taking care of her. After we were done climbing, her bottom was warm and tender to the touch; her eyes moist with tears of cathartic release; and her heart was reassured that she’s no trouble at all.

After the poison had been extracted and the love injected, “Heatstroke”, the dreaded, hated, feared short handle bath brush would essentially weld the incision closed. This is a tough implement. It is known to leave a sting that lasts for hours and marks that last for days. But it’s only tough when it's used toughly. That wasn’t the case in this procedure. This was strictly “sew up” (although a few of the strokes added much needed endorphins in an effort to ward off a relapse).

Now, I want to remain tasteful here (an obvious sign of growth on my part), so I’ll just say afterward we made love. Words wouldn’t aptly describe it no way no h0w. But it was passionate and powerful, and powerful and passionate. I took her, and she gave herself to me.

Has she fully recovered? Let’s just say she’s was out of the ICU in a few hours and she’s feeling much better. It ain’t all good. There’s still recovery going on. She’s feels good a little bit here; angry a little bit there; vindictive on occasion; and then she feels good again.

But one thing’s for sure, she certainly feels loved. Prognosis? She’s gonna be all right.