"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.