B'Man Loves Sugar

“Adieu: The Final Curtain”

2011-01-29T12:29:00.001-06:00

“Mr. Gorbachev, Tear down these blogs!"

Well…we’re not actually going to tear them down. But we will not be posting any more entries – either here or at “The Sweetness of Sugar”. That’s right – the final curtain has fallen upon our blogs.

There are two reasons for this – one a contributor to the other.

First, we feel we have said everything that we could say about our relationship in and with “this thing we do”. To say any thing more would be to basically say what has already been said and for y’all to hear what has already been heard.

And second, feeling this way means it takes a lot more energy - and time - to dress up and repackage the redundancies. We confess, we just don’t have the motivation for that. And we don’t want this to become an unenjoyable chore. But we can see that it's headed that way.

We are thankful for all of the friends we have made through this experience. You have taught us an awful lot. We are especially grateful for those trailblazers who, by opening up their own lives through their blogs, have made priceless contributions to the very salvation and resurrection (quite literally) of our relationship. We could only hope that we have that kind of contribution to some couple who came after us.

Eventually, our blogs will fade to the bottom of your blog rolls. We’ll become the seemingly vacant and abandoned house on the south end of Domestic Discipline Avenue. But don’t be fooled, this old couple still lives here. Like Tom Bodett, we're still leaving the light on for you: we'll still be answering the door and responding to any comments that are made to any of our posts.

We'll still be lurking, and listening, and learning and even commenting on other blogs. And like good neighbors, we will still be offering up a cup of Sugar (and a hand full of BabyMan) to anyone we notice moving onto the block. We just won’t be writing posts.

It’s the end of our blogs but not the end of "this thing we do" for us. Frankly, it would easier to get out of the mob than it would be to get out of the lifestyle.

So feel free to use our email addresses (babymansugaranne@live.com and sugaranne@live.com) whether it is to just say, “Hello” or to ask us about something in regard to your own journey in "this thing we do". We are still here to help if you feel like we can.

We wanna thank each and every one of you: "Thank you", "Thank you", "Thank you", Thank you", Thank you", "Thank you", "Thank you", "Thank you", "Thank you", "Thank you", Thank you", "Thank you", and "Thank you" - is that everybody? If we've missed anyone, well, "Thank you too!"

"Thank you" to all of you. This has truly, truly been a fulfilling and life-changing experience for the both of us individually and together as one.

With that we - with love and great affection - bid you…

…Adieu,

BabyMan and SugarAnne.

"Hitting 'Pause on Cue"

2011-01-22T07:54:00.000-06:00

Nothing can challenge a relationship more than the “winds of change” – even a solid Dd relationship. SugarAnne has arrived. We knew it was coming. The signs have been there – undulating off and on and back and forth for several months . And now - now it’s here. SugarAnne has hit ‘pause right on cue – menopause that is.
The “winds”, gusting with a force that is worthy of Dorothy’s last name (Gale), send her swirling about in a hormonal tempest of hurricaniacal proportions. She gets hot flashes, experiences sleepless nights, has hypersensitive emotions as well as heightened senses. All day one day it was, “Ooooh that smell? Can’t you smell that smell?”. I'm like, “Yeah I smell it. It’s called menopause. And it stinks like the rancid fart of a constipated buffalo!”

It’s been kinda like living with a whole bunch of new people. Namely, Sweaty, Sleepy, Bloaty and Forgetful (there’s no sign of Itchy, Bitchy and Psycho yet – but there’s still time). According to the ‘net, Sugar is not nearly – I repeat, not nearly – as bad as she could be. At least not yet. And hopefully she’ll never be (there’s some real horror stories out there!) I sleep with one eye open just in case. But as she goes through her stuff, I’m going through my own stuff in response to her going through her stuff. And all of this stuff is tossing our big ole Dd cruise ship around like a toy dingy in a whirlpool with the jets on full thrust.

I don’t have a complete handle on this thing yet (probably never will). And I confess, the turbulence can cause confidence to trickle out of my Domdentity like pee pee out of a sneezing girl. That old doubt from the early days begins to seep back in. You know, doubt about giving instructions and expecting them to be followed. And doubt about following up with the “consequences” – believe it or not.

But thanks to over a year of “this thing we do”, I can at least recognize some (not all) of the opportunities to “help” Sugar to stop, settle down and get beyond when she’s trapped inside of herself. That’s when it’s my time to “hit pause on cue”.

Recently I gave myself a 10.0 on executing when one of those “opportunities” presented itself. Yeah I graded myself. I need the confidence boost okay?! So sue me.

I noticed that Sugar was on the cusp of crippling anxiety the other day. Some unspoken worry had wrinkled her forehead. Her hunched up shoulders betrayed accumulated tension. When she’s like that I feel it’s my obligation as her protector to break in and help her escape. Obligation and Motivation: 10.0

I called her over, disregarding her weak protests (she seemed to know what she needed too). I had her slide her own jeans down and peel back her own panties. How’s that for confidence, huh? Confidence: 10.0

I spoke to her softly reassuring her that no matter how kooky she gets (said in a nice way of course) that I’ll be there for her. I made it clear that I understood what she was going through (to the extent that I could, thanks to the internet) and that I desired to comfort her best I could. Artistic Expression: 10.0

As I spoke to her I began to gently massage her bottom, then spank gently with my hand. Switching to the leather paddle the spanks rose in speed and intensity until they were harder than a cold winter morning. She got all squirmy-squrimy. I dig that.

I slowed the swats down until they were as loving and as gentle as a summer breeze under her skirt. We went through this winter/summer process for about 20 or 25 minutes. I then sent her to the bedroom where I "stuck the landing" by making love to her slow and sweet. Technical Merit: 10.0

Yes, yo’boy B’Man is feeling pretty proud of himself. And SugarAnne? Well, she’s “happier than the morning sun” – at least for now. We’re still navigating the waters of these “winds of change”. And we will be for some time I suppose. But it’s good to have the confidence to be able to step up to the plate and “hit pause on cue” to stop the madness – if only for a while.

“Making Love Outta Nothing at All”

2011-01-03T15:26:00.004-06:00

Don’t think I didn’t want to. I did. I certainly felt like it. We’d been doing it like rabbits lately. But I just wanted to talk – about nothing. Talk about nothing in particular. Talk more to a “who” than about any what”. So we covered the blog rolls, just like we do each morning:

“Sara said…” (insert such and such).
         “Oh she agrees with me good!” (Glee is more than a TV show).
“And Audra did…” (insert so and so).
         “Oh that’s great I can’t wait to see it!”
“Did you read Daisy’s joke?”
         “Doughboy? Yep, hilarious!”

But I wasn’t at the desktop nor she at the laptop. We were in bed. Lying down. She on her back. Me on my stomach. Just talking. No computers. Talking about nothing in particular. Talking more to a “who” than about any “what”.

Out of the background Law and Order interjects. It’s not an interruption. It’s provision for what’s happening:

“Not guilty.”
       “No, gwilty”, a patented bastardization of the English.
“Not guiiiiiilty”, as if a sing-song would make it so.
       “Gwiiiiiilty! Gwilty, gwilty, gwilty.” The pronunciation as irritating as the opinion.

I flip onto my back and, as if connected by gears, she – onto her stomach. My thirsty hand falls upon her behind. SMACK!

“Hey!”

Out of the future the coming year penetrates and takes its place as impromptu fodder for this everyday confabulation:

“I have so much to do today.”
       “Don’t over do it today.”
“I’m starting my new diet.”
       “Take it easy at the gym today.”
“I’m not doing too bad. I’ve only put on 4 pounds.”
       “We have a great future behind you. Don’t go and ruin it y'hear?”

She subtly pushes our aforementioned “future” up to drink a squeeze from my hand.

"The more the merrier."
       "Hm."

The ingrained ritual is now complete. But it’s not a prelude to having sex today. But that doesn't mean love isn't being made. Actually, love IS being made.

Don’t think I didn’t want to. I did. I certainly felt like it. We’d been doing it like rabbits lately. But I just wanted to talk – about nothing. Talk about nothing in particular. Talk more to a “who” than about any what”.

That is how love is made.

"Dear Readers"

2011-01-01T18:04:00.001-06:00

Dear Readers: Please consider the following question submitted in the comment section of the "A Peeve-stipation Situation" post. Your thoughts, ideas and wisdom are not only sought but I am certain would be appreciated.

Hi B'Man (and others),
I'm a lurker on DD blogs, have been for a while now. This is my first comment! I really enjoy reading your blog and SugarAnne's as well. I'm not married, but I sometimes consider DD in the back of my mind when I think about marriage.

My question is: what happens when the wife is the one with all the pet peeves? Let's say you have these pet peeves about cleanliness and orderliness - you hope that SugarAnne wants to follow them not because you can spank her, but because they're important to you and she respects that. The spanking is just a tool that you can use to make it really happen. In my case, my boyfriend doesn't care as much about cleanliness, while I have enough pet peeves that you could run power plants off the steam that comes out of my ears. I know he would want to respect me and try to follow them, but I don't get any tools to enforce it. Isn't that unfair? If the HoH has the higher standards, he can enforce them. If the wife has higher standards, she has to lower them to those of the HoH?

To the Reader submitting the question:
Thanks for delurking and making a comment on the blog. I am submitting your question to the wider wisdom of the readership to which it was directed. I am hopeful that persons more qualified than I would render an opinion and that you will be able to distill the wisdom and glean what would work for you from the myriad of ways that your question is handled in other relationships.

I'm sure I have a peeve or two (or three) that ticks Sugar off but her temperament about these things are very different from mine. And that goes a long way toward harmony in our relationship. One thing is certain for me: the privilege of a Dd relationship with Sugar, and particularly her consent to be disciplined, instills and inspires in the deepest heart of me a desire to do better for her. Through Dd I have experienced a swelling up in me of a need to look out for her best interests; a stronger desire to care for her; a more passionate love for her; and an intense desire to keep her happy. I can't really explain it but a Dd relationship built on love, communication, trust and integrity would and should produce positive changes in both parties.

"A Quick Toast"

2011-01-01T04:45:00.000-06:00

With 2010 now a mere drop into the river of centuries

May you drink deeply of 2011.

From B'Man and Sugar, Happy New Year Y'all!

"A Peeve-stipation Situation"

2010-12-27T07:30:00.004-06:00

Regular readers here know that since I started “Building the Kingdom” as SugarAnne puts it, I have been working through several of my pet peeves with her. I have been quite the “peeve-ologist” – if I must say so myself.

Thanks to the consistent application of my trusty little wooden spoon, we (insert inclusive gathering arm gesture) now know the importance of pausing our online chat and give our husband a few minutes of our undivided attention when he gets home from work. We are now able to keep the hall closet door closed. We are now able to keep the three remote controls in their respective rooms. And, We are now able to consistently take our medicine.

I could’ve went all Chief Whackacheek on her and thwacked that booty for any infraction of any peeve at any time. But instead we were more like Hansel and Gretel picking up bread crumbs one at a time and taking several months to find our way “home” on these things. I have had an amazing amount of success with this method. Like I said (proudly buffing fingernails on shoulder), I’m a “peeve-ologist”. A patient “peeve-ologist” at that.

Unfortunately there’s one thing the ole peeve-ology degree didn’t prepare me for. Maybe I need continuing education. Perhaps it’s that “education never really prepares you for the real world” sorta thing. I don’t know. But whatever it is, it has left me unprepared to remedy what I call “peeve-stipation”.

That’s right “peeve-stipation”. We can’t seem to pass the latest peeve – not leaving recyclables on one side of the counter. To paraphrase her, I’ve tried to keep a sense of humor about it. I’ve teased. I’ve begged. And I’ve made empty threats. And now it’s officially a spankable offense. But it’s been a spankable offense for over a month now!

It seems it would be easy. All she has to do is stretch her arm out with the offending item in hand, let it go and watch the damn thing drop into the recycle basket. But noooooooo... apparently that’s too hard to do. The girl has been thwacked with her pants up, her pants down and “looking like a fool with her pants on to the ground”. And still!! she consistently leaves recyclables on the counter. Basically, she just sits there, pretty as you please, I might add.

What is the noteworthy difference between this peeve and the other peeves we have passed this year with rousing success? The other peeves were something that she was in total and complete agreement with. They were something that she wanted to accomplish for herself – as well as for me. But this little peeve – as aggravating as it is – seems like it's all me. Now, I know this isn't true, but it seems like she could give a rat’s glute chute about it. So, although they sting quite deliciously, my little peeve-pats with my big wooden spoon may be nothing more than an uncomfortable inconvenience for her.

The inconvenience of the “peeve-pat” should be enough. And frankly, that’s all I have. Maybe I should get me one of those “W.T.F.!!!!!!” go all Lizzie Borden and 40 whack her into doing it. (That’ll be some Kaopectate for that ass now wouldn’t it?! Huh?) But I can’t (because I choose not to) and I shouldn’t (because that’s not how “ttwd” works for us). As a peeve-ologist I now realize that “ttwd” is not laxative for every “peeve-stipation” situation.

Besides, going Lizzie on her would only bring into question my integrity in “this thing we do”. An integrity that is dependent on me loving her and encouraging her, along with reasonableness of application. An integrity that, I might add, I am very zealous to maintain.

I've got a couple of other peeves in the pipeline. I just may have to pass this peeve in order to pass this peeve - if you get what I mean. For now, her uncomfortable "inconvenience" will just have to be the extent of my satisfaction.

“The Breath of a Pit Bull”

2010-12-16T14:00:00.001-06:00

It’s been a tough week for Sugar. There’s still snow on the ground from last weekend’s big drop; the temperature has been hovering in the teens; and the wind chill's got the bark of a pit bull and a bite to match. All week long that pit bull has chased SugarAnne back into the house. One day it even undercut my authority. She was tasked to go to the gym. But because of the cold she refuuuuused to go.

“I guess you’ll be able to get your ‘tweed’ on tonight”, she wrote in a chat message.

"Why? What do you mean?” (I’m actually thinking, “Oh no, what the hell unfixable thing did you do?!”)

“It’s cold outside”, she says. (I think: “Duh. Who doesn’t know that?”)

"Yes, I know”, I sanitized my internal sarcasm for external delivery.

“I’m not going out there!” She says.

I’m-not-going-out-there? I was so caught off guard by this last line that I actually tilted my head up to make sure that I was looking down through the most powerful part of my lenses. I squinted and slowly lowered my head until I could see those fateful words with the sharpest focus and clarity available. I just wanted to be sure that what I was seeing was actually what I was seeing. And that's exactly what I was seeing! Perhaps I had a virus that affected my vision. Nah. Maybe the computer had a virus? Nah. Perhaps she had a virus! Perhaps.

But there they were: “I’m not going out there" – followed by the ubiquitous exclamation point!

I mean, I can’t be seeing this! This cannot be true. It is not possible that these words were uttered from the loving pixelips of Her Royal (characteristically compliant) Sweetness. Surely there is something wrong with the World Wide Web – a glitch, perhaps, in the configuration of the electromagnetic forces, fields, rays and waves that pull and push words from keyboard to the screen and on to the screens all over the world. The World Wide Web was obviously broken!!

“Really.” My response was more a statement than a question.

“It’s just too cold”, she said. And the chat went silent for a moment.

I’m just not quite sure I’m believing this. At this point I could’ve picked up the phone and gotten to the heart of the matter. But I kinda like these chat exchanges we have each day. We actually get each other – even in chat.

I break the silence.

“You always have a choice in these matters Sugar” I veil my threat at first.

“But you’ll regret it.” Uh-oh! Here we go! It-is-on! I put my electronic bark up against the bite of the pit bull.

“I’m not going out there!” Wha’th-? There it is again! That frickin’ glitch!

"MickyD’s 3:16”, I say.

"???” She doesn’t understand.

“Have it your way”, I clarify.

“That was actually a Burger King campaign”. Oh no she di’int! She MUST have a virus!

“You know what I mean!” If the glitch were equal opportunity those letters would’ve been capitalized.

“I’m going to bed”.

That being settled we went on to chat quite amicably about other unrelated stuff. I spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon nervously planning a big “tweed” event. And event that outright defiance called for.

The reality of Sugar’s outright defiance was driven home quite humorously later that afternoon. It was as if God was watching out for her. I had the unusual (and unfortunate) opportunity to be called out of the office in the late afternoon – the warmest part of the day mind you. I park in a garage but I had to stop for gas.

And when I stepped out of my car the breath of that pit bull wrapped around me and the damned thing bit me right on the ass! All I could say was “OH-MY-GOD!” And I said it out loud too (yeah, I’m the pastor - smirk). I, quite literally, quelled the urge to say to other people pulling up to the pump, “DON’T! Don’t get outta your car!!” I'm serious. I was freezing my ass off!

Needless to say, the plans for a big “tweed” event were blown away by the breath of that pit bull. Yeah, I got the paddle out when I got home. I postured; even threw a little intimidation around – at first. But ended up laughingly explaining how I came to understand her outright defiance. Amnesty International is not one of my charities. But amnesty was in order and amnesty was bestowed.

But don’t think I didn’t spend a few spanks - loving spanks that is - on her willing bottom.

“’Tweed’le Need? ‘Tweed’le Duh!”

2010-12-08T12:34:00.010-06:00

Not "tweed"

What is “tweed”? No, it’s not a professorial sport coat with patches on the elbows. Or a punky little frock that I’d love to jack up in order to “melt her Mounds” (much to my Almonds' Joy). Nope. “Tweed” is short in our house for “this thing we do” or TTWD. Both of which have just too many syllables for someone who is as verbally efficient as myself to say again and again. So when we comb the blogs in the neighborhood together (as has become a morning ritual of late), rather than say “this thing we do” – or the even more syllabically burdened TTWD - we’ve shortened it verbally to, simply, “tweed”.

SugarAnne thinks I’m a bit crazy. She says that every time she turns around I’m “threatening” to spank her. She says I need “tweed”. But she says it more accusatorily, as in, “Not me, but “YOU! YOU'RE the one that needs ‘tweed’”!

I tell her, “I’m not 'threatening' you. I’m just ‘infoorrrrming’ you”. And frankly, “informing” her has been more than enough to keep her on the right track and out of trouble. But that brings an interesting development in yours truly as a result. B’Man needs to spank - and spank well.

To some of you this would come as no surprise. It has been apparent for some time. After all, I am BabyMan – he of “have paddle will travel” fame; he who is “quick to spank and slow to listen”; he whom anyone but Clutch Cargo might ascribe the name “Paddle-foot”. For you it’s easy to see: “'Tweed’le need BabyMan? Hmmpf...uhh…'tweed’le duh BabyMan”

Wasn’t I just helping her out – helping us out when we started “tweed”? Wasn’t I just assisting in getting her life in order? Wasn’t I just being the strong and dutiful husband who does what it takes to bring order to our lives so that we could have the liberty to love, and the emotional freedom to pursue our brand happiness? Wasn’t I? I mean – I was, WASN’T I?

Funny, the season and the weather normally call for “tweed”, but she’s running around here as happy as the hell as she can be right now! And I’m not wishing any less upon her. I’m simply noting that I’m not getting to wear “tweed” as often as I like (need?). Perhaps the emotional funk I’ve been experiencing the past couple of weeks is an indication that I ain’t been getting m’spank on sufficiently. I don't know.

"Tweed"

I mean, there’s been those pet peeve patty-pat-pats with the wooden spoon here and there. And a "slap and tickle" recently. But there hasn’t been a “get your ass over here now, paddle popping, booty stinging, tear inducing, 'Now get your tail in that bedroom and gimme some of that thang'”, spanking in a while.

Hm…I’m probably doing all this “threateni- er, I mean "infoorrrrming” because I ain’t getting the full extent of my necessary spank on. And, come to think of it, if "threateni- er, uh, I mean, if "infoorrrming" her is working so well, can she be a true, blood running through the veins, spanko? I don't know. But if she ain't, some kinda sacrifice will have to be made!

Ah...it’s probably easier for you than for me to see. So let me just say it for y'all,

“’Tweed’le need B’Man? Hmmmpf...uhh...‘Tweed’le duh B'Man!”

"Hero Complex or Complex Hero"

2010-12-01T15:20:00.001-06:00

I had to go in and save my girl. Yesterday she was all down in the dumps. The thermometer reading was SAD and rapidly falling toward depression. The weather had changed drastically. The sky went gray and a wisp of falling flurries could be seen. She didn’t have enough energy to complete all of her tasks. So in the late morning she called me. She received the measure of mercy she needed.

In the late afternoon when I got home I wasted no time. After a small amount of banter I grabbed a paddle, commanded her over my knee, peeled back those baby blue pajama bottoms and went to work ever so slowly and quite deliberately. I “raised her temperature” and set the thermostat to "function". It wasn’t punishment. Nah. The woman needed saving.

Like Mighty Mouse, I’m always looking for an opportunity to rip my shirt open, stick out my chest (with that big bold superhero husband insignia on the undershirt) and proclaim boldly and confidently,

“Here I come to save the day!!”

I need to be her hero. Husbands naturally feel this way about their wives. At least I think they should. I love taking care of Sugar. But more than that, I think I need to take care of her. In fact, it goes well beyond all of that chivalrous stuff: beyond the opening of doors and the walking down stairs in front of her. It goes beyond the anticipating her need of a sweater, an umbrella or a toothpick after popcorn. It even goes beyond fulfilling her wants and desires – and protecting her from them when her indulgence could lead her into harm’s way.

I need to protect her from the world. Need.

Yes, I confess I have a hero complex in that regard. But a hero complex can actually get in the way of me being the man that she really needs me to be. You see, there’s a difference between a man with a hero complex and a man who is a complex hero.

A man with a hero complex lets his wife get whatever she wants, whenever she wants it, however she wants it. He lets her engage her tendencies and desires – even if they could lead to harmful conclusions. He does it just to get his hero “fix”.

But a man who is a complex hero strives to give his wife whatever she needs, whenever she needs it, however she needs it. He sets clear guidelines for her and their relationship. He holds her accountable to those guidelines. And he follows through with punishment if necessary – even if that means spanking thoroughly and consistently – on a regular basis. He don’t need no hero “fix”.

I go back and forth between operating out of a hero complex and operating as a complex hero.

I once had a mentor who used to tell me, “Sometimes the person you think is lovin’ on ya, is actually really hurtin’ on ya. And sometimes the person you think is hurtin’ on ya, is actually really lovin’ on ya.”

I think the women who consent to “this thing we do” probably have a better understanding of that than we – the men they actually submit to.

"Happy Thanksgiving"

2010-11-25T03:36:00.000-06:00

Thanks to our many friends, commenters and readers who are beacons of light illuminating the path of this journey we call "this thing we do".

May God give each one of us the grace to see the many blessings and the inexhaustible mercy he bestows upon us each day.

"Add Sugar, Stir with Wooden Spoon"

2010-11-19T17:31:00.002-06:00

“Get over here”, I said sternly. I jabbed toward the cocktail table then tapped the end of it.

"Tasking’ her to the gym yesterday didn’t get her motivated like I had hoped it would. She did not make it out of the house - at all. Didn’t make it out of bed really. Only long enough for an abrupt chat on instant message:

“You there?” She had just signed on.
“Yes, I’m here. How are you feeling?” Ever the concerned husband.
“Not good. Haven’t gotten outta bed.” Lethargy bled through.
“Omg…this is bad. Did you take your vitamin?” I figured if I mentioned one “task”, she’d mention the other.
“No”. She added no filler.
Why don’t you go on and do that.” Long pause.
“Okay, done.” More lethargy.
“Good”. Then all of a sudden she said…
“I’ll talk to you later.”
I paused and waited for her to address the gym. It was 2 in the afternoon. I knew she wouldn’t make it. The pain is tough on her. Depression even tougher. I waited, desiring to grant amnesty. She never mentioned what I sensed she remembered.
“Okay”, was my pixel lit response. That’s all she needed to avoid “hanging up”. She signed off immediately.

When I got home I found her right where I’d expected to find her – in bed. I didn’t mention the task. Just loved on her a bit. It helped her mood. Motivated her. Other than an undulating wave of perimenopausal hot flashes her evening went reasonably well. That was yesterday.

“Sit down right here.” Sugar sat. Submissive. Knees pressed together; hands placed demurely on her thighs; naked under her dark green robe.

At first I headed to the bedroom for our utility paddle. But changed my mind and doubled back. I decided that one of the large wooden spoons from the crock would be a quieter way to “stir" things up. I picked the one with the longest neck and the widest bowl.

I pulled one of the high back bar stools away from the long marble counter that splits the identity of the room. I turned it around, sat and looked down at her face. She looked up at me, her face poignant in paradox: part curiosity, part knowledge; partly troubled and part pain. These are the hard ones, these punishments. I know she’s dealing with a whirlwind of challenges. Sometimes I feel like I’m just adding to the mayhem.

I slipped the spoon under my arm, rested my elbow on my knee and, without breaking eye contact, buttoned the cuffs of my dress shirt. How authoritative – I thought with a smidgen of pride. It was more nervous fidget than anything. Her eyes shifted nervously then dropped sullenly. A knowing look erased all paradox.

“You missed a task yesterday. You didn’t make it the gym.” I channeled D’Onofrio’s Goren, tilted my head, lean down a little and flicked the air with the spoon to scoop up the lost eye contact.

“I was waiting to let you off the hook”, I said. “I knew you weren’t able to make it. But you decided not to mention it. All you had to do was address it.” She sat sullen in silent confession. I reached for a throw pillow and placed it over the arm of the sofa.

“Stand up and lay over this pillow.” I patted it with the warmth of an invitation to a Calgon bath. She jutted her chin in a soft up nod and added a lazy point toward the love seat. I picked up the signal and reached for one of the other throw pillows. She knew she'd need it to muffle the screams.

When I lifted her robe it was as if her globes gave the rising sun its light. “You-Need-To-a-DDress-Your-Tasks!” I enunciated through clenched teeth striking her as hard as the enunciated consonants. I repeated it again. And again. And once again. It was quick but painful. The singing of the morning finches just outside our window were as Pips to her screaming Gladys Knight. Then it was over. She stood up.

“I want you to understand something”, I offered tenderly while easing her into my arms. “I do not fault you for what you’re dealing with. I’m not trying to fix it. I don't hate you for it. I’m not trying to cure it. I just want to help best I can. You understand that don’t you?” She nodded.

“I’m not always going to take it easy on you like this”, I added with a smirk as I began to collect my stuff and leave for work. I was thinking that it may have gone too quickly. Thinking that she may not have been "stirred" as much as she needed. But once the cloud of tears lifted, her sun did not stop shining all day. She was in good spirits and stayed "stirred up" throughout the day and well into the evening.

"'Element X': The Irreconcilable Difference"

2010-11-13T09:15:00.000-06:00

Sometimes “this thing we do” makes me feel like we’re mad scientists in a laboratory of marriage. One day Sugar put a smidgen of her submission into a test tube laced with trust (the butt of which is placed over a Bunsen burner) – and both grew exponentially. I stirred a monocotyledonous portion of my dominance into a Petri dish smeared with respect – and both went into “Breck mitosis”. We poured both containers in to a dormant cauldron of stale communication and the thing began to bubble up with effervescence that continues to emit a wonderful fragrance that fills the entire laboratory.

But it ain’t always all pretty. Sometimes our laboratory is on high alert; the situation becomes volatile; bad chemistry can have the whole shebang on the verge of blowing up. I was reminded of that recently when “Element X” reared its ugly head again.

“Element X” is not like wondering: “Why does the male of the species even lift up the toilet seat if all he’s going to do is piss all over the bathroom floor?! (Hey! At least he puts the seat back down). “Element X” is not like being grossed out by the sight of used “feminine products” in the trash can or irritated about all that cosmetic crap that’s left all over the bathroom counter. And it’s not whether the toothpaste tube is being squeezed at the bottom, the middle or the top. As irritating as all of these things can be, when you drop ‘em into a bubbling cauldron of communication you still get a sweet fragrance in the lab.

What is “Element X” you ask? Well, when a reasonable expectation that an emotional and/or physical need will be met within a relationship is faced with a bona fide reason that that need cannot be met, you have “Element X”. It is not preference. It is 100 per cent pure unadulterated irreconcilable difference.

When “Element X” is not dealt with, it smells like an elephant fired off a “missile” onto the floor of the marital laboratory. You can’t help but smell it but you act like you don’t. You might even step in the shit and have it contaminate every other experiment being conducted in the laboratory. Some couples, after stomping around for a while with turned up noses, actually let the laboratory blow up just to get away from the stench. This is marital suicide.

I’m reminded of that episode of Seinfeld when Elaine, who is staunchly pro-choice, walks out of a restaurant mid-meal because the owner is pro-life. Later, she falls in love with a handsome moving man – the apparent man of her dreams. Jerry, ever the instigator (oh that Jerry!), casually asks her what her new fella’s stance is on abortion. When Elaine finds out the guy is pro-life she breaks down in tears and is forced to break up with him. For Elaine the man’s stance on abortion is an irreconcilable difference – “Element X”.

“Element X” is a recurring menace in our relationship (it’s not always all well and good over here people!). It robs one of emotional fulfillment, closeness and physical satisfaction, while burdening the other with emotional dissatisfaction, distance and physical discomfort. The accompanying stink of resentment and guilt tends to invade the other experiments, everything comes to a stop and there’s about as much people activity in the laboratory as there is at Madam Tussads’ wax museum.

Like all good scientists Sugar and I continue to hypothesize and theorize about what will work to resolve – or even dissolve – “Element X”. We continue to experiment (which doesn’t always go well) and examine the results (which are sometimes disastrous).

Here’s what we’ve learned so far: “Element X” can’t be negotiated, traded for, or met by compromise. It can’t be “Dom’d” in or “Dom’d” out; “sub’d out or “sub’d” in”; spanked up or spanked down. And it can’t be set aside forever or it will start to stink like month old ground beef cooking over coals of sulphur. It is not preference. And there is not a lack of desire to reconcile it. It is just 100 per cent pure unadulterated irreconcilable difference.

It used to come up twice a month and the smell would linger for two weeks. But it’s only come up twice this year and didn’t linger at all. Yeah, it stank. The feelings are real. The pain is real. The guilt is real. And all unavoidable. There is great wisdom in recognizing that a problem within your relationship cannot be solved. But, unfortunately, that doesn’t make the situation any less frustrating.

Do you have an “Element X”? Maybe it has something to do with political worldviews, religious beliefs, sexual needs, moral standards or philosophical positions. And, more importantly, how do you handle it? Do you over engage it? Under engage it? Or act like it doesn't exist? As a scientist, I'm truly curious.

Sugar and I know that when “Element X” comes up (and it will) we will go from harmony, to horror, to hell on earth as quick as a hiccup. But as mad scientists in the marital laboratory we have found out that, when it does come up, we can go back to honky dory in lickety split, smelling sweet as a rose, if we just drop that shit into that bubbling cauldron of communication that is fueled and inspired by that other wonderful concoction: “this thing we do”.

"You and Me"

2010-11-10T14:46:00.001-06:00

As you can tell from SugarAnne's rambling post over here, (and all the wonderful comments she's received) that it's been a great year of connection, growth, love and, well, correction for us.

I was looking back over my pages and pages of notes and thoughts for potential posts (is writer's block contagious?), and came across the lyric to a sappy little love song (and I mean sappy, which is why I never posted it). It a simple song that speaks volumes about appreciating the simple things, staying focused and, I think, remaining humble.

I don't wanna get all touchy-feely on y'all or nut'n (I mean, I AM a "beast" right?) but here's a portion of the lyric (full lyric here, listen here)

You and me ain't no superstars
What we are is what we are
We share a bed some popcorn and t.v. yeah.

And that's enough for a workin' man
What I am is what I am
And I tell you babe
Well that's enough for me.

When I got home from work
I wanna wrap myself around you
I like to hold you and squeeze you
'till the passion starts to rise.

If I could take you to heaven
That would make my day complete

But you and me ain't movie stars
What we are is what we are
And I tell you babe
Well that's enough for me.
- Alice Cooper, “You and Me”, Album, "Lace and Whiskey"

I think I'm most thankful that early on, with the help of y'all in the community, that I was able to understand that "this thing we do" is unique to every couple. And that all we had to do was simply be ourselves with ourselves and simply be just "You and Me" and no one else.

"Candy Rapping"

2010-11-05T06:49:00.006-05:00

I’m a panties man. Bikini. She knows this. "Reg-a-layshun panniz" I call 'em. So when she bent over in boy shorts I knew there’d be trouble. She looked too damned good!

“Today you’re gonna be spanked with every implement in the house”, I said right out the midnight blue that matched her shorts. The white crisscross stitch at the seam had disappeared into the valley that separates her delectable roundness.

“Uh-Uhhhhh”, came her sing-song protest. “Why?!!” She snapped to attention and turned to face me.
“Because those boy shorts look too damn good on you girl. And besides, you need it.”

Believe it or not, being the “beast” that I am, it’d been over a week since SugarAnne had felt the sting of a paddle. That’s because she’d been a real good girl (“I’m always a real good girl” she would say); and partly because the pain in her hips had prevented me from rewarding her with the “slap and tickle” she deserved. But now she was up and about and going out.

“I DON'T need it!” She spat. Riiiiiight, like she’d admit it if she did.
“Yeah y’do” I grabbed her arm, pulled her to me and let my free hand slip down and around. I gave her ass a firm squeeze and then let my fingers search for the lost stitching between the mounds of her maturity.

She pulled away and leaned over the dresser fishing for something or other. I could see her look at me in the mirror. But I was focused on the candy wrapping. Voltage shot through me that would increase the electric bill. She would pay. I stepped up, gripped her hips in my hands and pulled her to me. Already dressed for the gym I pumped her like a junk yard dog humping. (Hey, what’s a “crack” addict to do?!)

But this would not be the moment. She had already planned “girlfriend” time over our regular Saturday morning gym excursion. (Hey, what are ya gonna do? She’s impetuous like that. It’s part of her charm). She wiggled her treasure into a snug pair of form-fitting jeans. (Shit! I hate it when the candy gets double-wrapped when I’m hungry for a piece).

If I didn’t know any better, methinks she dragged her feet in coming home. She came lugging her “looking good in those tight ass jeans” behind home some 6 ½ hours later talking about, “I feel like taking a nap.”

“Uhhh….no. First I want you to collect every implement you can think of” I commanded, “And line them up on the coffee table here.” She retrieved what she conveeeeeniently “remembered”: the ”tickler” (our very first paddle that does just that: tickles), the “weapon of ass destruction” (our most often used paddle), the unnamed paddle ball paddle I absconded from Best Buy’s promotion of Kodak products, and the “heatstroke” (a short handle bath brush).

I could see her memory was short so I retrieved “Ephipany” (a heavy dog leash made of synthetic cloth), the loopy Johnny (the “majority whip”?) and a just discovered hair brush with grooves on the “love side”. She immediately deemed the hairbrush “un-implementable”.

I faked adamancy on using the loopy. But she cried “RED!” (our safe word) so loud I’m sure people outside stopped, turned around, looked up and wondered where that echo came from. I tossed the loopy away (after all, this was “slap and tickle”). But that opened the avenue for every other implement.

Savoring my own anticipation I started candy rapping in the living room where I slow-cooked her bottom over those tight assed jeans. She wriggled. In the den I peeled back that top wrapper, turned up the heat and “roasted her rump” over those “violating” boy shorts. She jiggled. Next I peeled back those shorts and “fried her baloney” (the bath brush was featured). It did not tickle. Perhaps she cried. I don’t think so.

In the bedroom it was much less spanking and more or less thanking. I wanted this to be different than our usual late Saturday morning fornicatori-Olympics. And it was. I set the mood by cranking up a pre-arranged rhythm and blues love songs list from “back in the day” as they say. And after giving her a long oily, full body massage and getting swept up in the music, we made love; long, good, warm and tender love.

When we were done and lying there wonderfully spent and physically exhausted, she turned to me with mock irritation and said “Are ya happy now?!” Still sassy, it was clear that it was she who was happy.

"'Beast' or Famine"

2010-10-30T05:32:00.002-05:00

Happy feelings. Everybody’s striving for happy feeeeelings (wiggling fingers sarcastically). I’m all for happy feelings. They’re fun. But they’re just a flash in the pan. Given a choice between a happy feeling now and long term happiNESS, I’d like to think I’d choose happiness – even if it means discomfort for a moment.

Happy feelings are a large part of my relationship with SugarAnne. I would say that it is the general tone of our relationship. And I’m thankful that we’re both contributors. Me, I’m the corny, dorky, silly sorta guy, and she, she’s the free spirit, blowing at the mercy of the wind, fun-loving gal. And the combo makes for a lot of happy feelings.

But when it comes to a spanking (unless it’s a “slap and tickle” or, an I’m “just sittin' here thinking” about spanking my girl), I am not concerned about happy feeeeelings. When SugarAnne is over my knee (or in some other vulnerable position) for punishment, I’m not in the happy feelings business. No, I-am-in-the-happi-NESS business.

In her post “Tuesday Chat”, SugarAnne surmised that yours truly may be viewed by some as "a strict disciplinarian with a permanent scowl on his face, a roar in his voice and a paddle glued to his hand". Whoa! What a picture! My first thought is that that scowl and that roar are probably a painful reaction to trying to scratch m’clackers with a damn paddle glued to my hand!

And, I have learned quiet as it’s kept, that in some chat circles (I don’t know who you are, but you certainly do) I am even referred to as the “beast”. No doubt a moniker playfully encouraged – if not lovingly perpetrated upon me by Her Royal Sweetness herself. But really, am I really a beast?

Here’s what RW (bless her heart) from The Renewed Wife, said in her comment to Sugar’s post:
“So far as how we see BabyMan”, she says, ”I can only speak for myself, but I don't see him as ‘a strict disciplinarian with a permanent scowl on his face, a roar in his voice and a paddle glued to his hand’ at all” (thanks RW). And then she adds with a gentle smirk, a raised eyebrow and a smidgen of reluctant but favorable betrayal, “(sorry, B'Man!)”.

Translation: “I know you wanna be ‘bad’ B’Man” (that’s bad as in “b-double a-d-bad” y’all) “but I can pretty much see through that. You’re actually a teddy bear. And oops, I apologize for letting your little secret out into the blogosphere”.

Hm. Beast? Teddy bear? “Teddy beast”? (shrug) I ain’t saying. This isn’t really an apologetic for either one. As a childhood friend used to say: “I’miz what I’miz; and I’ma’int what I’ma’int”. (Apologies to you grammar purists).

If there’s one thing I’miz: I am a MAN (insert beastly double fist pound to chiseled puffed out chest) who is operating on top of an underlying foundation of love; within the realm of “this thing we do”; under the over-arching consent of Her Royal Sweetness; for the benefit of our happiness. And that means that on occasion I am a man (pound-pound) who will FORsake momentary happy feelings, for THE sake of long-term happi-NESS. Obviously we would prefer to have both always, but sometimes it’s either/or.

Victor Hugo once said: "The greatest happiness of life is the conviction that we are loved” (okay, maybe I'm channeling Criminal Minds).

But I would rather SugarAnne know with absolute certainty that I love her deeply and am passionately concerned for our long-term happiness. We both agree that means "this-thing-we-do". Yep, I can make her feeeeeel happy for a moment by maybe letting her off the hook – hell, by letting me off the hook. Punishment is not a happy feeling for anybody over here. But I am persuaded that that would eventually lead to a famine in happiness. Go on call me a “beast” (el-o-el!) that’s okay.

But understand, it's either "beast" for famine.

"Going Nowhere Fast"

2010-10-22T09:08:00.001-05:00

After nearly two years of blog silence (and lurking on Dd sites), it was one year ago today that I published my first official Dd post, “A Hypothetical Destination”. Yes, this is my de facto blogivesary!

To save you a click here is that short post in it's entirety:

“I wasn’t too surprised this morning when SugarAnne granted her “hypothetical” consent to a “hypothetical” domestic discipline style relationship (with a focus spanking). Even though a thick thread of submissiveness has been apparent over the 9 years we’ve been married, Sug’Anne is characterized by what I would call freedom of spirit. Not prone to “wildness” mind you – but to moving about life un-tethered by the “traditional” relational obligations of a telephone call during the day and a report about the day's happenings at night. So I have no idea how such a relationship will shape up over time. But the idea of folding her lovely shape over my knee time after time for "corrrection" is both intriguing, exhilarating and, well, exciting – for both of us.

The heavy – and heady – “hypothetical” responsibility does not escape me either. Of all the key considerations I’ve pondered (and I have pondered much), three very important elements of this "hypothetical" domestic disciplind relationship seem to rise to the top: 1) the need for clear and honest communication is critical; 2) the importance of being trusted is indispensible; and 3) continual growth of mutual respect for each other is invaluable. Those three noble, but fragile, ideals are constantly strived for in most relationships but, it seems, are never fully arrived at. Like playing golf, bowling and ballroom dancing – you rarely feel at the top of your game in these three. And you are always, always in need of improvement.

I wonder: Can I be the Dominant I desire to be? Can I be the "Top" that is screaming to break out? Can I be the Dominant that she would need me to be? Can I be the "Top" that she is silently screaming for? And, most importantly: Can I show sufficient appreciation for such a wonderful gift?”

Over the past year something has changed. Somewhere along the way we went from a “hypothetical” to an "actual" domestic discipline couple. And over the past year something has remained the same. For one, the questions haven't changed. I still constantly wrestle with them and I rarely feel like I’m walking in the fullness of my “Developing Domdentity”.

That’s not a bad thing at all. It always brings me back to something else that hasn't changed: the foundation of our journey. Namely those aforementioned three things: 1) the need for clear and honest communication; 2) the importance of being trusted; and 3) continual growth of mutual respect for each other. It's like I've walked a long and and yet, I'm still at the beginning.

Is "this thing we do" a human hamster wheel that just goes 'round and 'round? If it is, that's okay. Because one thing's for sure: this past year has made my relationship "legs" stronger for this journey; it has made my body readier for any sacrifice; and, it has made my heart healthier for loving SugarAnne. Going nowhere fast is leading to everywhere I want to be.

"Love Our Lurkers V"

2010-10-20T23:37:00.000-05:00

Thanks to Bonnie over at My Bottom Smarts, bloggers in the spanking community are celebrating "Love Our Lurkers Day V". Yep, for the fifth straight year (this is our first) those of us who do "this thing we do" are reaching out to show our appreciation for all the folks that we KNOW are reading but have never commented. Both SugarAnne and I just want to thank all of you folks for all of those hits on our hit counters! And at the same time encourage you to make a comment today because comments are so encouraging to us bloggers. In fact...

...our eyes are hungry to hear from you. Soooooo....

...If you're out there peeking in

Complain or praise it's not a sin.

Post your comment here or there,
Or send an email, we don't care.

B'Man wants you to express
What you're thinking more or less.

And SugarAnne is waiting for
Your brilliant comments to explore.

We told the story 'bout the day
We jumped into the Dd way.

We tell the stories, all are true,
'Bout how we do "this thing we do".

If you've seen me, then you've seen her,
So tell us which one you prefer.

If you've seen her, then you've seen me,
You've seen her draped across my knee.

So post your comment, tell us why
You stop to read and then go by.

You've never ever stopped to say
That we have made, or spoiled your day.

So tell us that you think we're cute,
Or that you think B'Man's a brute.

So mock and jeer and then poke fun,
(okay, we might delete that one).

We want to know if we amaze you,
If our essays even phase you,

If you think we're kind of weird,
Or if you've cried or laughed and cheered.

We want to know how high we rank.
We want to know who we should thank.

We want to know who's hand to shake,
For whom to bake our "thank you" cake.

For even though you've lurked around
And never made a freakin' sound,

And even if you comment late,
It's you that we appreciate!

Pssst...we know you're out there. Watching. It's okay to comment anonymously (and of course, regulars are welcome too).

"A Key to the Pity"

2010-10-14T11:47:00.005-05:00

Sugar's had a string of bad luck with keys this year. A few months ago she accidentally locked them in the car. "Yours truly" had to hightail it home for lunch to let her in. It could happen to anybody. Circumstance.

One day the police came to our door. They had found her keys sticking out of the keyhole in the trunk and looked up her license plate number to return them. Consequence.

Then, along with everything she owned, her keys were stolen from her locker at the gym. We replaced what we needed to replace and changed locks where locks needed to be change. Circumstance.

A couple of Sundays ago she, um, well, er, uh, she locked them in the car - AGAIN. I raced out to her location. The old wire hanger trick didn't work (I'm a quarter of a century away from being criminally incli - er, I mean skilled in that area). It just so happens that the friend she was with (whose keys were also in the car) called AAA and the keys were saved. But not until the next day. Um, Consequence.

Interestingly enough, the friend (who doesn't know about "this thing we do" but is aware that I helped Sugar quit smoking with spanking), would ask her, "Are you going to get spanked for this?" You think she might be a little suspicious?

Over the years I've teased SugarAnne every now and then that on her gravestone the epitaph would read:

"B'Man, where are my keys?"

If I had ten dollars for each time I've said (partly jokingly, largely suggesting), "Aren't they in the spot where you always keep your keys", we'd be sitting pretty damn good financially.

The other day Sugar called me at work. "I don't want you to be mad, 'k?" Long story short of it? She was out on the beach walking her mother's dog and...and...and... You guessed it: she had lost her keys.

Searched high and low said she.
Found not hide nor hair of key.
(Forgive the flash poetry)

Fortunately I didn't have to leave the office this time. She was able to get into the building. I saw her online just a little bit later:

[Chat log B'Man and SugarAnne, star date October 2010: the lost keys]

B'Man says:
You there? [several minutes pass]

Sugar says:
I'm here.

B'Man says:
oh...okay.

Sugar says:
I just got back from taking the socks to Scottie. [Scottie is one of our served and loved in need]

B'Man says:
Oh great. That was nice.

How was your workout?

Sugar says:
it was okay.
got through it.

B'Man says:
that's what's important.
good.

i want you to "girl up". i want to settle this key thing right away when i get home.
[she's to be in a skirt and regulation bikini panties which I will peel back like skin and "bake her potato"]

Sugar says:
ok
[she knew the command would come sooner or later. I wanted the benefit of a few hours anticipation]

B'Man says:
do you have your replacement keys on a key ring yet? [she'd made copies after the AAA incident]

Sugar says:
yes. The hardware store gives you rings for free.

B'Man says:
ok

i will order the building key. [an irreplaceable thirty-five dollar key that has to be ordered]

"Key Pete" magnetic key holder

Sugar says:

I'm sorry. [self pity]

B'Man says:

i know. we'll be fine. [It's good to have "a key to the pity".]

Needless to say, there was some "weeping and gnashing of teeth".

So far it looks like we may have re-written that epitaph:

~~"B'Man, where are my keys?"~~

"My keys? I know exactly where my keys are!"

Consequence.

"A Word: Praise"

2010-10-07T15:10:00.000-05:00

I’m a big fan of ballroom dancing so I rarely miss “Dancing with the Stars”. But if Mark Ballas don’t stop kissing on Bristol (“The Pistol”) Palin I think I’ll have to stop watching. The cat is creepin’ me out! Every time I turn around he’s planting those “soup coolers” of his on the girl’s cheek, temple, shoulder, whatever. Geez, she’s not a frickin’ racehorse, or a show dog for heaven’s sake. And she sure the hell ain’t Jesus. She’s just a person – a person who’s learning to dance.

Check out this post inspiring quote from the book, “The Way of the Superior Man”, by David Deida:

“The masculine grows by challenge, but the feminine grows by praise. A man must be unabashed and expressed in his appreciation for his woman. Praise her freely.”

Yes I know, men grow by praise too (and women by challenge). But when I’m reading for the purpose of betterment of “self in relationship", I’m focused more on what I can do to make things better – not, what can be done for me. And to that end it is important for me to remember to praise Sugar (like they vote in some cities) early and often.

When it comes to “this thing we do” there’s always praise for obedience. Praise for obedience is a good thing (“good girl” – I love saying that) and should always be tendered – and “freely” at that. But I’m not talking about that. In a lot of ways that's (the obedience) just response to stimuli and pain avoidance. Is that real growth?

It would also be easy to attempt to fluff her up with false praise and insincere compliments. And equally easy to fall into the trap of just praising her for what I like about her body. In regard to the body, women can often be vulnerable and susceptible to the innocuous effervescence of empty compliments. Besides, Sugar is too smart for me to get away with telling her “lies…lies…sweet little lies”. She’s more than her body (which, by the way, fits my sexual grid of attraction to a capital “T” – can you say, “Scha-wiiing!!”).

I’m more interested in “loving her up” not pumping her up. Sugar is a strong and intelligent (mind), loving and compassionate (heart) woman of faith (spiritual). And it is the free praise and recognition of all of these aspects that spawns, encourages and contributes to growth of the whole well-rounded person. That's where I want to be in my praise.

I don’t know if Mark and Bristol are in relationship. Maybe Bristol’s thriving under this sort of praise. But if I see him kiss “The Pistol” more than once just one more time, I won’t be able to stop the puke that I’ve been swallowing from week to week from spilling out of my face! (Everybody now: “ee-yew”).

Mark's creepiness notwithstanding, praise is pretty important stuff - especially in a relationship.

"'Something Certain' and 'A Certain Something'"

2010-10-05T16:01:00.004-05:00

“Find the pills, or, find the paddle”. I was direct but not stern. Channeling Ben Stein’s dry, matter of fact delivery (“Anybody?” “Buehler”), I let the words, rather than my tone of voice, carry the promise of the “consequences”.
Sugar searched for a moment but stopped to plead her case: “Sleepy…no pills left…I’ll find them tomorrow”. I didn’t feel the usual pang of anxiety that comes with anticipating her anger (I am often more concerned about that than I let on). And it’s not that I didn’t care – wait a minute. Yes it is. I really didn’t care if she got mad.

“Find the pills, or, find the paddle”, ole greasy-lipped Ben Stein deadpanned to her attempts to weasle out of looking. It’s not that I didn’t care. It’s just that I care too much about her to actually care if this would make her mad. I knew this was for her own good. It was good for her health. It was good for her joy and, ultimately, it was good for OUR joy.

She searched a bit more but the pills turned out to be like “a feather of the state bird”. Let me ask you: Why is it that a feather of the state bird is always the last thing you need from the list to win the scavenger hunt? And, does anyone ever find a feather of the state bird?

The paddle was easier to find.

She had no problem kneeling onto the pillow at my feet. I must say the flesh was strong (even if the spirit was still trying to weasel out of it). I had no qualms about scolding her. She offered no resistance in pulling down her panties. I felt no reservation about folding her over my knee. With her ass raised up in a deliciously vulnerable position, the paddle rained down, with escalating intensity, stroke upon stroke on just the right spot for maximum effect.

We didn’t talk about it afterward. She whimpered off to bed where she slept well. And when I woke up a football game was watching me. Other than her post (and this one of course) it hasn't really been necessary to (insert air quotes) “CommuuuuniCate” as they say. Not this time. This was one of those times when we knew everything we needed to know about the whole situation.

There was “something certain” about the whole thing, namely, that her pills need to always be available and, that her husband will always love her dearly. And there was “a certain something” about the whole thing, namely, her lovely and willful submission (the protest of tears notwithstanding) and, my willing and loving dominance. We both knew that this was both right AND the right time for this precious encounter. It was as if all the forces of the TTWD universe had conspired to heighten our personal resolves and bring us to the intersection where “something certain” meets “a certain something”.

"Spankable Wit"

2010-09-30T16:27:00.000-05:00

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"

2010-09-20T21:41:00.001-05:00

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"

2010-09-17T04:23:00.007-05:00

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"

2010-09-13T09:58:00.001-05:00

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"

2010-09-02T17:49:00.001-05:00

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.

"Progressive Evolutionists"

2010-08-31T23:39:00.005-05:00

She said, “Yes Sir”. She didn't click her heels together. There was no stiff bodied posture of military “attention”. No crisp salute to the forehead. There was no mockery whatsoever in the tone of her voice. She was not bending under the threat of a spanking or some other unseen pressure for that matter. "Yes Sir”. It just rose like a bubble from somewhere deep inside to the surface of her being and popped right out of her mouth:

"Yes Sir" (bah-loo-p!). There it was. Simple. Sincere. Sweet.

It wasn’t an accident. And yet, it wasn’t intentional either. At least it did not appear to be. And even though there were several people around, two of whom were in the actual conversation, she displayed no noticeable shame or embarrassment.

The “Yes Sir” bubble hovered in the air resting on" bah-loo…" for an instant’s instant. Everything stopped - or at least it seemed to stop. Just froze. And then it burst (-p!) and the fragrant mist of SugarAnne’s submission rained down upon me. Apparently that was the signal for everything to begin moving at normal speed again. Because that’s exactly what happened. Everything started moving as if nothing had happened. But something had happened. Something different, and yet, something quite natural. My only acknowledgement of it was a courteous, “Thank you”, as she moved with immediacy to honor my request. I didn’t think there was any need for me to make a big deal out of it. She didn't. It just was.

“Yes Sir” (bah-loo-p!).

I guess I’m trying to say that I did not create this “Yes Sir” moment. I did not make a demand in the morning to be called “Sir”. Being called “Sir” is neither a need nor a request of mine. It is not a staple of my dominance. It is not a criterion of her submission either. Although I recall one time – just once, a single occurrence – I made her say “Yes Sir” by heat of paddle, through force of will, under the auspices of “Submission Day”. And even then she needed a skin graft (I jest) and I needed rotator cuff surgery (not true, but you get my drift) before she involuntarily voluntarily hiccupped those two measly words.

She has struggled with this "Yes Sir" thing. Her comment to Serenity on this very topic:

“Serenity,
I could never bring myself to do it. Even though I know that BabyMan deserves all the respect and reverence I can muster, it just won't come out of my mouth. I have, on occasion, referred to him as "Sir" during and instant message when he made it clear that I had crossed the line in some way. But to his face, I could never bring the word to my lips.
SugarAnne”

Perhaps it would easier for her to say “Yes Sir” if she were made to bend to my will with percussive encouragement. Except, when it comes to “this thing we do”, I am not a creationist. I am more of an evolutionist – and a progressive one at that. If bending to my will, listen, if bending to my will does not mean she's rising to her self, then I find very little satisfaction or benefit in it.

Later in the day I caught myself studying SugarAnne. Just looking. Looking that look that a lover looks when you're wondering and thinking a thousand unexpressibly deep things about the one you love.

Deeply affectionate things like:
I’m glad we’ve found each other.
I have a lot of respect for you.
Life is good with you.

And deeply shallow things like:
Wow…nice booty!
Great tits!
I should just take you and have my way with you right now!

Deep or shallow - I didn’t say them. I just wondered them to myself. These thoughts began to warm me through from the inside out. And before I knew it – bah-loo-p! – out came the one sentence that captured all I was thinking.

“I like what you have become”, I said. She turned and gave me a soft inside smile.
And do you know what she said to me? Guess. She said, “I like what you have become too”.

How about that?! I guess in “this thing we do” we’re both progressive evolutionists.

"Just Sittin' Here Thinking"

2010-08-25T19:18:00.000-05:00

An overwhelming sense of need has washed over me. It is my need that's demanding satisfaction today.

Today I will go home and I will spank my wife.
Not because she’s done anything wrong.
She hasn’t (that I know of).
Not because she's aksed for it. She didn't.
No signals, no clues, no non-verbal inferences.
Not because she needs it. She may very well not.

But I will “lay hands” on my wife today.
Not as a “holy” man would. Although I am a lover of her soul
(And they’ll be healing nonetheless).
But as a hungry man would. As a lover of her body.

I will “handle” her. Not roughly mind you. But in a strong, sturdy way.
I will guide her. Steer her. Control her even.
I will command the whens, the wheres and the hows.
I will move her into position. And she, she will respond.

“Pull your panties down girl.” Her reluctance will be willing.
“Bend over woman. Hands on the sofa.” Her willingness, reluctant.
“Present your behind to me.” Embarrassed. Yet so turned on.
“Legs open. Pigeon toe. Now tippy-toe. Hmm...Good girl."
Thin threads of fear, braided through strands of excitement, roped in anticipation.

I’ll absorb her curves from every angle. And appreciate the beauty of my wife.
I’ll approach my mission with the “Hmms…” of a doctor on the cusp of surgery.
The “air” of her excitement will swell my "man-ness".
The sight of the utterly private will too.
I’ll place my hand firmly on the small of her back.
I will inhale deeply her wafting “woman-ness”.
And her ass I will spank.

And I will spank. Lightly at first.
And I will spank. With loving intensity.
And I will spank. Until her arousal glistens.
And I will spank. Until my “Hmms...” turns to “Ahhhhs…”
And I will spank. Until her “Ows!” turn to “Ooohs!” turn to satisfied “Mmmms”.

And then at the height of our percolating lust
I, like a good man, will take her like an animal.
And she, like an animal, will surrender like a good woman.
There will be an explosion. Exhaustion. Relaxation.

I know full well what it’s like to spank for HER needs:
To exterminate and eradicate demons.
I know full well what it’s like to spank for OUR needs:
To drive away lingering resentment and guilt.

But today there are no demons. Today I ain’t mad. And today she's not guilty.
Thanks to “this thing we do” there’s just not enough of that to go around anymore.
Now there’s just this pressing need. This need to “hit rock bottom”.

It is my need that demands satisfaction today.
An overwhelming sense of need has washed over me.

"This is a Test; This is Only a Test"

2010-08-17T11:47:00.000-05:00

"This thing we do” can sometimes be like a good TV show interrupted by a test:

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury have you reached a verdict?”
“Yes we have your honor. In the matter of the State v. the Defendant we find the defendant – “

Then, BAM! an innocuous test pattern is thrust into your face; a long, sustained beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! knifes you in the ear; and those fate-less words of fate are uttered for the entire broadcasting area to hear:

“This is a test. This is only a test”!

When everything is going along just right: the lines of communication are open; the affection is natural, tender and sincere; and the sex is from awesome to the border of debaucherous; you had better look out. Cuz that’s when – beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep! There’s gonna be a test. It's "this thing we do".

I’m learning that if I “look out” for the tests and also “look in” – as in look inside my self, I can learn to rightly rightly discern some of the test patterns of “this thing we do”.

A frequent pattern of testing for us is when I test myself: I put my own Domdentity through the ringer. We had a “Submission Day” this past weekend. I conceived a vision of what I wanted to achieve. It required that I stretch myself; test myself; and wade into previously un-chartered waters of aspiring Domdentity. I wanted to test my ability to guide and lead SugarAnne to a new edge in her submission. Perhaps it should’ve been called “’Dom’ Mission Day” instead.

If I had failed to produce the desired results (fail, I did not), I should be upset at me, not her. Because she was not the one testing me. I was testing myself. By the way, she still earned 29 booty flamin’ strokes with the feared bath brush I call “Heatstroke”. (An’ ah meeen fuh-lamin’!).

Sometimes a situation will test me – especially “hormonal discombobulation” situations. A lot of that’s going around the “neighborhood” lately. Janet (“Finding Our Way”); RW (“The Renewed Wife”); and MaryAnn (“Thinking About it Differently”) have all recently posted about the madness that accompanies this unfortunate condition. When MaryAnn said in her "Come Here" post, “I did not mean to test him, really I didn't”, you can hear the helplessness bleed through. I tell ya, even the medicinal qualities of the cocoa bean can’t even begin to soothe the savage beasts that this kooky affliction creates.

With SugarAnne, when I’m tested like that, first I carefully place a partially unwrapped (I wanna make it as easy as possible) bit of chocolate in her general area. And then I go and watch quietly from "over there behind that thing" (much like a layman watching a pyrotechnician work with explosives). If after eating it, she’s still pacing the floor with that, that, that look on her face (yeah, that look), I know what I have here is a hormonal discombobulation situation. And I know it’s gonna test me. If the situation causes her to "pluck my strings enough", I just may have to step up, and “bang her drums” - for her sake mostly, but for mine too. Whatever the situation calls for, if I don’t respond with the proper wisdom and guidance, I shouldn’t be upset with her, I should be upset with myself (and I usually am). Because she’s not the one testing me, the situation is.

At other times, she might personally tests me. Sometimes she needs to test me to find boundaries. These are innocent investigatory testings, i.e.: “I wonder what BabyMan will say if I have two drinks at dinner instead of just one? I don’t need to be asked every detail of her life before she does something. I’m not a micro manager. Although it may produce a warning – if necessary.

And then there’s the “brat attack” test: “Bratting out” just to receive a spanking. Uh…if you know SugarAnne you know that I don't have a brat taken in hand. Her Royal Sweetness does not like pain - AT ALL! The closest she may come to bratting out is maybe sticking her head in the sand about some issue that concerns me. But lemme ask you. Where does that leave her behind? Um, exposed.

Since I'm swift to the paddle, and make no bones about "peeling the skin off that potato", SugarAnne doesn’t even need to brat out. So I haven't really experienced the brat attack test. But if I did, I wouldn't spank. Well, I should say I wouldn't spank until I needed to get my own personal spank on. And then look out! Not only will I peel that potato, I’ll be making French fries too!

These days I'm learning to treat my paddle like a microphone (“Testing 1-2-3”) and ask myself what kind of test is this? Am I testing myself? Is the situation testing me? Or is SugarAnne testing me? When I’m able to discern the pattern of the test, I can then decide how it should be handled (the test, that is, not the paddle).

It could mean that I need to be lovingly gentle. It might mean that I need to be lovingly firm. And it may mean I need to be lovingly dismissive. But one thing it will always mean: It will always mean that the root of my response will be love.

After all, isn't that what "this thing we do" is? “'This...' is a test. This is only a test” - of how I show my love for her.

"Tempted By the Fruit of Her Royal Sweetness"

2010-08-10T11:56:00.000-05:00

Most often I’m the sexual aggressor in this relationship. I prefer it that way. But SugarAnne “offered up” a “bribe” of sorts this morning. It was subtle and I admit I love the fact that she would offer me sex; that she would attempt this bribe, however unintentional and/or subtle, to get out of a punishment.

Although I had not yet addressed the issue, we both knew that she became a victim of “chat distract” yesterday. We both knew that if she hadn’t been on that darn computer (that “craptop” as I think of it sometimes), she would not have left an assigned task in a half finished state – a definite indication of distraction.

It could be that she thought that sex would soften me up somehow; make me nice about the whole thing. Or even cause me to forget. Perhaps it was an attempt to diminish my courage; thwart my ability to execute my disciplinarian responsibilities; leave me drained of motivation and resolve to strongly encourage the necessary corrections. Or, maybe she just feels like having sex when she’s in trouble. I don’t know. I’m not even sure that her “bribe” was conscious scheme.

I admit that I love the fact that she would offer me sex. I love that she would attempt this bribery – if indeed that’s what it was. I don’t fault her for it. I love her for it. After all, “she’s the one who’s gonna get spanked. So one would expect her to use (and she has every right to use) every tool of manipulation at her disposal” (I thank Sara for that eye-opening nugget).

Her attempt lets me know that she knows that her sweet plum has value to me. I was tempted, I confess. “Clyde” (her monthly) had been hanging around. And it’d been more than a few days since a brother had had his needs met. But my passing on this "opportunity" also lets her know that SHE – her total being – has much more value to me than a mere subset: her pussy (I say it that way because for all practical purposes, in my mind, that’s exactly what was being offered – her pussy. Oh, yeah, and I also love word). Was I interested? Does pacman like to chew up on those little blue dudes? Hell yes I was interested! But I’m more interested in the whole Sugar – not just in dipping my cane. If I had given in and not punished her I could possibly lose her respect. If I had given in and punished her anyway, she might carry resentment.

In the moment of the offer I was convinced that there would be a certain amount of security for her in my passing on it. Not only security that I am self-controlled when I’m out and about in a world that offers sex, in one form or fashion, at every turn. But also secure that she won’t be able to control the situation with the fruit of Her Royal Sweetness (as delicious as it is!) My response, I think, let her know that I am still in control of me AND this situation; that the walls of the city can not be so easily broken down; that I am still in charge; and that I am the HoH she needs. The stark reality is - the stark reality HAS to be: she doesn’t want me to be that weak. She really doesn’t want me to be a pussy for pussy.

Listen, there’s a greater pleasure that is beyond the immediacy of sex, even with the one you love. The greater pleasure is to make a deposit in her growth – and our growth together. That’s what “this thing we do” is all about for us: growth as individuals and the growth of our relationship.

"TenderStrong"

2010-08-08T18:22:00.002-05:00

Although I have a green streak of envy, I do not consider myself – nor do I try to position myself – to be “THE guy” in any situation. In this TV ad “the most interesting man in the world”, although an extreme caricature, is “THE guy”: the type of guy that sometimes knocks me off of my square. He’s the stud; he’s the man among men among men. He’s the “alpha male”. Check him out.

I’ve got the “man” part down pat. I am that. But would an alpha be peeking into his shorts right now to make sure? (“There’s the li’l fella, good!”). No definitely not. An alpha wouldn’t “peek”. He’d just LOOK! (“There’s the li’l fella, good!”).

Like “the most interesting man in the world”, “I don’t always drink beer” either (maybe there’s hope for me huh?). “’But when I do I drink’ a half of shot of Corona in my margaritas” (okay, it’s hopeless). Margaritas so un-alpha (Morgan straight; gin and tonic maybe; martini – “shaken, not stirred” perhaps – but, heaven forbid! not margaritas!). And the would-be slogan, “I don’t always drink beer but when I do I prefer to drink a half of shot of Corona in my margaritas” just doesn’t work. Go on, ask any ad exec!

I am self-conscious. I probably care more about what people think of me than “the most interesting man in the world” does. He’s clearly not self-conscious at all. To my credit I consider wisdom a noble pursuit. This guy is prone to impetuous daring do, death defying feats or life threatening adventures. But guess what? I dig that about him!

If for some reason you were under the impression that I am some sort of an “alpha male” (admittedly an impression I would love for you to have), I’m here to confess that I am not. Through SugarAnne’s most recent post on attentive reunions I am exposed as perhaps a bit needier than any alpha would ever confess to be.

Affectionate "departures" from and attentive "reunions" with SugarAnne are important to me. They are equally important for different reasons. More than important – they are actually a need. An affectionate departure is an emotional covering for my day at work and my encounters with the world at large. And an attentive reunion is a soft pillow that eases the tension of the day and sets the tone for our evening.

That may be a little too tender for some. Call me beta man, omega man, or whatever the hell you want. I don’t care. I’m just telling you what’s best for our relationship. And I’ll do whatever it takes to keep an open flow of love and affection and to achieve what is best for this relationship. And if that’s a little to strong for some, you can put it all together and just call me TenderStrong.

If you see me nipping (like a love struck puppy) at the heels of Her Royal Sweetness on Submission Day (aww, how tender!), it’s just to save her from getting a royal tan on her royal behind for absent minded unannounced wandering (strong).

I dig chick flicks and I like to cuddle after we make love (tender).
You got something to say about that?! (strong).

Perhaps I’m saved into alpha by the fact that I wouldn’t know a pair of Pradas from a pair of Payless AND I am not willing to learn (strong). But if they look girly, I’ll compliment my woman almost every time (tender).

I’ve heard, “You’re like a brother to me” (I’m tender like that) probably ten times as much as I’ve seen a sly wink that said “Get over here and fuck me”. But that doesn’t make me feel weak. I strive to make sure MY woman knows she’s her own woman. I’m strong like that.

I have a bad habit of speaking softly to be intentionally unintimidating (tender). And I’m laid back until I’m pushed. But when I’m pushed, I push back hard (strong).

I confess that Melissa Manchester’s “Through the Eyes of Love” has caught me off guard a couple of times this year as I look at our relationship through the lens of “this thing we do”. (What th-?! What is this foreign substance coming out of my eyes?!) I’m tender like that.

But if I have authority by virtue of rank, position or permission, I might let you take enough rope, over enough time (tender) to hang yourself like Haman. But eventually I’ll execute that authority with direction, purposefulness and intensity. Go on, ask Sugar if I won’t glaze those cupcakes when it’s necessary (strong).

But here’s the thing: I’m tender enough to look into the shine of SugarAnne’s well spanked behind and use the reflection to shave away the ugly stubble of my own shortcomings (strong).

I’ve never been questioned by the police because I’m so interesting.
And I don't got no beard - not like his anyway.

And unlike “the world’s most interesting man”, when my heart bleeds it hurts like hell and it don’t smell like no cologne. It stinks.

But I'm okay with that. That's because I’m “TenderStrong”.

"An Open Letter to EHarmony.com"

2010-07-29T10:03:00.000-05:00

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.

2010-07-24T15:57:00.001-05:00

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?

2010-07-15T10:43:00.003-05:00

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!"

2010-07-01T06:45:00.002-05:00

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!”

"Chit Chat Chew the Fat"

2010-06-21T22:35:00.000-05:00

A very slightly modified pasted transcript of a WindowsLive chat with SugarAnne Monday afternoon. My explanations, comments and thoughts appear between the brackets [ ].

BabyMan says:
What are you doing right now?
[I’m initiating contact with SugarAnne, although she’s been “available” and at her keyboard for nearly 40 minutes]

Sugar says:
I/m working on my post.
why?

BabyMan says:
i'm curious.

Sugar says:
Whatare YOU doing right now?

BabyMan says:
looking at the clock.
[It's 2:06. As a result of this missing person incident SugarAnne is tasked to contact me between 11:00 a.m. and 2:00 p.m each day until the end of the June]

Sugar says:
poor baby.
How's your day going?

BabyMan says:
do you know what time it is?

Sugar says:
oh no!
Oh NO!
ok... i let the time get away from me.
I just got back from the gym and had lunch.

BabyMan says:
you will learn your lesson sooner or later.

Sugar says:
Wait!!! wait, didn't we talk after 11?
[To her credit we did talk and have other chat contact this morning]

BabyMan says:
no.

Sugar says:
oh, come on!

BabyMan says:
and...
you said to me...
"i'll talk with you between 11 and 2". [her last words to me this morning]

Sugar says:
I know...
But i really thought I had more time.

BabyMan says:
now you know you didn't.

Sugar says:
I don't know how this happened!
I'm really sorry!

BabyMan says:
it's okay.

Sugar says:

it's ok?

BabyMan says:
we will resolve it.

Sugar says:
no!
I want amnesty!

BabyMan says:
are you chatting with [online friends]?

Sugar says:
no.

BabyMan says:
have you?

Sugar says:
a little.
But they weren't available.
They had meetings.
I was cooking my lunch.

BabyMan says:
since you came back from the gym?

Sugar says:
uh huh.
FUCK! [nice. the pastor's wife y'all]
c'mon!
I started working on my post.
I'm sorry!
I'm Sorrreeeee!

BabyMan says:
it's okay...we'll work it out.
where are you with the laundry?

Sugar says:
It's almost done. I have to scrounge up 5 qurters for the dryer.

BabyMan says:
check my dresser.

Sugar says:
I used those for the washer already.

BabyMan says:
i should be home around 6ish...

Sugar says:
Ok.

BabyMan says:
find your shortest skirt....
do not put any panties on....

Sugar says:

my shortest?

BabyMan says:

shortest.

Sugar says:

ok. I know just the one.

Are you going to spank me?

BabyMan says:

yes...you will be spanked well.

Sugar says:
I was afraid you were going to say that.

BabyMan says:
and put those [censored (item of my desire)] where you were instructed to put them.
fold them properly.

Sugar says:

yes Sir.

Do you want eggs, avocado, and bacon in your salad?

BabyMan says:

yes...that will be fine.

Sugar says:

ok.

BabyMan says:

put the Heatstroke [the hated, dreaded and feared body brush] in the den...with the oil.

and the "wad" [short for Weapon of Ass Destruction (the paddle)].

Sugar says:

Come on! It's just a few minutes [strokes are determined by how many minutes she's late in contacting]

BabyMan says:

thanks to me.

Sugar says:

I spoke to you at 2:06.

BabyMan says:

I spoke to you.

Sugar says:

oh... oh yeah.

BabyMan says:

You were "baby smurfin'" [A term I use for zoning out to the point of needing rescue. Usually followed by whistling part of the Smurfs cartoon theme]

Sugar says:

I'm so sorry.

I didn't think I'd make that mistake after the last time. [She got her bagel toasted big time last week for this very thing.]

BabyMan says:

perhaps you won't next time.

get back to your post.

Sugar says:

Please don't use the heatstroke on me.

BabyMan says:

i will not (ab)use the heatstroke on you.

Sugar says:

Is that the best I'm going to get?

BabyMan says:

i assure you...

you will get my best.

[End of chitchatchewthefat with SugarAnne]

"The Flip Technique"

2010-06-19T06:38:00.000-05:00

What’s so hard about completing all of the assigned tasks? As much as SugarAnne gets her basketball dribbled, I have to wonder why she’s not making all of her free throws. Bear with me for a sec while I run this through my mind: First, make a written list of all the tasks needed to be completed that day. Check. This is the equivalent of preparing a lesson plan. Next, go over the list with SugarAnne task by task, point by point. Check. This is sorta like classroom study. Then, hand the list over to SugarAnne. Check. This is tantamount to pointing to the exact page in the textbook from which the questions on the test will be drawn. Finally, leave home and do the “sweat of the brow” thing. Check. Professor leaves classroom during open book exam, right?

For some reason, while I’m out in the world converting “thorns and thistles” to bread, it always breaks down. Well, to be fair, that’s hyperbole. It doesn’t always break down. It doesn’t even break down most of the time. In fact, it just breaks down in some places and only some of the time. But twice this week seems like all the time.

Tasks should be one of the easiest things about “this thing we do”. But for some reason we (that would be SugarAnne) are not getting it. All of our tasks are not done all of the time. It’s not like it’s a pop quiz that’s sprung on you in a moment’s notice. It’s essentially an open book examination that shows up highlighted, in bold and redlined on the pre-course syllabus. Please tell me that every new spanko gets a pre-course syllabus. They do don't they?

Here’s the problem methinks: when it comes to eluding punishment, Her Royal Sweetness has a quite a knack for escaping the back attack. The woman is the neo Houdinian! Take that missing person thing from the other day. She weaseled her way out of a punishment. Used the “flip technique” on me. Young HoHs beware of this maneuver. That’s where she bends over backward to blame me for her misery, or to highlight my guilt to outshine her own. It's paradoxically unintentional and yet, intentional. I quote Her Royal Sweetness (same post), “I relish the idea of knowing damned well that I deserve a spanking, and getting away with it.” Relish.

Her first effort was a double-barrel approach – misery and guilt:
“I think they heard you yelling next door. You probably ruined my friendship with Dianne” (insert the my life is over and I’ll never ever ever ever have another friend again Ihatechu! pout). I discarded her “misery” like a bent penny. But since yelling is the response of a man who has no solution (with TTWD we have a solution), personal guilt began to rise up around me like the stench of a dead rat.

She added a splash of cunning rationale. “It’s not unusual for us not to talk during the day”, said she, “If my mother hadn’t called you, you would’ve never been worried.” This is both rational and cunning. Rational enough to deflect the fact that she is supposed to have her high-tech 3 ways to be contacted mobile device on her person when she’s out. And cunning enough to point a subtle finger to the fact that I was slow to listen, quick to speak and quick to become angry. The complete opposite of what she knows I feel I should’ve been. Sincere apology successfully elicited.

Finally, a subtle lance to the neck, “It’s not fair. Nothing happens to you when you make a mistake”, and the bull’s head is forced to hang low. That’s the “flip technique”. I may not handle the “flip technique” as adeptly as I’d like to. But that will eventually change. Besides, it’s not a bad thing to err on the side of caution.

But not completing tasks leaves no room for the “flip technique”. When SugarAnne didn’t complete her tasks the first time, I slow cooked her in guilt and anticipation for a couple of hours. The second time? I dropped those panties faster than a skydiver falling under a skirt hiked up like a collapsed parachute. Whatever the approach, I ended up searing that rear until the point was clear.

When it was over all she could say was, “Why was it so har-ard?” (insert scrunched faced spanko booty rub). “Because not getting it, means gettin’ it bad. That's why.”

And that’s why it doesn’t happen all the time.

"Owning Up, Weeding Out and Expressing Darkness"

2010-06-13T23:14:00.008-05:00

This State Farm Insurance TV ad has been running in our area. The ad features three different women and a State Farm insurance guy. You could say that these three different women together represent a single woman. The ad also features three guys. It’s clear to understand that the three guys are, together, the embodiment of a single man: the ideal man.

It’s the guys that caught my attention – all played by the same guy (I think). There’s the purple shirt unbuttoned down to here, peering over the rim of his dark sunglasses, foot on the bumper “hot guy” – with his I’m so hot and I know it tone of voice, “W’sup?”

Then there’s the knit cap, unpretentious striped sweatshirt, gently cradling a bunny rabbit, loving smile “sensitive guy”, with his don’t you just love this little bunny tone of voice, “He’s a rescue”.

And finally, there’s the calculatedly mussed hair, tattooed bicep, dressed in all black, sitting on top of car, one boot rebelliously on the trunk “dark side guy”, with his I’m a mystery so don’t try to get to know me but try to get to know me tone of voice, “Yo”.

Whether male and female we are each a conglomeration of different personas. For whatever reason, upbringing, stigma or acceptability, we’re more comfortable with some parts of our selves than we are with other parts. I tend to think that most people struggle with their dark side.

Some women love the dark side of a man (the brunette’s response to “dark side” is priceless isn’t it?) “Dark side ravishes them and taps into their own darkness. With “dark side” they can maintain their “good girl” status while fulfilling their “bad girl” desires.

When me and SugarAnne began “this thing we do”, I often wrestled with my dark side. I struggled with it. My “Domdentity” I call it. I’m thankful for our TTWD “neighborhood” (our combined blog rolls) which has been informative and helpful – not to mention supportive as I experimented with ideas and possibilities as I laid the foundation of my “Domdentity”.

But a just “link-frog” away from our own relatively docile TTWD “neighborhood” is a world wide web that is a veritable whirlwind of titillating darkness of hurricaniacal proportions. Specifics are not important since dark is subjective. What is dark to one is a shining light to another.

In the past I couldn’t get a handle on all this darkness. It became an encephalitic-like bloating that, when reaching its full capacity, would cause my mind to just pop! SFPHUPT! A couple of times I projectile vomited all over your QWERTY little keyboards with some relatively distasteful and uncharacteristically crude unfiltered BabyMan brain matter. Read about the battle royale with Her Royal Sweetness here (my thoughts) and here (her thoughts).

But over the past few months I’ve had to face front-on my “dark side”. I’ve had to own up to it; weed out that which is not beneficial our relationship; and finally and most importantly, open up an avenue of communication, experimentation (rather than blog vomit) and expression that benefits our marriage and satisfies our souls. That open avenue is an “armor of light” that allows our darkness to be seen – and not dangerously hidden.

Neo Tom Dom said in his "Radical Departure" post the other day, “My relationship with my [wife] is more important to me than fulfilling my every [dark] desire”. He’s right. That’s important.

At the end of the ad the State Farm insurance man commands “dark side guy” quite directly:

“Feet off the car dark side”.

“Dark side”, whether pricked by upbringing or conscience, immediately responds. He takes his feet off the car.

I’ve come to own my dark side. I’ve weeded out some non-beneficial things. And because I’ve opened up avenues of communication, experimentation and expression, I have a pretty good idea of when to ravish rebelliously, and when to take my feet off the car.

"Every Angel Needs A Halo"

2010-05-28T15:51:00.000-05:00

I have to give my girl credit. Lately SugarAnne has been quite the angel. As promised, she has truly made up for last week’s…hmm…should I say…uhhh…theatrics? (for lack of a more accurate and immediately available term). Since last weeks emotional "rescue” she’s been in a pretty good mood. She’s been joyful as a little girl running through confetti, and charmingly, disarmingly sassy too. And because she’s been all “girled up” all week, well, let’s just say we’ve “burned a few sheets”.

There’s one girly thing she been doing since we started “this thing we do”: dry brushing her body. It really does wonders for her skin. I usually try not to look. Or, I should say, I usually try not to look for too long or too hard. But I just can’t seem help it. It’s quite mesmerizing. It’s a wide open look at what one would only expect to see through one eye with a keyhole field of vision. I’m sure she did this before TTWD, probably. But now, my 25 pounds lighter, non-smoking (read about that challenge here), more comfortable with herself confident wife, walks around the house as pretty as you please and naked as a jaybird – just a brushing away.

Her strokes are smooth, as if spreading an even layer of whipped cream all over her body. The body brush gently surveys the terrain from her shoulder, across her chest and down through the valley between her “upper hills”. My gaze tends to lock onto that brush like a tracking beam from the Starship Enterprise.

“You know what you’re doing don’t cha”. It’s more an accusation than it is a question. I follow the brush, gawking, as it eases down her side and then retraces its steps back to her shoulder.

“Wha-, wha-?” she says with the innocence of an angel with a bent halo. Yet convincing enough to be believed. Does she really have absolutely no idea of what she’s doing to me?

Her eyes bug, she squints. And through hairy eyeballs she says, “Why are you staring at me like that?” A flick of the wrist abbreviates a stroke as she attempts to knock my gaze away.

But my eyes, like dander, are sucked back in by the static electricity of primal urgings stirring within me. They follow the bath brush as it moves around to her back out of sight and then down. I crank myself up into a high tip toe and look past her into the mirror on her dresser. I’m trying to reap a glimpse of this tender sweeping of her “lower hills” to compensate for the sudden “gawkus interruptus”. I have no shame. I love those “lower hills”. The short handle bath brush hyper-charges this exercise with a hint of masturbatory sensuality. The act oozes girly girlyness so thick I could spoon it up and roll it around my tongue until it melts.

Ahhhh, the body brush! That body brush is my little angel’s little friend. Yes it is...uh-huh. The way she handles that thing when she's dry body brushing you'd never know that...

...with one good turn…

...that very same short handle body brush becomes “the Heatstroke”: MY little friend. SugarAnne despises “the Heatstroke”. Unfortunately last week I had to turn her loving body brush around and lovingly “tenderize that brisket” wit'it. Funny thing though, ever since then:

She walks like an angel;
She talks like an angel.

It's good to have "the Heatstroke". After all, every angel needs a halo.

"Disease, Defiance, Decisions and Bad Grades"

2010-05-20T15:19:00.002-05:00

“You left me!!” “I needed you!!” “You ignored me!!”
She’s crying that angry cry. The tracks of her tears may leave a salt stain, but bitterness is flowing at the moment. I stand dumbfounded. And even though she’s just about screaming, “Go! Just go on. Go on to work!” I am stunned to immobility. I eventually did leave for work. That was this morning.

I had watched the funk slowly descend upon SugarAnne over the past couple of days. Even though it doesn’t rain like it used to, I know the dark clouds of depression when I see them: a lack of effervescence with gloom behind the eyes; a general sluggishness with a lack of “presentation”. I know I’m dealing with disease here: Depression. But since we began our D/s relationship it has been either scarce or, when it attempted to rear its ugly head, I had been able to “go in there” and pull her out.

When she woke up in a bad spot yesterday, I went “in there” and gave her a “steak peppering” stress reliever. It was seasoned with sincere platitudes of love and high value. It would be the second paddling since I broke my “fast” last weekend. As I left for work, I was hopeful. Hopeful that she was convinced of her worth; hopeful that she would make it to the gym; hopeful that she would “girl up” for my homecoming as she was instructed during the proceedings.

But an afternoon phone call revealed that my paddle panacea was not a panacea at all. She had not gotten out of bed. She had not gone to the gym. She had not “girled up”. As a matter of fact save a shower, “NOT” was all that she had done to that point in the day – NOT NUT’N! I did everything I could, within the parameters of a phone call, to get her up and to get her out. She needed to get out into the bright sunshine of a gorgeous day. This disease is a mutha. So I “tasked” her on going to the gym.

When I give her a task I confess, I sometimes struggle with the idea of having to execute punishment if it is not completed. As HoH I know it’s necessary; there’s always a bit of “excitement” to it; and I love the effect that it has on our relationship. But punishment is not a quick and easy second nature sorta thing for me. I have been effective but, there’s usually some anxiety that comes along with it. “Tasking” her would get her up and out for sure. Better she go nowhere fast up on a treadmill, than to go down fast to nowhere on a bed vacant of endorphins.

Coming home saw my hope pick pocketed by the dark days of old. She had quite successfully gone down fast to nowhere. She was still in bed. I wasn’t alarmed (maybe I should’ve been). I was more worried than disappointed.

“Did you make it to the gym today?” I gently probe not exactly sure.
“I just couldn’t make it”, she says, to answer seemed like a workout for her.
“Hmm…that’s not good”, I reached out and touched her thigh.
“Is there something I can do for you?” I offer.
“No”, she says glumly.

She had earned a spanking that’s for sure. And knowing Sugar, if it where humanly possible, she would’ve done everything she could to avoid another “bang on the bongos” in the same day. “Is it defiance when disease just won’t let her do it?”

Like a deer in headlights, I was caught trying to make a decision between disease and defiance; between compassion and control. I stepped back onto the sidewalk. Disease and compassion won out. I lost: my bad HoH instincts left her there – or should I say “in there” – hoping that the disease would ease it’s grip before the evening was done. It did not. And there she stayed until morning. That's why my day started with a heart piercing, “You left me!!” “I needed you!!” “You ignored me!!”

Bad instincts makes for a bad HoH who will make bad decisions.
Bad grade: F(uck!)

"Slap and Tickle"

2010-05-14T15:25:00.011-05:00

I’m not one to be slow in pulling my paddle out of its proverbial holster - at least where frequency is concerned. SugarAnne is prone (pun intended) to be paddled just about every 2 ½ days or so. My “quick draw”, fast paddle, however, has slipped into an uncharacteristic no draw, “paddle fast”. I mean, where I used to be quick to reach for my paddle, I’ve noticed that in the past week, I haven’t reached for my paddle at all. A bunch of circumstances have probably contributed to this paddle fast – non of which I’ve pinned down at the moment. Frankly, I’m not really trying to pin them down. I’m neither worried nor concerned. I’m just observing the situation. The situation just is.

A paddle fast doesn’t mean that SugarAnne doesn’t get the “hot tottie” that she needs. Would yours truly let such an important responsibility fall by the wayside? Of course not. That would, no doubt, be negligence. Would yours truly allow such an essential need to go unfulfilled? Absolutely not! That would border on emotional abuse. And Lord knows (regardless of what the vanilla world may unwittingly assume) I don’t wanna abuse the girl. Actually SugarAnne, not being a true-blood spanko, is getting exactly what she needs (for right now).

She calls it “Slap and Tickle”. It’s the kind of spanking that inspired our TTWD life; the kind that keeps it going; and apparently, the kind that gets her going too! IF you know what I mean (winkie wink). It’s less a “roasting of that rump” and more of a bare handed “icing of the cake”. It amounts to spanking foreplay.

A stern command ("Get over here") and she’s over my lap; then a reluctant peeling down of the panties – to just about mid thigh. Yes, I make her do it herself usually. A barehanded “slap” followed by a predatory grope, rounded out by those gentle pats and caresses that inspire a tingly “tickle” down below. Over and over and again and again. And after a bit, she’s all warm and fuzzy and squirmy and so ready, that it would just be some kind of criminal cruelty not to follow through and fill the burning need. And I don't wanna be no criminal!

I am not a strictly "slap and tickle" sorta fella so I don’t know how long this unpremeditated paddle fast will last. But for now the motor on “Slap and Tickle” is powerful enough, and the boost it gives us is strong enough to keep both TTWD and our life moving foward in the right direction.

"You Gotta Love this New Math!"

2010-05-09T18:10:00.004-05:00

"I dream of those kinds of days. And from what I read he is the ideal husband. I can’t wait for the day my marriage is like that.”

Now, that’s quite a compliment!

Those words, a direct quote, are a part of a wonderful comment that SugarAnne received from one of her readers on her “Submission Day” post. The reader had read both of our blogs, and from the contents thereof, had surmised that things are wonderful and good and right in our marriage. She had further surmised that I, yours truly (ahem – yes me), was the “ideal husband”; and further-freakin’-more, that our marriage is one to be emulated and strived for.

Sooooo…puffed up with macho pride (insert nose thumbing macho sniff), I basked in the glow of my “ideal-ness” for a short time. Basked, that is, until an email alert notified me that there was another comment to SugarAnne’s post. Ah, it was Her Royal Sweetness, SugarAnne herself, responding. And what was her highness' response you ask?

Perhaps she thanked the dear reader for her astute observation and heaped laurels of appreciation and accolades upon her “ideal husband”? Nope. Bad guess. That wasn’t it. Maybe she encouraged the reader that “this thing we do” is different for every couple and that surely said reader and her husband will find their own place of love and comfort and joy in this lifestyle? Nooooooooo (shaking head), uh-uhhhhh (pursed lipped smirk).

Here’s what Her Royal Sweetness had to say as her reply:
“hmmm... BabyMan the ideal husband?” was her ponderous beginning, “Not yet…” she wrote answering her own rhetoric.

At this point I’m thinking:
What?! A question about my ‘ideal’ness?! Not just a question but an immediate answer too?! And that was just the beginning.

She then followed up with:
“…but I am molding him into shape as we speak. He'll be ideal in another couple of weeks by my calculations.” That’s right folks, not a typo – “molding him” said she. No little “winkie wink sign” and no little smiley face. Oh yeah, intellectually, I knew they were there. But nevertheless, the puffiness escaped my ego and sent it sputtering throughout the air of my office like a balloon with a fatal leak. It landed, my head included, with a loud thud into my folded arms on top of my desk.

"MOLDING?!…he’ll BE ideal?!…calculations?!”? I don’t know what kind of math SHE was using. I quelled the urge to respond immediately: “Calcu-frickin’-lations?! Calcu-frickin’-lations?! Somebody’s gonna be taught some of that new math when I get home! And then we’ll see how things adds up!”

Instead, I read her response again. And again; and once more. It began to add up beautifully. SugarAnne is by no means a brat. So she wasn’t bratting out. And she ain’t stupid. You know that. I know that. So this wasn’t no slip of the tongue. You see, you’d have to really know SugarAnne for this to add up just right. You’d have to know her to sense and feel and see the very broad smiley face and, more importantly, the absentee winkie wink toward my direction that is inherent in her response. This is the type of wittiness and charm and playfulness that ocassionally pierced the dark clouds of depression, insecurity and low self-esteem that characterized our B.S. (before spanking) days. And I'll tell ya, frankly, it warms my ever-loving heart to not only see so much more of it these days, but to be “instrumental” in bringing out this tasteful flavor in her personality. That’s exactly what “Submission Day” was all about. It was about fun together, for a fun-loving couple, who are enjoying themselves incredibly, as they grow within themselves individually and into this new lifestyle together. The life, for us, isn’t about beating anybody down, but all about building everybody up (btw: Turiya’s excellent post touches on the building up thing).

So with just as much fun and with just as much love, that very evening I “allowed” Her Royal Sweetness to continue "MOLDING" me. Hey, I’m a fast track sorta guy. And I don’t wanna be waiting two whole weeks to become an “ideal husband”. I wanna be the “ideal husband” for her right now. I mean, I know what a royal pain in the ass "molding" someone can be. And that’s exactly what the evening turned out to be for SugarAnne: a royal pain in the ass. According to MY calculations, just like on “Submission Day”, it all added up to passion, love multiplied and no long division.

You gotta love this new math!

"'Whatever'"

2010-04-29T20:51:00.002-05:00

“What type of husband-ban-baan-baaand… does your wife’s-ife’s-iife’s-iiife’s…actions tell-ell-ell-ell you-oo-ooo-oooo that she need-eed-eeed-eeeeds?”

She’ll say, “What do you wanna do today?!” bubbling like cola just poured.
And I’ll say, staler than last night’s beer stuffed with cigarette butts, “I don’t know. What do you wanna do?”

It doesn’t matter what the question is. It could be:
“What movie do you want to see?”
“I don’t know. It’s up to you. You pick.” Or,
“Where should we go to eat tonight?”
“Well, what do you have a taste for?”

I don’t mean anything by it. It just doesn’t matter to me. What I’m basically saying is, “Whatever – we’ll do whatever YOU wanna do”.

“Whatever”.

“Whatever” whether in word or action or attitude; “Whatever” even when being thoughtful and considerate; “Whatever”, even in its nicest form (devoid of any thread of it's comtemporary valley girl snottiness) is neither an answer nor a decision.

Admittedly, the above situations are simple. But simplicity can be a bubbling brook of truth and wisdom. And truth and wisdom, gleaned from simple situations, and left unapplied in more complex situations – including “this thing we do” – can lead to dire consequences.

SugarAnne is quite capable of planning our day. She knows her taste in movies. She knows what she likes to eat. SugarAnne ain’t no dummy. Many of you have enjoyed the intelligence of her blog; some of you have partaken of her wisdom through email; others have laughed at her humor. I’ll add that she is a self-sufficient, independent and naturally free-spirited woman. So why would this helluva woman ask me about these rather simple things? What the heck is she looking for?! Er, Ahem, “What type of husband do her actions tell me that she needs” in these moments?

Lord knows I’m no expert. But when I speculate through the lens of my own feelings, I am persuaded that on some level, getting an answer from me to these simple questions, in these simple situations actually feeds what is feminine in Sugaranne - her feminine essence. I only say this because when her ear is leaning into my answers, and her attention is focused on my words, and her darling gaze is directed up to my eyes, it actually feeds what is masculine in me - my masculine essence. If I'm "get'n my boy on" surely she must be “get'n her girl on”. It's not scientific but it's not rocket science either!

In our "B.S." (before spanking) days “Whatever” was a power vacuum that sucked all the nutrients out of the air leaving in it’s place another “it don’t matter to me” (Bread 3:16) argument. And even though that confusion made itself clear, that wouldn't stop me from re-frying that shit and serving it up again and again hoping something would change. But nothing changed. It would just leave her starving for the femininity that “Whatever” could never feed. And it left her nothing to feed on but the masculinity I unwittingly vacated. She actually could’ve gone into a cannibalistic feeding frenzy that would make a school of piranha envious. Some women would've. But she didn’t. She didn’t like the taste. I think now, “If only I had simply fed her starving femininity in those "B.S." moments…”

So when I hear, “Should I wear the mauve taupe or the tuscan red nail polish?” I might be caught of guard. I might rattle my smokestack like Scooby-doo and go, “Hu-uh!” And I might, I just might be thinking, “What the fuck?!” Because, frankly, I only have so many shades stored on my color spectrum. And I don’t remember mauve taupe or tuscan red in the 8 crayon box of Crayolas! But one thing is for sure. I will be watchful not to respond with - “Whatever”.

Listen, I know Sugar’s capable of deciding which nail polish to wear. She’s not REALLY looking for an answer to that. She needs me to be feed her femininity. So I’ll simply ask her to hold them both up. And I’ll take a really good look. And I’ll think; and I'll scratch my chin; and I’ll say, “Hmm” (add smirk for effect). And then, then I’ll make a non-patronizing, sincere selection. After that I'll put it back into her hands – if it really makes no difference to me or – if the final decision is hers. That’s the type of husband her actions are looking for in moments like these. To do otherwise is to starve the feminine essence of the woman I love and – worse yet – to vacate the masculinity she desires and adores in me. And the consequences of that are dire for the complexities of “this thing we do”.

"Even 'Geniuses' Have to Study"

2010-04-28T11:46:00.005-05:00

“Let me ask you a question”, I said, slipping into pseudo-Socratic mode like I sometimes do when I counsel. This is my patented “guide question”. I’m trying to guide the young man to an answer but not necessarily MY answer. He needs his answer; an answer from himself for himself; an answer that he can own so that he can operate more effectively within the situation. The young fella – just a hair beyond a month into the matrimonial crucible – looked at me. A hungry little finch – waiting. Waiting to devour a few crumbs of wisdom from the mouth of a mentor. We’d been eating and talking for a couple of hours at this point. Talking about ministry and leadership, about life and love. It was HIS love life that prompted the question:

“What type of husband does your wife’s actions tell you that she needs?” I asked him.

Inside my head I’m thinking: “Genius!” Cuz that’s what I call myself when I surprise myself like that and, uncharacteristically, say stuff that is moderately insightful. The full phraseology stolen from a Richard Pryor routine of years gone by: “The boy is a genius…need not pencil nor paper!”

This question was gonna help the kid. I mean, I had to admit the question WAS insightful. It didn’t linger in the air for that long. As a matter of fact, it didn’t linger at all. Everything BUT the question seemed to slow down – at least for me everything seemed to slow down. A surreal-like texture, as thick as maple syrup, settled around our breakfast table as I became “glazed over” in thought. The question however, picked up speed. First, it hit the young man's forehead right at his thinning hairline and, it seemed, bounced back toward ME! I bobbed with the skillful agility of Muhammad Ali (in counsel I’m used to dodging my own questions. After all, this ain’t about me – it’s about him). Missing me, the question whistled past my left ear. (that’s my good ear y’know).

The question must’ve ricocheted rather sharply off the small rim that protruded from the wood panel that separated our booth from the booth behind me, because it launched upward abruptly. It dinged a faux stucco ceiling tile out of its position, then bounced off of the waitress pick up counter causing jelly to roll. From there it pinged off of the large industrial coffeemaker where, in its wake, cups rattled in their saucers. Next it reverberated off of the wall with speed sufficient enough to bore through the wax in my aforementioned good ear. And there it settled comfortably like an earwig in a blanket - echoing:

“What type of husband-ban-baan-baaand…”, oh shit! (I jiggled my forefinger frantically in my ear);

“…does your wife’s-ife’s-iife’s-iiife’s…“ (Whoa, hold-, whoa Lord! That question wasn’t meant for ME!

“…actions tell-ell-ell-ell you-oo-ooo-oooo that she need-eed-eeed-eeeeds?” Fuck! I wanted to jab a toothpick in there and stab it dead.

It assaulted my consciousness like that damn “five dollar foot long” song. It seems that the question that my so-called “genius” had intended for HIM, was having a deafening – and definite – effect on ME!

When the clouds cleared from my field of vision I was glancing his way. He was just sitting there. Not looking at me. Thinking – I suppose. Maybe the question did linger for him. We had sat in silence for a minute maybe. Perhaps more. Maybe he was just pretending he didn’t see any of this “really wild weird” shit that was happening all around him.

But that’s where our conversation ended. I knew that if there were any nibblets of nourishing wisdom to be reaped, he would have to mine them through watching, meditating, contemplating and praying. I simply said, “It’s a rhetorical question” and we left it at that.

Since then, this superball of a question has been ringing in my ear. It has lost neither clarity nor poignancy. It's echo growing stronger and increasing in importance. It IS an important question, especially with "this thing we do". And sometimes the answer is as easy as single digit arithmetic – but most times not. Yep, I may be a “Genius!” And I may “need not pencil nor paper”. But if I’m going to reap any nibblets of nourishing wisdom from this, they will have to be mined through watching SugarAnne, meditating on meanings, contemplating action and praying for wisdom.

After all, even “geniuses” have to study.

"Sugar In My Coffee"

2010-04-15T10:38:00.002-05:00

I never had the opportunity(?) to ask SugarAnne the questions that a husband would normally ask his wife when she suggests that he spanks her for discipline. Namely: 1) “Why don’t you have the self discipline to stop yourself from doing the things that you are asking me to correct in you?” And, 2) Why can’t you change yourself without me implementing punishment for you?” (see Elysia’s insightful post here). But I’ve been was thinking: What if, instead of me asking her, if SugarAnne HAD asked me to spank her? I don’t think those would’ve been the first questions that came to my mind – or out of my mouth for that matter!

What comes to mind is a question more like: “ARE YOU FRICKIN’ NUTS?!!”
Or after the shock wore off a gentler, ”Are you serious?”
Somewhere in the midst of the confusion that would surely set in, I would’ve have put her in a dark room, under a hot lamp and interrogated her like she was Lee Harvey Oswald's accomplice:
“Where is this coming from?”
“Who have you been talking with?”
“What have you been reading?”
"When did this come up?"
"Where were you on the afternoon of November 22, 1963?"

If that isn’t insensitive enough, eventually I suspect, it would all lead to the ultimate self-exalting accusation: “I KNEW you had ‘boots’ baby, I just didn’t know how big they were! That’s really fucked up”, I’d say and then add, “That’s really way the fuck fucked up!” For those of you who don’t know, “boots” are serious “issues”; i.e. “sues” (pronounced shoes); i.e. big “sues”, thus, “boots”: as in “You’ve got ‘boots’ girl!”). There would’ve been so many other questions in regard to such an outrageous request that questions 1 and 2 above would probably have fallen waydown, I mean waaaaaaay down to somewhere around “Questions 67 and 68”.

I’m glad I never had the opportunity(?) to ask these questions as we stood at the threshold of our domestic discipline life. And, if you can't tell, I don’t consider it a missed opportunity either.

Here’s why:
Our B.S. (before spanking) days were filled with questions – verbal and nonverbal alike – that suggested, “Sugar, think about what you’re doing sweetie?” and, “Sugar, why are you like that honey?” and, “SugarAnne! What were you thinking girl?!” and every now and then a scrunchy faced, “What’s wrong witcha girl?” Each question hung in the air like a dark cloud ready to burst.

Maybe she did “look in” and got answers, I don’t know. But her “looking in” never brought solutions that led to joy and happiness in her life – and in our life. As a matter of fact, as I look back, I see that suggesting that she “look in” to find answers brought quite the opposite effect. First, she would become absorbed in the process. Then she would begin to sink emotionally – the threat of “rain” looming like lurkers in spanking blogs. (Note to lurkers: it's okay to rain comments upon us). This was followed by the “clam up” where all conversation came to a halt. I would then respond with the “overreach” trying to pull conversation (and answers) out of her. Then finally, and predictably, the retreat. She would disappear into another room – and I’d let her – that in itself my own type of retreat. The result? Ahem, “No Sugar tonight in my coffee...” – if you get what I mean.
I’m not suggesting that Sugar doesn’t “look in” for answers. She does. I’m just not the one who sends her there with those types of questions anymore. I’ve learned that it has to be in her timing not mine. (Is that a woman thing?). Otherwise, the natural flow of love and affection between us gets all jammed up while she’s all clammed up.

With TTWD I don’t ask her to “look in” in the way I did in our B.S. days. That just shuts everything down. With TTWD, when I see a problem or need, I have a tool. I go get my tool (even better when I send her for it); and I go to work: I peel the panties back off of that tangerine and, to mix metaphors, I wax that apple so shiny I can shave my face in the reflection. Understand this, I don’t do it to fix her. Uh-uh. I figured out she don’t need no fixing. She ain't broke. I do it to fix the SITUATION. I do it to break open the dam and encourage between us the all-important natural flow of love and affection. With TTWD the floodgate opens up with “Breck mitosis”-like effect; i.e. love tells two friends (communication and respect), and they tell two friends (trust and passion), and they tell two friends (intimacy and sex, and sex...and sex...and more sex), and so on….and so on…and so on. We’re really weirded out by the fact that it works. We're about as weirded out as I would’ve been had I gotten the “opportunity” to ask “Questions 67 and 68”.

“I'd like to know
Can you tell me; please don't tell me
It really doesn't matter anyhow
It's just that the thought of us so happy
Appears in my mind, as a beautifully mysterious thing”

I didn’t get a chance to ask "Questions 67 and 68". And I'm glad, cuz unlike B.S., there always seems to be Sugar in my coffee these days.

I submit, if YOU get the chance to ask, don't. Just don't. Just go on and do....

...“this thing WE do”. And watch the floodgates open.

"Filling the Gap Between Real and Ideal"

2010-04-09T06:42:00.002-05:00

I think SugarAnne is too good to have to settle for less in anything. I really do. I’m not just blowing smoke when I say she’s too good. The woman is financially frugal and materially content. She just doesn’t have a desire for having the most and best of everything. It’s just part of her character. Of course, being the idealist that I am, my desire is to provide her with everything she needs – and well beyond – if it’s within my power. But she is quite the realist. And that is to my fortune. Even if I were able to, she wouldn’t be particularly joyful to actually have all that I desire for her. Like I said, she's a realist. This saves the idealist in me a whole bunch of frustration, failure and sorrow (not to mention money).

I tell our friends (in the words of The Four Tops):

“Ain’t no woman like the woman I got;
She don’t ask for things, no diamond rings”.

It does not escape me that I hit the mother lode. She’s too good. Her realism keeps our stress to a minimum and helps me to relax.

But there’s one area where I refuse to relax. I REFUSE to allow SugarAnne settle for less in a man. As such, I REFUSE to relax in striving to be the man that she needs. The ideal man, no matter how nebulous or elevated the ever-evolving standard may be.

I proposed domestic discipline to SugarAnne but it has had an uncanny capacity for slicing both ways. It has not only helped me see my real self, but has also helped me face myself for real – whether I want to or not. There’s something about "this thing thing we do" – this spanking my wife for unbecoming behavior – that compels me to take careful note of my own behavior. So now, when I look at SugarAnne for the purpose of helping her to bring out the best in her, I am in turn forced to look at myself to make sure I am striving to put into the relationship the best of me. It’s seems that’s the only way, with good conscience, that I could justify this privilege.

We communicate more about stuff now: talking. We talk much more than when we began this new relationship a few months back. Through our little talks we’re getting some idea of who we are in this thing. But her ever-unfolding ideal of what is HoH is also communicated without words. I’m still trying to pick up the different signals of what kind of man she really needs. What is her ideal HoH? She shouldn’t have to settle for anything less.

Of course, she’s not gonna ASK for me to “warm her bread”. Not with words anyway. She’s learned that lesson already. Heck, spankings hurt. A lot of times I don’t think she even knows herself when she needs a "toasting". But when she does, she tells me in the very same way that she tells me that she doesn’t need the best of the material things. She tells me by being real – by doing what comes naturally to her.

Sometimes the signal is sweet to the soul: she oos and coos and gets “up under me”. Other times the signal is bitter: she’ll have a general edgy-ness or a prolonged snippy-ness. And sometimes it’s absolutely nauseating: complaining and storming out of the house. All these are signs - signals that scream, “Here’s your opportunity to become the man I need you to be!” It may mean that I need to hold her - or scold her. It may mean I need to make love to her. It just might mean I need to “light her moon”.

BUT – the last thing she needs for me to do is fold on her. These are NOT times for me to run away screaming – even if appears that I may have reason to. These are not the times for me to be a hurt little puppy – even though she loves puppies. These are not times for me to her give tit for tat and escalate relational tensions. These are times when she needs to know that I am there, unflustered and purposefully loving her with whatever “application” is necessary (i.e.: if she needs her tushy tanned, I need to tan her tushy – and I need to tan her tushy well!)

Every challenge is her signal and my opportunity to become her ideal HoH: the HoH that she desires; the HoH that she deserves.

My job is to step into the situation that is presented by the signals that are delivered, and strive to fill the need AND fill the gap between the real and the ideal. I’m not there yet but I’m working on it. She deserves nothing less in her man.

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

2010-03-31T18:31:00.003-05:00

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

2010-03-29T10:31:00.008-05:00

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"

2010-03-25T11:15:00.010-05:00

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?!!"

2010-03-16T11:58:00.011-05:00

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"

2010-03-15T07:00:00.004-05:00

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"

2010-03-11T13:15:00.005-06:00

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"

2010-03-06T06:13:00.001-06:00

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"

2010-03-03T10:15:00.009-06:00

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"

2010-03-01T06:30:00.018-06:00

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.

"Vacation and Life"

2010-02-25T11:15:00.003-06:00

As I was sitting by the pool, relaxing in the 85 degree warmth of a vacation in Montego Bay, for some reason I was swept up into to contemplating the brevity of life. The Bible tells us that “at BEST “ (my emphasis), "each of us is just a breath” (Psalm 39.5). It says later on (as if to provide some sort of merciful extension to life) that “our life is like the morning fog—it’s here a little while, then” BAM! “it’s gone” (James 4.14). I’d take the “morning fog” situation over just “a breath” but the reality is the same: Life moves mighty doggone fast. I wrestled with this idea of life and time and brevity a little here and there throughout vacation. And as the final day of our mid-winter respite approached, I began to see that vacation, quite clearly, is a lot like life.

One "day one" we arrived into a brand new world: resort life Jamaica! YaY! After trading the amniotic fluid of winter clothing for bathing suits and tank tops, we set out like newborns to discover our new world. Our sensitive bodies were caressed lovingly by the heat of a sun we hadn’t enjoyed fully in months. Our young eyes strained to drink in fresh sights with the same purposefulness that we would later consume food and alcohol. Our fertile minds, stimulated with wonder and fueled by hope, sought to learn our new home with the same gluttonous intensity with which we would later engage in soul quenching sex. On “day one”, we were newborns.

But time flies - and flies fast. Our bright-eyed bushy-tailed curiosity waned with the passage of time and experience. We learned the best buffets at lunch and the finest dishes at the specialty restaurants. We learned what hour the gym opened and where all the washrooms were. We were able to impart knowledge to the new “newborns” (of whom we were envious) by pointing them to ATMs inside and shopping malls outside. We were able to bid fitting farewells to the “aged” (in spite of their jealousy) whose “demise”, if not exaggerated, was greatly lamented. We had “grown up” just “thatfast”. We were “adults” now. Our innocence, if not our exuberance, “vanished like vapor”. Vacation, quite clearly, is a lot like life.

Near the end of vacation we mellowed. And that, quite clearly, is a lot like life. We’d done all that we could but not everything that we desired to. We rode horses. We shopped. We ate. We drank. We looked for real estate. We participated in the kooky poolside entertainment games. And we daringly made love on the balcony beneath a black cushion pierced with a thousand white-headed pins and sliced with a sliver of moon.

On the last day, I just wanted to sit. Time flies fast. Sit and rest – and ponder the monumental moments (two of which will I share in successive posts). And that, quite clearly, is a lot like life. We settled on a spot by the pool – close to the bar. We were the “aged” and jealous ones now: Jealous of the newborn couple walking by, as I watched him give her a gentle spank on the bottom with his flip-flop. Jealous of the lady with the scarlet “sit spot”, deemed, by us, to be much too dark for sunburn. We couldn’t help but wonder if these were the signs of spankos in our midst.

SugarAnne stood. As she walked toward the pool she reached back subconsciously to give the right side of her bottom a scrunchy-faced soothing caress. I figured that THAT must be the universal sign of the spanko. Ah! We had indeed lived a full life.

Vacation was just “a breath”. And yes, we fought the idea of going home. But we also looked forward to it too. Because we knew that our new life awaited us when we fly home.

And that, quite frankly, is a lot like life.

"These Hands"

2010-02-11T03:45:00.004-06:00

We're on the way to Jamaica. Leaving for the airport in a couple of hours. This is our first vacation since we started "this thing we do". I was gonna take this paddle: the "weapon of ass destruction". It is my most used implement. But I became a bit anxious about the loud thwacking sounds it makes. And the loud shrieking sounds SHE makes when it strikes pay dirt. So I decided against it. Then the thought that it might perceived as a "sex toy" at customs was also introduced and that sealed the deal. No implements on this trip - except for "these hands".

Yep, "these hands", just like Barney Fife's, "are registered deadly weapons". I just might reach into your chest and snatch your heart out so fast you'll see the last beat before your lifeless body falls prostrate to the floor.

Watch out Jamaica, I'm packing "these hands" in case I'm forced to defend the honor of my SugarAnne.

"These hands" here are my lifting hands to be used to hold SugarAnne high. A loving look in the gym, a lustful glance at the pool, a showing her off on the ballroom dance floor, a pet on her arm here and there. And a pat on her bottom too. A thousand people will wonder, "He acts like there's no one else here when he's with her. "These hands" will be used quite a bit.

These hands" are my praying hands. As always, I'm also packing these for the trip. These are my thanking hands.

Thanking God for the phoenix bird resurrection effect that "this thing we do" has had on our relationship over the past few months. They are asking hands too. I'll be asking that it would continue and that we would continue to grow.

"With these hands I can offer so much,

With these hands, I can create,

And with these hands, I can offer my love,

I can do beautiful things with these hands!"

I will hold her heart in "these hands".
She's "in good hands" with "these hands".

No implements on this trip. Just "these hands". So I guess I will also have to spank that ass - with just "these hands". The shrieking? I'll just playfully hold her head in the pillow with "these hands" to muffle the sound.

"These hands".

"Up Under Me"

2010-02-10T10:00:00.075-06:00

"Why are you always running 'up under' me?" From the time I was just a toddling sprout to the time I entered high school I was intimately familiar with that phrase. I was the youngest, and by default the weakest, of a home bounding and bustling with all boys. And because of that, and perhaps some mischievous antagonism perpetrated upon the older guys, I was more inclined than they to take refuge at the hip of momma. Momma would reach out with her loving arm, wrap it around my shoulder, pull me in close and in a voice ‘as sweet as the punch’ she’d say, “Why are you always ‘up under’ me?” Ah sweet security!

“Up under” is where I gained the protective custody of the loving arms of momma. It didn’t matter to momma if she had emotional burdens to carry or financial rocks weighing her down. She was a willful participant. Besides, all that stuff was all a part of being momma. And it didn’t matter to me that those loving arms were the arms that whooped my ass on occasion. Because after a time of withdrawal, it wasn’t long before momma found me right back “up under” her seeking refuge, finding security and gaining protective custody. “Up under” momma was where I was most assured of love.

In a wild, weird, origami-like twisting of the universe, time inverted my childhood and I was blessed with as many daughters as momma had sons. And for each, in their own season (seasons now long past), I was able to provide refuge and security – and protective custody after mischief – “up under” me. I knew what they were looking for “up under” me. I, having "worn their shoes", knew just how to provide it. And they knew where they could find it. And to them, it didn’t matter if these loving arms were the arms that brought the rod of correction on occasion. Because after a time of withdrawal, it wasn’t long before I found them back “up under” me seeking love – and all that love requires of me. In those moments I learned all that momma was and all that momma felt. I learned that this was a good place to be.

Over the past week I’ve been reminded of the “up under” phenomenon. There has been a spanking or two (or three or four) in the past week. A quite severe one for giving in to the “butt demon” (yep, she smoked!); a birthday spanking that brought enough whacks for nearly five decades of living; and a maintenance spanking. After, some withdrawal then – “up under”. But most notable and evidentiary of the “up under” phenomenon are the isolated “’mask of false bravado’ 'flash flamings'” I like to administered on the spot, out of the blue and just for fun. The only infraction being absolutely nothing – but love of course. I’ve noticed that these leave SugarAnne swooning like a little schoolgirl and running “up under” me for soul quenching stretches of time.

It used to be that SugarAnne would withdraw when she felt stressed, or troubled, or crappy for some such reason (“can you say PMS? I knew you could"). But I am finding her more and more “up under” me for refuge, security, protective custody and love; love that reassures during difficult moments. And most importantly, I find that I am swept up in the desire to provide just what she needs. In our B.S. (before spanking) days this wasn't always the case. But now, I reach out with my loving arm, wrap it around her shoulder, pull her in close to me. With a voice ‘as sweet as the punch’ I say, “Why are you always running ‘up under’ me?” Ah sweet security! Go figure.

"No Fear of Falling"

2010-02-03T12:00:00.005-06:00

I still find it remarkable that I trust my wife. It’s not her or anything she did – it was me. My ability to trust was once shattered by infidelity in a previous relationship. You can imagine how crushed, how broken hearted, how angry I was when my previous girlfriend told me she had sold herself to her previous boyfriends for fifty dollars a pop! I vowed that I would never let that happen again; vowed that in the future, I would be careful and watchful. I never wanted to know pain like that again. Unfortunately, I carried this "watching" attitude into my early relationship with SugarAnne. Every time she turned around I was giving her the, "Who, What, Where, When and Why?" interrogation.

"Who were you with?" "What were you doing?" "When did you leave there?" "Where did you go then?" "Why didn't you call me?!"

This just frightened the dickens out of the poor girl because her previous boyfriend had been jealous, insecure, possessive and controlling. It turned out that she was as afraid of control as I was of being hurt. Talk about diametrically opposed needs! That's when I realized that I had to stop trying to impose my will on our relationship in this way. I realized that in order to get the love I sought (that we sought) I had to open myself up to the possibility of being hurt. Not easy. But necessary.
Three things helped me accomplish this. The first was communication. We began to talk about our experiences in relationships. We talked about our likes and dislikes; about who we were and what our desires were. We began to talk about our ideas and what the future might look like. Through communication respect, the second thing, developed. I began to appreciate her, admire her, adore her and in many respects be in awe of her. I came to value her thoughts, her ideas and her opinions. As time passed and our experiences unfolded, our relationship grew. All the while trust, the third thing, developed. I began to trust that I could count on her in times of need; that I could count on her to protect my heart; and ultimately, that I could trust the promise that she made to me at the altar nearly 10 years ago: the promise that she will always be there.

Communication, Respect and Trust: when these three are braided together in relationship, like three legs of a stool they rise and connect to a platform of love. A platform on which we both can lean or sit or stand without fear of falling. But take one away? The whole thing will come crumbling down. We have come close to that over the years. Trust has never been broken but we have, in the past, spent more than a season or two limping upon a peg substituting itself for communication. And a lack of communication, as you might imagine, is trained to eat respect until it pukes up your relationship into the pile of statistics in George Gallup's garage. But, I truly believe, those challenges in their previous form, are behind us now.

We continue to lean on this stool because we're confident that it's strong enough to hold us up. We sit on this stool because we have faith that we can rest easy in its strength (although it may be uncomfortable for SugarAnne to sit from time to time). And we stand on this stool like two overjoyed 16 year-olds swept up in a victory celebration because - it is the platform of our love.

On this stool we have no fear of falling.

"Yumm! Bacon!"

2010-01-29T16:00:00.010-06:00

Old habits die hard. Even though it’s become less necessary, just like I did in our B.S. days (before spanking that is), when I get home I still raise up my mental antenna searching for what mood SugarAnne might be in. Searching for how her day may have gone.

On most days (of late) she is bright and airy. Daylight is pouring into the house through unshaded windows and Sugar’s mood is wistful and effervescent. Before my foot falls on the comfort side of the threshold I usually hear her say, “Bby-Maaan!”, in her syncopated “Baby”, hard on the “M” rising to its exclamation point inimitable way. It is a quite “proper” greeting (I think) for a loving husband who toils for the comfort of his wonderful wife. I love these days. The signal is “as clear as a full moon in a cloudless sky.”

On occasion (rare in these “new” days in which she and I live) I might come home and the signal I pick up is dreary and downcast. The shades may not have had the joy of being lifted. The lights may have never been engaged to do battle with the rapidly approaching night. There will be no “proper” greeting on days like these. Tthe air is filled with the suffocating thickness of depression. There is no “Bby-Maaaaan!” candy for my itching ears. And unless she is in view when I walk in, I am compelled to search the house for my sweet bride. I might find her on the sofa in the living room pondering the complexities of life and seasonal affective disorder. Or perhaps in the bedroom curled up fetal, under the covers, fighting one of her historic battles with depression. This is a bad signal. It’s a sign that she is going through a bad hour. And with SugarAnne a bad hour could last for days. Even though these days are few and far between for us now the signal I pick up is as crisp as bacon cooked right.

But some days I have trouble picking up a signal. I have to go into mental oscillating satellite dish mode before I get one. I am just beginning to learn to tune my dial to it. I’m just beginning to learn to decipher it with proficiency. This signal wasn’t there in our B.S. days. But it has pierced the relational airwaves every now and then over the past few months. It’s an interesting signal. One that braids together the effervescent SugarAnne with the contemplating the complexities of life SugarAnne, and then goes out over the relational airwaves in a weird transmission of paradoxical confusion.

I haven’t quite nailed the signal on threshold footfall yet. But as I go through my arrival routine – sorting mail, changing clothes, etc. – the signal becomes stronger and clearer.

“How did you do on your tasks today?” I ask as I scan the area mentally executing a check of the physical checklist I left in the morning.

“Um...uh….er”, she stammers unable to hold eye contact. “Time kinda, um, sorta, uh, just got away from me. And, er, before I knew it, it was, um, too late. So, uh” (pause) “I just 'girled up', she adds sullenly.

I get it now. I can see the moon now, so to speak. SugarAnne did not complete all of her tasks for the day. There’s no confusion on my part. Not anymore. And there’s no illusion on her part. The situation creates a peculiar, loveable, cute little hybrid of a SugarAnne. This adorable little SugarAnne is the “I know I’m gonna get my ass spanked something fierce” SugarAnne.

When I see THAT SugarAnne, I go get my paddle. Cuz I know it's time to fry that bacon.