Speak to me of spanking began life as a craigslist post. When in desperation, kitten turns to craigslist. The philosopher had tried to break up with me yet again. In truth, he HAD broken up with me. I merely forestalled the end by offering a summer of silence to give him the peace and freedom from distraction that he felt he needed to get back to work on his dissertation.
I was distraught. I was panicked. I was desolated and angry and frustrated. So I thought I'd fish for someone to amuse me while I waited for the scant chance that we'd put it all back together on Labor Day. And if the unthinkable happened, maybe I'd have someone in the wings waiting to comfort and spank me.
The responses were the usual mix. There are always those who don't read the instructions, who think that all they have to do is call me names, or sound tough, or sound pathetic, or crook their index finger, and I'll come trotting over for a spanking and a fucking. There were those who sounded interesting enough to merit a reply, and a couple of those earned correspondences that ran maybe a couple of weeks or so. Motorcycle Man's response stood out. He seemed to get what it was all about, and he did get to spank and fuck me.
And then there was Scaramouche.
His writing made me stop in my tracks.
How does one talk about it?
How does one describe the thrill of pleasure as the cane whips through the air, a few practice swings before the cruel work begins?
How does one explain the sensation, not anger, but certainly not kindness, that flashes through one's head as flesh is struck and marked?
How does one relate the deep satisfaction felt as tears are dried and sobs are comforted, and the cruelty ends and the kindness begins. . .
One merely acts.
Not just a good reply.
An amazing reply.
Writing that cut like the cane
and soothed like a hand stroking my head.
An insight into a sadist's soul.
I wrote back so fast I didn't have time to think. To listen. To know...
the whistle of the cane through the air
the tension before the burning pain
the gasp, the scream, the moan
swollen tissues, humiliation,
seeping passion in response to cruelty.
i felt it all.
all but the pain
and without the stripes as
a souvenir of joy.
you brought it all back.
(and Scaramouche yet, wielding a cane instead of a sword. very cute indeed. back in college when i was a theatre major, i acted in a costume drama, wearing a dress with a tight bodice, breasts pushed in and up, nearly flowing over the top. it felt amazing. a corset would be lovely, i think...)
my eyes were starting to open, but my vision was still fogged.
and then it started to nag at me.
a hint of recognition.
a fear of what i might have done.
until finally, 28 hours later, i wrote to Scaramouche again:
odd... reading over what you wrote... it reminds me of the man i've lost... might have lost... probably lost... he would have appreciated the name and the e-mail address, i think... and the scene you describe seems so familiar... it makes me sad.
it's a weird game i'm playing, writing to other people because i can't write to the only one i really want. practicing in case i really do have to move on. testing the waters, trying to console myself that at least i can get people to write back to me.
an odd sort of comfort. and it just keeps bringing me back to what i had. and somehow, you wrote as if you had been there with us.
I never heard from Scaramouche again.
Until last night when, in the course of a 48-minute phone call, the philosopher admitted that yes, he was Scaramouche. And he had recognized my style as well.
We just couldn't say goodbye.
It's not really like the old song. He didn't come back and kiss me. But I do have faith in the friendship. I feel as if we are again curled up on the couch with crossword puzzles and tea, in deep perfect companionship. We created something beautiful, and I have full faith that it will last.
And I really should have known from the second sentence.
Because there is no one like him.