Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
The caning scene in the film, brutal as it is, is just one in a long line of humiliations McDowell suffers in "If..." Earlier in the film, McDowell and his cohorts, Knightley and Wallace, are seen being forced to take cold showers, presumably to curb their "impure thoughts".
I'm posting this picture to tweak the noses of my would-be detractors and also because, let's face it, Malcolm McDowell had a very nice bottom. One writer pointed out to me that "If..." had an X rating when it first came out, a fact I was well aware of. But it wouldn't be X-rated now, not even in England.
Another writer was in a snit because I posted that I thought my art teacher was a pervert. He asked me what right I had to call someone else a pervert when I post pictures of my naked bottom on Fetlife. OK, that's a fair enough question. But it was one I didn't want to get into. I was naive about such things in those days, but I did feel he wanted to make an abject example out of me simply because doing so would give him a thrill. In that, I may have been inappropriate. But I stand by the rest of it. What I post on my blog--whether it be words or images, is my business. Anyone who doesn't like what I post is free to pass me over and read something else. If you are offended because I occasionally discuss M/M scenes, then don't read my blog. Because I'm a female bottom, 97% of what I post will be about females being spanked. Occasionally, though, I do like to discuss males being spanked. No one bats an eye when the Internet is crawling with F/F material, which really doesn't do anything for me (even though I do play with women). Had I any idea what kind of backlash I would get from these posts, I might not have posted them. I realize that discussing childhood spanking and seeing images of M/M spanking aren't every one's cup of tea. Normally, they aren't mine either. But my posts are meant to be for nostalgic purposes only. Never once did I say I think we need a return to those days (a personal opinion I will keep to myself for now) nor do I use my blog as a soapbox to make the Internet world aware of my views. That's not the purpose of my blog. As the header of this blog states, I'm not a fiction writer. I write about my true life experiences and thoughts. Sometimes, I wonder if all the corporal punishment I received and witnessed as a child had anything to do with the fact that I've had a fascination with it all my life. These are just musings, meant to entertain the reader while I try to sort out why I'm the way I am. If pedophiles are reading this blog then they are barking up the wrong tree. I'm sorry a few people got their panties in a bunch over my writing. I guess being lambasted is better than being ignored.
Let me just close by saying that I have a very high moral standard. I would never write something or post a photo I thought was inappropriate. I think I have pretty good judgment and try to exercise it whenever a time comes when I need to. In the meantime, feel free to work yourselves into a lather. It's obvious you have nothing better to do.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
When I got into high school in 1975, I thought I had left the threat of a paddling behind me. It seemed pretty absurd to paddle a high school kid, after all. The kid in the photo is Leonardo Di Caprio suffering the indignity of Catholic school discipline in the 1995 film "The Basketball Diaries". Since I'm not reallya fan of his, seeing him in this position doesn't make me feel sorry for him. The paddling, however, is one of the most unmerciful paddlings I've witnessed onscreen. The priest just rears back and fires away at the upturned bottom of Mr. Di Caprio. When the bell rings, he says with a grin that it was a shame because he was just beginning to enjoy himself. The priest replies "We can do it again tomorrow if you like, Mr. Carroll". Catholic schools weren't the only place where discipline was tough. The high school I went to had a reputation at the time for its excellent academic record. It also boasted a pretty good basketball and football team. My freshman year, because I knew (or thought) I couldn't be paddled, I started to rebel in ways I hadn't before. I amassed a large collection of "pink admits" (unexcused absences) mostly for gypping class. I would go to lunch with my friends and then we just wouldn't go back. One day, in first hour, a page from the Dean of Women's office came in with a call slip (a summons to go to the office). She handed it first to my teacher, Mr. Genge, who then removed his glasses and said "Miss G, it seems you're wanted by the dean." He handed the call slip to me and I saw that the box "immediately" was marked, meaning I had to go right now. I took my purse and my books because presumably I was going to miss the remainder of Mr. Genge's highly entertaining Ancient History class. When I got to the office of Miss Cooper, the dean, I saw that my guidance counselor, Mr. England, was there, too. This puzzled me. "Shut the door, Miss G," Miss Cooper said. "Do you know why I called you in today?" she asked. I shrugged. "Probably because of the pink admits," I replied. "That's right," she replied. "Do you have any idea how many you have?" "A lot?" I guessed. She consulted the folder in front of her. "According to the records, you have 13. An unlucky number for you, it turns out." Then Mr. England did the talking. "Cheryl, you were a good student in middle school. This change is perplexing. I think you might be hanging out with the wrong kids. But we feel you're not a bad kid. You're just easily led. So Miss Cooper and I decided to put our heads together to see if we could come up with something that will block the dam before it bursts. Now I know a certain amount of rebellion is to be expected at this stage in a young person's life. But you aren't a bad kid, as I said. But I feel you're being influenced by bad kids. So I've decided to give you a paddling today to get you, hopefully, back on the right track." My jaw dropped. "I didn't think you paddled kids here," I said. "Ordinarily, we don't," Miss Cooper replied. "We only paddle kids when we think it will be effective." "I'm too old," I said. "Probably," Miss Cooper said. "Mr. England, will you do the honors, please?" "You mean I don't have any say?" I asked. "You don't have to call my parents or anything?" Mr. England shook his head. "Miss Cooper will stay in the room and act as a witness," he said. "I want you to turn around and bend over." Having no choice, I did. I heard the desk drawer open and heard the paddle being extracted. Mr. England, who I always pegged as a nerd and a joke gave me four swats that day while the lesbian Miss Cooper watched. She probably enjoyed looking at my ass while I was bent over. When he was done, he sternly told me to stand up. "I hope you learned something here today," he said. "I better never have to do this again. I hate doing it." The bell rang and I grabbed my books and hustled off to my next class. As awful as that paddling was, my second one, received a year later, was head and shoulders above it in terms of humiliation. As a sophomore, I was buckling down better and getting good grades, but my mouth and my attitude towards authority were sources of chagrin for my teachers. I especially enjoyed engaging in verbal duels with Mr. Hagen, my art teacher. I would guess in 1976 (the year I had him) he was probably in his mid-thirties. His room was located in a part of the building called the annex, a long corridor that linked the old original building with an addition that had been added in the 60's. My locker was all the way up on the third floor of the old building and I was more than halfway to class when I realized that it was Friday Sketch day and I had forgotten to grab my pencils. So it meant going all the way back to my locker to get them. I didn't want to risk showing up to class on time but unprepared. Better to be late and have my supplies with me. By the time I fought the stream of humanity all going the opposite direction from me, I was more than ten minutes late. When I got to class, the door was open and Mr. Hagen had his back to it. A golden opportunity to slide into my desk unnoticed. "Too late, Cheryl," he said without turning around, "I already marked you absent." "I'm here," I said. "You're late," he said turning to face me. "And what's more, you waited until my back was turned to sneak in." "I did not!" I said vehemently. "Your back just happened to be turned." We argued back and forth for a few minutes, my classmates enjoying it immensely, until Mr. Hagen tired of the game. He told me that I could do one of two things as a punishment for being late. I could either clean out his sink or take a paddling in front of the class. Now you might think this would be an easy choice, clean the sink, right? But you haven't seen the sink in Frank Hagen's room. It was an absolute nightmare. We made bets on whether something was living in the drain. It was full of clay and oil stained rags and brushes. And it was smeared with paint. I think there were maggots in there, too. No way was I going anywhere near that sink. He stood there with his arms folded and his mustache twitching. "Make up your mind," he said. "I'll take the paddling," I said in a barely audible whisper. Now I always thought Mr. Hagen was a pervert. But I thought I saw a hint of a smile cross his mustachioed lips when he heard that I would take a paddling. I'm almost certain that's what he was hoping I would say. Now I was not the prettiest girl in that class, but I was far from the ugliest. Of course, I was young, firm and nubile. I was beginning to realize my athletic skills, too. He went to his office (which was next door to the kiln on the other side of the hallway) and returned with a mean looking paddle. I took it to be a fraternity paddle because there were Greek letters on it. There was a table in room where he kept paint jars and extra canvases. He pointed to it. "Bend over," he said. I could feel the eyes of every kid in that class on my back as I bent over the table. This still reigns in my memory as one of the most humiliating moments of my life. He told me if he had his way, he would give me ten swats (presumably one for every minute I was late) but admitted he would lose his job if he did. So he told me he would give me five, but they would be hard. Yeah, right. Let me be the judge of that. It was my first taste of a frat paddle over tight jeans. I love the feeling now. But back then, it was horrible. I heard some students snicker as the paddle connected the first time and I let out a little yelp. His delivery was slow and deliberate, as if he was drawing it out as long as possible. When it was over, he told me to stand up. As I did, every bone in my body ached and it took a lot of effort to keep from crying. "Take your seat," he said. That was my last school paddling. Here's the kinky part. I had a date that night (it was Friday, after all) and I told the boy I went out with that I had been paddled that afternoon. The boy asked if I had any bruises. A couple, I admitted. He asked to see and I took my jeans down and showed him. He was impressed with what I had taken. That guy is a top now. I have chatted with him a few times but he isn't interested in playing with me.
Thursday, January 26, 2012
I sincerely hope that he wore some sort of padding for this scene because, twenty-five or not, this had to be painful. Biographies of McDowell tell of how he was either caned or slippered every Monday at his school because he was so wayward and his familiarity with "assuming the position" shows. After taking four incredibly hard strokes with hardly a whimper, he stands up and picks up his jacket. But no, he's told they aren't done with him yet. He now knows he's going to be made a severe example of. The Chinese have a saying: "The nail that sticks out must be hammered down." Not only will he get more strokes than his cohorts, but the entire house is congregated so they can hear the punishment he receives. He puts his coat back over the bar, then nestles himself back in position for the rest of it. In all, he receives ten strokes. When the tenth stroke is delivered, he tells Travis to get up. He stands and we see him from behind, gathering his dignity and standing erect. But when he turns back around, his boyish blue eyes are wet and his face is tear streaked. A look of defiance is still there. He can hardly be blamed for the homicidal fantasies he nurses throughout the remainder of the film. Like Leonardo Di Caprio would do in "The Basketball Diaries", Mick dreams of shooting up the school. Di Caprio's character, Jim Carroll, tells the priest who paddles him (making him assume a humiliating position on all fours) that "in the next life, I'm gonna have the paddle!"
Monday, January 23, 2012
Anyway, listening to "Cecilia" made me think of other music that I love because it puts a smile on my face. One of those songs is "Little Black Egg" by a group called The Nightcrawlers. They were a Daytona Beach, FLA garage band back in the 60's. The song was released sometime in 1967. We had a 15 year old neighbor girl back then who played this record incessantly. Either she would have her little record player out on the patio or she would be playing it on her room full blast. Since our rooms faced each other, I heard it a lot.
I remember a few of my friends with older brothers who had garage bands and "Little Black Egg" was always on the play list. It has a chimy, jangly almost hypnotic guitar signature, strange lyrics that have never been fully understood (but a lot of people have tried) and the nasal, southern drawl of the lead singer. Also, I have no proof, but his may be the only rock record to feature the quaint southern phrase "gol durn".When I did a Google search of this record, I was surprised to see that it had not only been covered a number of times on vinyl but that it also enjoys current popularity with modern garage and bar bands. The Cars recorded a demo of he song for their "Shake It Up" LP back in 1981 but for some reason, it was left off. It did appear on their mid-90's "Anthology" collection though. The Lemonheads also did a nice version, but they chose to slow the tempo. The Rattlers also did a nice cover on their LP "Rattled" (which features a somewhat disturbing photo of a man with a detonator where his head should be).
And just to add a little spanking to the mix, I recall one of my friends whose brother had a garage band, tormenting them during practice one day until the drummer (the guy who delivered our evening newspaper) got off his drum stool and spanked her bottom until you could see how red it was. I just sat there stunned. I remember this event to this very day because, while he was still spanking his band mate's sister, he turned to me and said "Do you wanna be next?" I shook my head emphatically, though I nursed a healthy crush on him for the rest of the summer. I may have been nine or ten at the time. Hearing this song, either by the original group or as a cover, never fails to make me smile with wonderfully happy memories of listening to my friend's brother and his garage band, of the cute drummer spanking her and of how much I loved music even then.
Fast forward about 25 years. In my early 30's, I was listening mostly to country music because rock and roll had lost a lot of its charm for me. In late 1993 (a year that goes down as one of the worst in my life because I lost both my parents that year and only a few months apart), a group I'd never heard before released a CD that featured another one of those songs that just never fails to make me smile. The song was called "What A Crying Shame" and the group was, of course, The Mavericks. This song has the same sort of jangly guitar that "Little Black Egg" has, which may be what attracted me to the song at first. Then when I saw the video, I was struck by how much lead singer Raul Malo looked like a guy I dated a few years previously. He had that stern, serious look in the video as my old boyfriend. The lyrics sound slightly scolding and I can even picture my ex-boyfriend saying some of the things that were said in the song.
This guy was another of the many boyfriends I had in my younger years who I couldn't get to spank me. He did come close though. We were arguing about something silly (going to the movies or staying home) and I got sort of belligerent about it. He looked up from the paper (where he was looking at show times) and told me "You're acting just like a silly little girl". I scoffed at him and told him "Yeah, whatever...anyway, you won't do anything about it." He told me "Don't be too sure." Well, this was progress, I thought. There was a chance, no matter how small, that he might do something so I had to go for it. He was all ready in a bad mood because of my childish behavior. I had been the one who wanted to go to the movies and had raised such a stink about it that he had left work early so we could go. Now I said I didn't want to go. I wanted to go out to eat instead. With an exasperated sigh, he tossed the paper aside. "You're asking for it", he said, the expression on his face dead serious. "You bet" I said sticking out my chin. "In about two seconds, I'm gonna turn you over my knee. Is that what you want?" "Yeah, that's what I want", I told him. My candid response shocked him to inaction and he simply sighed again and told me to make up my mind. No, Cheryl did NOT get a spanking that night. However, this same guy DID spank another girl at a club a few nights later. She was drunk and coming on to him. He knew she was underage and shouldn't have been there in the first place. He grabbed her wrist (after she threw a drink at him), sat on a nearby chair and put her across his knee. It was the single hottest thing I ever saw him do. He paddled her little underage butt until she howled and her boyfriend threatened to call the cops. Needless to say, the theatrics cut the night a bit short.
When I hear "What A Crying Shame" I think back to that time, not just when the song was out, but five years previously when my boyfriend so much resembled the guy who sang those scolding lyrics that my breath got taken the first time. I also think of my dad, who died the year the CD came out. "What a crying shame" had been a pet phrase of his. He used it a lot. He usually said it sarcastically.
For me, my love of music predates my love of spanking, but not by much. It's amazing how closely the two are fused in my mind and memory. In my childhood, the radio was always on and someone was always getting a spanking, either me or one of my siblings or one of the neighborhood kids. It happened over 40 years ago, but I can still see that cute drummer in my mind's eye, his blond hair tossing off to the side as he came off his stool and lunged at my friend in one motion. He was young, probably no older than 16 or so, but to me, a mere 9 or 10 year old, he seemed mature and wise. Boy, did he ever spank my friend, Trudy. After the spanking, she ran in the house and told her mother. I remember she came out of the house drying her hands on a blue dishtowel and telling the drummer, who's name was Mike, to never cross that line with her child ever again. She told him "If Trudy needs a spanking, her father will give it to her." I remember her older brother, the guy whose band it was and who played a nice lead guitar, saying "Yeah, sure he will." Later that night, Trudy and my sister, Carol and another friend, Julie were having a sleepover at Julie's house and the spanking was THE topic of conversation. Julie was fascinated by the whole story and asked a lot of questions (some of which seem inappropriate now that I think of it). Maybe seeing that cute blond drummer spank my friend is what really fueled my spanking fantasies all those years? And maybe it's why "Little Black Egg" has haunted me all these years? The boys sure played it well considering the equipment they had. The song is heavier on guitar than it is on drums, but I always watched the drummer. He was so cute. I wish, when he had asked me if I wanted to be next, I had had the gumption to say "Yes". Who knows h0w differently things may have gone had I done that?
It's funny how a song will evoke a feeling, a memory...of garages and drummers and summers spent listening to songs that have gone by the wayside. Maybe this is what happens when you get older? Maybe you really do spend more time looking back than looking forward.