The Bad Old Days (School Paddling)

Author's Note: Today's entry discusses the paddling of children in a school setting. If this kind of thing upsets you, please find another entry to read. This is not a discussion on whether spanking children is right or wrong. It's simply my own personal recollections of going to school back in the bad old days.

I attended school from 1965 to 1979. It was a simpler time. Children were influenced by television and movies, not the Internet. Mothers still stayed home with their kids (although mine sold Avon to supplement my dad's income). Milk still came in glass bottles and was still delivered by the milkman. And schoolteachers used the paddle to instill order and discipline in their classrooms. There was one teacher and usually about 30 to 35 students per class. The teacher HAD to be in charge or the kids were going to be. And that was a recipe for disaster. The paddle was a reality in every school kid's life back then. No one was exempt. If I had to guess, I would say I was paddled at least a dozen times in grade school and twice in high school. The paddle was the outward symbol of the teacher's authority; like the cane in England or the belt in Scotland. We knew the teachers to avoid because they paddled hard and without apology. We knew the ones who were wimps, who would scold and lecture and then give you three or four "love taps". And we knew the ones who were sick; who got a demented pleasure from paddling a kid and seeing him (or her) cry. These were the sadistic ones whose paddles had holes drilled in them or had friction tape on them. These were the ones you wanted no part of. They got off on fear. I saw and received my share of all kinds of paddlings over the years. Usually, the kid would be ushered into the hallway for punishment. But sometimes, his (or her) sin was so egregious that only a paddling in front of the whole class would answer. I also participated in several instances where the teacher made the decision to paddle the entire class. The first time this happened was when I was in sixth grade. I had the social studies teacher, Mr. Donelly, for home room. He was a 6'6" strapping Irishman who took no nonsense from any kid. I once saw him haul the biggest boy in class out of his desk by his shirt collar like he was lifting a puppy. Anyway, on this particular day,Mr. Donelly was in a foul mood. One of the boys got it into his head to get back at a girl who had rebuffed his invitation to attend the upcoming Coke Party (what we later called Mixers in high school) with him. He got two of his friends to go in on the plot with him. Needless to say, the resulting chaos did nothing to improve our teacher's mood. He took out his paddle and announced that we were all going to get paddled. Only three boys had actually instigated the riot that later ensued in class but we all laughed, adding to the disorder. So we were all going to get it. All of us who had laughed (myself included) were bent over our desks and given two stinging swats, just enough to remind us not to laugh at another person's expense. The girl who was the target of the prank was allowed to witness everyone's punishment without getting anything herself, she being the inured party, after all. But Mr. Donelly, like many teachers before and after him, saved his special venom for the three boys who had been the ringleaders of the whole affair. He marched them to the front of the room, put each boy over his knee in turn and spanked them with his hard right hand until he received a promise of better behavior in the future. Then he made the red-faced (and red-bottomed) boys face the girl and apologize to her. "Now you know how it feels to be humiliated," Mr. Donelly said, short of breath from his exersion's. You can believe that room 6A never had an incident like that one again. At least not that year. The following year, Mr. Addy our Math teacher gave me what probably stands out in my mind as the most vicious paddling I ever received in school. Mr. Addy was a sandy-haired tall and wiry guy who wore what we called John Denver glasses. His favorite show was "Kung Fu" and he took to calling us "Grasshopper" when answering our questions. He was also the coach of the basketball team. I admit he was good at it. He was also a pretty good teacher, but was prone to impatience. He opened each class with the admonition "Close your mouths and open your ears!" The incident I'm about to relate occurred in early October, 1973. I was 12 years old at that time and getting pretty tall. I was still skinny, flat-chested and knock kneed. And I was not good in Math. Everything else I seemed to conquer with no problem but Math (New Math as it was called then) had me stymied. I tried to unravel the mysteries of fractions but to no avail. One day, he handed out a test to us announcing that anyone who didn't pass it would be required to stay after school. Well, I had already stayed after school for him before and all that it entailed was sitting in the gym watching him coach the basketball team. No extra studying going on. I did my best on the test, but missed passing by only two points. Those of us who failed were told in stern tones to report to his class after school. A hand shot up. It was my friend, Julie (the one who had asked all the questions about my friend, Trudy's spanking in one of my previous posts). "What if we don't?" she asked. Mr. Addy, who was light complected, turned red as a blood clot. This was a challenge and he took it as one. "You don't want to find out," he replied. Well, I lived two miles away and the car was at work with my dad so I knew I wasn't going to be walking home. Julie and I both took the bus home that night. We talked on the phone after supper and I asked her what she thought would happen to us. She sighed. "We'll get swats," she said. "Big deal." The next morning, I wore jeans to school. Well, hiphuggers actually (what are referred to as lowriders these days). Julie wore a skirt. That afternoon, when we reported to Math class, we discovered that everyone else had reported to Mr. Addy's detention. We had been the only two who hadn't. He took his paddle from his desk and beckoned us out into the hallway. Tugging at my courage, I went. Julie looked completely unconcerned. She had been paddled by nearly every teacher in the school and none had even been able to draw anything more from her than a deep breath. I admired her courage. When we got to the hallway, I could see that the double doors that led onto the playground were open and he closed them. With a sigh, he turned and faced us. He voiced his disappointment that we had willfully chosen to disregarded his order to stay after school. He asked each of us for an explanation. I replied that I hadn't wanted to walk the two miles home. Julie said she just didn't feel like going. "I'm going to paddle both of you," he said, "as long and as hard as the rules will let me. Open insubordination and rebellion can't and won't be tolerated in my class. I think it's best to nip this in the bud before it goes any further." There was a metal folding chair sitting near the double doors where the hall monitors (eighth graders with the power of life and death over the rest of us) sat between bells. Mr. Addy pulled it next to him and said "You first, Cheryl." I was incredulous. Why did I have to go first? He explained that Julie being there was no surprise. He had expected that. But seeing me there was a disappointment. Because of that, I was going first. He sat down on the folding chair and beckoned me. "Come and lay over my knee" he said. "That's for babies," I argued. "We'll discuss that another time," he said. "Come here and lay over my knee." He had already said he was going to go as hard and as long as the rules would let him. What did I have to lose by resisting? I planted my feet. "No," I said. Let me just say that, after having nearly 40 years to reflect back on my decision, it's one of the few that I truly regret. In those days, teachers had in loco parentis rights. This means that the teacher took the place of the parent while the child was in school. If my father had told me to get over his knee and I had refused, he would have been within his parental rights to put me there himself. And Mr. Addy was also within his rights as my teacher to do the same. "Don't be foolish," he said. "I'm giving you a chance to get through this with your dignity intact." Julie said "Just get it over with." So with as much dignity as I could muster, I went and laid across his knees. They were bony and hurt. I think Julie realized what a poor wardrobe choice she'd made that day. Mr. Addy gave me the absolute limit that day--six swats, all of them hard. But then, as now, I was stoic and took them without too much reaction. Maybe that made him madder? I don't know but when he was done he told me to stand up. My bottom was burning from the little hickory paddle he swung. He motioned Julie forward and she went, acting as unconcerned as possible. He made sure to hold the hem of her skirt down to keep it from riding up. I secretly wished he would hit his hand one time, but it never happened. Julie also got six very hard swats. I'm sure the kids in the classroom were awestruck by the sounds of the swats, which must have sounded like rifle shots. Then we were told to go in and sit down. I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of seeing how hard it was to sit in that wooden desk, but the first time my bottom touched the chair, I winced. No one laughed. They didn't dare. But I learned a valuable lesson that day; one I've never forgotten. The person with the paddle has the power. I never told my parents about the paddling I received. They both would have been furious at me for ditching detention. Thankfully, I didn't get paddled again by Mr. Addy. However, the History teacher, Mr. Gliech, did decide to paddle the whole class one day. It was a very serious matter. Someone had stolen something from his desk and no one would 'fess up. He said "If I paddle everyone I'll be sure to get the person who did it." We each got three swats and there were 33 of us in the class. I could tell he regretted paddling me. I was a good kid and a good student. He knew for sure I hadn't been the one. But having said he would paddle everyone, he had to go through with it.

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 really

a 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.

So that's my story. The story of what it was like to go to school back when teachers ruled their students instead of the other way around. I recall those days with a mixture of fondness and loathing. I recall the teachers who spanked me and the ones who should have. I remember the public punishments of many of the kids I had in various classes. I remember just the threat of a paddling kept a lot of kids in line. The paddle was an ever-present part of school life back then. Some teachers kept theirs in a drawer, while others hung theirs on the wall as a warning. I remember big, strong boys reduced to whimpering crybabies over the knee of my big Irish sixth grade teacher. I remember weighing the pros and cons of breaking a school rule and wondering if the paddling I would receive would be worth the temporary feeling of victory. These are things modern students need not concern themselves over. This is a world long gone and it exists now only in memories and movies.

On The Cane And Being Caned

I will freely admit to anyone who asks me that the cane is my all-time favorite spanking implement. I never refer to the cane as a "toy"; to me, it's the genuine article. The photo above shows three of the eight or ten that I own. The one with the crooked handle is a special favorite. The person wielding a cane knows that they hold a tremendously powerful weapon in their hand. They have a psychological advantage before the first stroke lands. The person bent over for it either looks forward to it with eager anticipation or with such dread that the mouth goes dry and the knees shake. Having been born in America and educated here, my experience with the cane was limited to movies mostly. I say "mostly" because I did have a run-in with a cane as a 14-year-old eighth grader. My homeroom teacher taught Science. He was sadistic sort who, once he found a student's weakness, delighted in exploiting it. My friend, Cindy, blushed easily and he never missed an opportunity to torture her publicly. One day, when I was late for school (having overslept) he removed the doorknob from the door and forced me to stand outside knocking until he came to answer it. I knocked for ten minutes, all the while I could hear him inside giving the lesson to his first class. He was ignoring me. So I began to kick the door solidly and shouting "Let me in!" He came to the door angrily, his face as red as a beet. I went to my desk, where another kid was sitting and got my books for History class. "Just a minute!" he thundered as I headed for the door again. "You're late. What's your excuse?" I told him the truth, that I had overslept. He told me to get going.

Anyway, my run in with the cane came just after we returned from Christmas break. Mr. J. had taken a trip to Australia and the cane was a souvenir of his visit. It was summer in Australia and he rubbed it in that he had enjoyed 15 days of sunshine and warm weather while we had endured a frigid cold December. We were working on balancing equations and Mr. J. had given us an assignment to do some problems, which he now wrote on the blackboard. He was punctilious and a perfectionist--every 14 year olds' nightmare. He took the cane out of the cabinet where he hung his coat and held it out at its full length for us to see. I looked at Cindy and gulped hard. He laid the cane down on his desk next to the dreaded Magic Wand, the well-used wooden yardstick that he used to clear the halls of stragglers. Our classroom was in the gymnasium, which had two levels; the first was the ground floor and then the second floor, which we called the balcony because it resembled one. Anyone incautious enough to be caught bending over the railing of the balcony when Mr. J. was prowling the hall was likely to feel the Magic Wand across their bottom. A bent over bottom was a target too tempting for him to pass on. Kids who stood around outside his classroom between bells were also likely to feel the Magic Wand and hear the words "If you're not in my class, please make a forward motion." Seeing that cane and the Magic Wand side-by-side gave me the willies in a major way. I was a good kid and a good student. I feared physical discipline. He told us the cane was going to get used on anyone who he called up to work a problem on the blackboard who got it wrong because he would assume that they hadn't completed the assigned homework. A couple of my classmates went back to their desks from the blackboard with stinging legs. I was secretly happy that I had decided to wear tights under my dress that day in order to keep my legs warm. Now they would be my only protection against what I saw as an inevitable occurrence. He called me up, holding the chalk out with a smug grin on his face. I immediately recognized that it was something we hadn't covered yet. "Mr. J., we haven't even studied this yet", I protested. "Give it your best shot," he replied as I took the chalk. I did my best, but I got it wrong. He shook his head to tell me I hadn't got it right and made a turning motion with the cane. "Mr. J. this isn't fair," I said. "Bend over," he said, using the cane to point to his desk. What could I do? I bent over and there immediately followed three stinging slaps with the cane to the backs of my thighs. I returned to my desk with my legs smarting and plotting my revenge for this injustice.

As I said, aside from that one incident, my only other experience with the cane came from British films. I saw movies like "Great Expectations" (which featured a cane called Tickler), "David Copperfield" and especially "If..." I saw the latter film when I was in my 20's. For those who haven't seen the film, it's highly regarded as one of the finest films about life in a British boarding school ever made. It was released in 1968 and catapulted its star, Malcom McDowell, to stardom. McDowell played Mick Travis, a young man who returns to school with a mustache. The hierarchy of the school places the "Whips" at the top and the "Scums" at the bottom. The Whips are cane-wielding senior students and the Scums are the juniors who must either obey them or risk the cane. Mick, meanwhile, is determined to be his own man. He and his two cohorts become the scourge of the house. The head of the house is a senior student named Rowntree. He sees the three as a definite threat to the stability of the house. After one of their capers, he decides enough is enough and has them summoned. The three go rather nonchalantly to the office where three or four Whips, Rowntree heading them up, are gathered. He tells them they must surely know why they were summoned and the three profess ignorance. Rowntree explains that it's because the three off them have become a nuisance. It's not any one thing they've done, it's their general attitude. He tells them they're going to be beaten. The other two are smart enough to realize the hot water they're in and dutifully shake their heads when asked if they have anything to say for themselves. But Travis is different. If he's going to be beaten, then he's going to get his money's worth. He tells Rowntree all the reasons he hates him. Without responding to Travis' nasty comments, he tells them to go to the gymnasium, followed by a terse admonishment to wait outside. The trio marches off, still not overly concerned with what awaits them. Rowntree and the other Whips arrive shortly after and summon the first lad, who's name is Wallace. Travis and the other boy listen as the caning gets underway and, hearinf that he only got four strokes, breathe somewhat a sigh of relief. Wallace comes back in and the next boy is called. Now realizing that they are saving him for last, Travis relishes what he thinks will be a battle of wills between the two of them. Wallace drops his trousers so Travis can see his marks. Then the other boy comes in, having taken his four strokes. He rubs his bottom with a grin on his face. Travis almost doesn't wait to be called and in fact, is opening the door and going in as they call him. There is a large bar in the room. He's directed to remove his coat and lay it over the bar. Then he's told to bend over. He does so, spreading out his arms and appearing to make himself quite comfortable. Rowntree takes a run-up and brings the cane forward with all his might, savoring the satisfying swish as it flies through the air and then the sinister crack as it connects with the seat of McDowell's trousers.

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!"

As Travis turns around and faces his tormentor, the look on his face is unmistakable: you may have broken my flesh, but you will never break my spirit".

I remember when I first saw this film how outraged I was by the barbarity of the system; one that gave an elite group of students authority over all the others. It was a system that encouraged abuse of power. There was no Internet in those days but I was able to get my hands on films that weren't being shown on TV because I had worked at the local library once and I was still friends with the guy in the AV department. I'd heard that McDowell took a vicious caning in that scene and I had to see if it was. As someone who has been under the cane (granted, only for play, my run in with Mr. J. aside) I know the damage it can do in the wrong hands. I have been caned before where blood was drawn (though not purposely) and also had them break on me. I've been given upwards of 80 strokes and had to call it a night because of the damage. Those of us who love the cane love it for just that reason. The cane isn't for the squeamish. I still remember the fear and trepidation I felt the first time I was caned. I wanted to experience it. I got six strokes, only two of them were hard. But they were hard enough to put a lump in my throat the size of an onion and make me squeeze back tears.

Do I love the cane? You bet I do. It has a long and elegant history and a well-deserved reputation. The cane has been THE symbol of parochial discipline for 200 years. Ask almost any British rock star or professional athlete over 40 and they probably have a cane story.

So the cane will always have a place in my toybag. And Malcolm McDowell is always have my awe and respect for the thrashing he took (padded though he probably was).

Happy Songs...Happy Memories

I can just about guarantee you that tonight's entry has almost nothing to do with spanking. Every once in a while, I have a vanilla thought (though not very often). A few days ago, someone started a thread on one of the Fetlife groups I belong to asking about songs that make people happy. I had to think about it before I answered because I know that I'm a dinosaur with absolutely no knowledge about what's out now. People were mentioning songs I never heard of by bands I never heard of. So I mentioned that I always get a smile on my face when I hear "Cecilia" by Simon And Garfunkel. Of course, thinking of the song made me want to hear it and, of course, I don't have it so I Googled it hoping someone would have downloaded it on YouTube and, happily, someone did. I had a friend named Cecilia back when I was a kid and we used to sing this song to her to embarrass her. It never failed to do the trick (oh, kids can be so mean). I liked going to her house because her parents ran the snack bar at a local bowling alley and they always had pizza and snack bar food there. But her dad was very strict. I can remember him yelling at us for waking him up (he was lying in the hammock and I guess we were making a little too much noise). Funny how kids can do that.


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.

Happy Accident

As someone who doesn't drive, I spend my share of time in cabs. When the weather warms up, I will be back to walking (that is, if I haven't been able to get my car up and running), but for now, cabs are a reality for me.

Tonight, I had a very fortuitous experience in a cab. I had to stay late at work. Anyone who works in retail or has worked in retail or is familiar with the strange ways of retail knows that January means inventory time. When my boss came to me and asked me if I would stay an hour late, I knew it would mean missing a ride with the person that I carpool with and having to call a cab. I was a little bit miffed because one girl had been allowed to leave early. If they can send cashiers home early, how come I had to stay over? I was working on the customer service desk (and had been there since 8:30 that morning) and I just wanted to get home before my mouth got me in trouble. My boss was afraid we were going to get busy and the other girl 0n the desk hated being up there. I don't mind staying late if there's a real reason but I didn't want to babysit someone who didn't want to work. Anyway, I called my cab in advance of the time I was getting off and he said that he would be there on time. This is a man who I have known for years. He has driven cabs all over this area for a long time. Because of how long I've known him, I feel a bit freer to talk to him about subjects that are a bit "touchy". He was talking about quitting smoking and, knowing that I had successfully kicked the habit, he asked me what methods I'd tried. I told him about all the ways I tried. I mentioned that I'd had a disciplinarian for a short time. Now I expected him to ask me what all that entailed. All he asked was "Did you have a safeword?" This threw me somewhat for a loop. He told me that he had been looking online at BDSM groups. All of his experience so far has been online, nothing real time. But he was thrilled to find a real person he could talk to about spanking. And it was even better that it was someone he allready knew well.

I made the offer to him that if he ever wanted to spank a woman in real time, I was available. He said he never had me pegged as a spanko. But then, neither had I pegged him for one. Funny how small the world is. I will keep you updated on how this works out. I just consider this one of those happy accidents that sometimes happen in life. Since he has spent a lot of years looking at spanking-related material online I have to believe that this is more than a passing fancy for him. He's an attractive guy about ten years younger than me (aren't they all now it seems?). We'll see what happens.

Adios, 2011

Don't get me wrong about this. The year had some good moments. There just weren't enough of them to make me look back too fondly on the year. It was leaps above 2010, but still could've been better.

Maybe the fact that New Year's Eve is my birthday makes me feel that the end of the year is a bit more emotional than it might be for the average person (whose birthday isn't New Year's Eve). I still miss my twin and am missing her today. I guess nothing will ever change that. I got a great spanking today from a man I consider a friend. I've known him for years. The day could have been a complete wash otherwise.

Whatever you, my readers, are hoping for, I wish you a New Year filled with health, prosperity, and the joy of friends and family.

It's time to turn the page.

"How Would You Like It If I Spanked You?"

The wonderful question that comprises the title of tonight's entry was spoken in a movie. It wasn't spoken by Cary Grant or James Cagney or Gregory Peck or any of the classic actors who made films back in the days when spanking was more common. No, it was spoken by an English actor named Clive Owen in a 2007 film called "Shoot 'Em Up".
I had seen a few of his films and knew of his reputation. I even knew that "Shoot "Em Up" had a spanking scene. The best thing about this particular spanking scene is that it was done in a completely vanilla context. There was no real hint of kink about it (except that the actress he spanks was reportedly very excited about the prospect of being spanked by Mr. Owen).
The movie centers around a man named Smith who must care for a newborn after its mother is killed. But this is no "The Pacifier" or "Daddy Daycare". This is an unbelievably violent film. In fact, it's so violent that it borders on camp. And, spanking aside, the kinkiest moments in the film involve breast feeding and the use of vegetables as a murder weapon. The spanking scene is almost a throwaway, but very well done. Smith is at a museum and comes upon a mother--one of those professional soccer moms, no doubt--threatening to spank her whining little boy. She's on her knees in front of him, in order to make eye contact, and shakes him a few times. She tells him "If you don't behave, I'm going to spank you!". Before the kid can do anything, she gives him a few age appropriate swats on the butt, still on her knees in front of him. Apparently, this little scenario serves twin purposes for Smith. First of all, he hates parents who hit their kids and second, he needs to create a quick diversion. Smith stomps over to her and grabs her wrist. Then he hauls her to her feet, telling her he hates parents who hit their kids. She tells him "Let go of my arm! I will discipline my son the way I see fit!". He tells her "How would you like it if I spanked you?" Now, to a spanko like me, my first response to Mr. Owen's query would be "I would love it" or maybe, in a brattier moment, "Is this a trick question?" But the lady in the museum is indignant. Before she can respond to his question, he brings his arm back and smacks her on the backside, pretty smartly, too I might add. He taunts her as he continues the spanking, saying "Yeah, it doesn't feel so good now, does it?" All the while, the woman goes hysterical, screaming "Help! Help!" while her son gets a good laugh at her expense. Finally alerted by the woman's screams for help, a security guard comes over and asks Smith what he thinks he's doing. His answer comes in the form of a hard fist to the face.
All in all, a very cute scene. And not bad for a modern film. I will not begin a discourse on whether or not spanking children is good or bad. I will save that for another entry. I would also question whether spanking a total stranger in public (and in front of her child to boot) is advisable. But the film is total fantasy and so the characters are all free to indulge in behavior that would get us in the real world arrested.
The spanking the mother gives her little boy isn't exactly earth shattering. It looks like the kind of public discipline people in my generation got all the time; a few quick swats over clothes followed by a firm promise of more and worse when the scene moved home. It happened all the time in church, in restaurants and, especially, in the grocery store. I guess a museum isn't that far fetched. The boy is whining because he wants to go home. To me, the most amazing part of the spanking scene is how fast this kid goes from heartfelt sobbing to laughing his ass off. Mom got it a lot worse than he did and he's pretty happy about that. There is a scene earlier in the film where someone cuts Smith off in traffic and he totals the guy's car for him. So we're led to believe this character is pretty much a hothead. Grabbing a woman he's never seen before and spanking her is just another day at the office for this guy. And not the most violent act he'll commit in this film by a long shot.
For a spanko, the brief spanking scene might or not be worth sitting through the whole film (with its buckets of blood and gore) for. My only real disappointment with the scene is that Smith didn't have the time or the inclination to put the woman across his knee first and make her humiliation complete. That would have made the scene a Class A spanking scene in my book. And Mr. Owen looks like he knows how spank a woman's bum, too, always a plus.

Playing Ketchup

So...where to begin? For one whole year, I allowed myself to be denied access to my computer and, hence, my blog, my groups, my photos and everything else that connects me to my kinky way of life. Up until three months ago, I had been out of work for almost a year and a half. I had no money and was basically at the mercy of the those I lived with. Needless to say, for someone with my personality, this was an intolerable situation and one that couldn't go on indefinitely. Once I got a job, I began to vaguely think about getting my old computer out of the crawlspace and firing it up. Then, however, a nagging feeling started to creep in. How about just buying a laptop and joining the rest of the world in the 21st century? I began to squirrel away money whenever I could. This past Saturday, I put my plan into action. I went and bought a shiny new laptop. I didn't go top-of-the-line, but I went with the features I felt I needed. Once I got the thing home, I began to read all of the unnecessary warnings (Do not drive nails into the battery pack. This could result in serious injury!) and waited for my brother-in-law to enter the password so I could get online. This guy is a piece of work. He didn't want me to get online in the first place. It was alright for him and everyone else in the house to have a computer, but not me. As soon as I got in the driveway with my shiny new possession, he left. He knew I needed him for the password. Great. Well, at least I could play solitaire and watch DVD's. However, I didn't get this thing so I could watch movies, nice though it is to be able to do that. When he came home, I asked him if he would please enter the password for me and he said "I wouldn't worry about it." What does THAT mean? If he had no intention of putting the password in for me, why did he let me spend two weeks' pay? I did indeed watch a movie ("The Conspirator", which I had purchased months before but had never been able to watch because I wasn't allowed to hook up my DVD player either) and then my brother-in-law said he wanted to look at my computer when I was done with my movie. When I took it in to him, he said he didn't know if he could put the password in. Fine, whatever. At least try. It took all of ten seconds to get the password entered and, voila, here I am online. I think he realized that he couldn't keep me offline anymore.

The first place I went to was Fetlife, where I soon realized that the job of getting caught up was going to be more than I could handle. I left a note letting my Fetlife friends know that I was back online. Of course, they were happy to see that I was back (and not just for a day or so). Something I wasn't expecting happened though. This sad feeling crept into me that things had changed a bit while I was away. My friends had gotten used to not seeing me online anymore. Sure, I could call them when I really needed to talk. But it's like new friendships got made and with people who weren't at the mercy of their family where Internet access was concerned. Now don't get me wrong here. I'm not the kind of person who feels like, if you're friends with me, then you can't be friends with anyone else. It was just a sort of fleeting unhappiness. It was the realization that my nice, shiny new laptop wasn't going to make me happy. It was going to be seeing my friends online again, joining in the merriment and the lighthearted banter that made it so much fun for me in the first place. THAT was where the happiness was going to come from.

I'm still not finished playing ketchup, but I'm getting there.

My blog isn't going to be ignored anymore either. I'm going to post here as often as I have something to say. It really saddens me that I didn't have my laptop after the CM party so I could have posted a report. I had a great time. My Cardinals won the World Series (and I was in Chicago...oh, to sock it to those Cub fans again was sweet!) and I celebrated by getting spanked by a couple of gentlemen who did a more than adequate job of blistering my bottom until it was Cardinal red.

So get used to seeing your intrepid writer back here a lot more often. I feel awful to have been away for so long.