Attitude Is Everything

Author's Note: This is somewhat of a rant about something that I need to get off my chest before I attend the big BBW party next weekend. If you don't like rants or if you're offended by someone who calls a spade a spade, then please choose another of my delightful entries.


As the big Boardwalk Badness Weekend (BBW) party approaches, I have found that peoples' attitudes are starting to get to me a little. Fetlife has a BBW group and the threads are in full force, as you would expect with the party being only a few short days away. I've tried to be as active as possible in that group because this is my first BBW and I want people to know that a mature, highly enthusiastic bottom is going to be in attendance. And there's the rub (as the Bard might say). I somehow get the feeling that I'm being ignored. Well, maybe ignored is too strong a word, but I feel decidedly passed over. Here's the problem. Because of where the party is located, there will be a lot of young women attending. And that's great. I've said more than once that the scene has to go on when those of us who are older are no longer physically able to play anymore. These young ladies are all over the threads--bratting, flirting and generally just being pretty young things. And there's nothing wrong with that either. It's just that I get the feeling that their bratting banter gets the attention of the tops in the group far more than my comments about how much I'm going to enjoy meeting everyone does. One of the PYT's will post a bratty comment, followed by "running for the hills" or "getting out of Dodge" and the tops immediately pick up on that. They seem to be drawn to bottoms who show a slight amount of fear, compared to someone like me, who likes to play hard and makes no secret of it. In fact, this observation isn't new. I've noticed it sense I started attending spanking parties ten years ago. It begs the question "Why on earth would I spend all the money on travel and a hotel (not to mention the party fee) and spend six months planning the logistics just so I can run for the hills when actual party time rolls around? I mean, the actual agenda behind attending a play party is to get played with, no? So why play the "Oh no! Anything but a spanking!" game? No one actually believes that people really feel this way. If they did, obviously they wouldn't shell out the money for parties. I think a lot of that lies in the personality and attitudes of the players involved in this little charade. It's been my experience (and I could be way off-base here) that many tops like to think that they're giving the bottom something they don't want (i.e against their will, consensual non-consent, whatever terminology you choose to use). It's a lot like going to the movies. You know that what you're about to see isn't real. But you are able to suspend your disbelief long enough to get caught up in the story the filmmakers are telling. You play right into their hands. You know darn good and well that vampires don't really exist, but the special effects are good enough to fool you for two hours. It's the same with a spanking scene. The bottom acts like she (or he if you roll that way) doesn't want to be spanked. She might try to coral her friends into going down with her (called "getting thrown under the bus" by most brats I know) or getting someone else to take what they have coming. This is a cute and fun game and it's harmless on its face. However, these ladies (or gentlemen if you roll that way) are sending out signals to the tops: I'm a submissive who couldn't possibly come right out and ask for a spanking. Goodness, no. That would ruin the illusion that you are fully in charge and I have no say whatsoever in what's about to happen to me. Someone like me, who either can't or doesn't want to play that game, gets lost in the crowd of PYT's all vying for the attention of tops who need a certain dynamic to feel "in charge". I enjoy the attitude of tops who operate this way: You want me to spank you and I want to spank you because we would both enjoy it so let's run with that. Now, I'm not putting down tops or bottoms who need a certain dynamic in order for the scene to fully work for them. I'm just saying it exists and needs to be acknowledged. All of this is fine and good if you're talking about some kind of relationship. But really, it's a weekend party. Can we not suspend our disbelief for three days and just have fun spanking and being spanked by each other? All of that domly dom I'm-in-charge-and-you'll-d0-what-I-say crap has never worked for me. Sometimes, over the course of my spanking journey, I've thought it might be fun to try a scene like that just to see if I might like it. But then everything in me bristles. "Cheryl, honey, you're not submissive. This would never work for you. You would end up kicking the guy in the balls."

Now I know how this sounds, really I do. It sounds like I'm just another bitter old woman harping on young women or someone with an axe to grind against the whole D/s dynamic. Both of these are untrue. I have no desire to be young again (well, maybe just a little in order to experience the spanking scene as a young woman) and I certainly don't care how two consenting adults choose to conduct themselves. I just feel a bit left out because I don't skip happily along while the other brats are getting out of Dodge or running for the hills. The smell of fake fear in the air just seems to attract some tops like a Starbucks attracts a caffeine junkie. I have met plenty of these types at parties; you know, the kind of dom who swaggers around with an attitude of "I'm wearing my black T-shirt and carrying this braided flogger so all of you bitches need to fear me." Again, I feel the need to reiterate: the entire purpose behind attending a spanking party is to get people to play with you. It's not to see how menacing you can be carrying around your silly flogger or frat paddle or whatever your preferred weapon of choice is that you think is going to strike fear into me. I've also met the kind of dom whose distance travelled to attend a party is in direct proportion to his sense of entitlement. "I came all the way from Tasmania to attend this party so all you bitches strip and kneel." If you think I'm exaggerating, I'm not. When I say I've met the two types I've described, I'm being completely honest, as horrible as those types sound. But sadly, they do exist and I'm afraid that they both will be putting in appearances in Atlantic City next weekend.

This rant really does serve a useful purpose. It just might succeed in getting my head space squared around for the party. Getting this off my chest will more than likely accomplish that feat. I hate it when a party is approaching and my head space is so wrong it threatens to ruin it for me. I'm asking all of you dom types to please PLEASE do me a favor and check your bad ass attitude at the door. Be pleasant and civil and leave your cloaked misogyny at home. You might really have a good time and get more play in. Attitude really is everything. If you think that putting the fear of God into all of us bottom/subs (coz really, they're the same thing, right?) is the way to operate, you're wrong. Sure, I guess there are a certain percentage of ladies (or gentlemen if you roll that way) who like feeling just a  wee bit scared before a spanking. I like that feeling, too on occasion. But I'm talking about biting your nails to the quick and needing to run to the nearest restroom to whoops your cookies kind of scared. In my opinion, there's no place for that at a fun spanking party. If that's how you roll, good luck finding women to play with, matey.

I don't know why I'm feeling this way. Maybe it has something to do with yesterday's post? Maybe I'm feeling like too much woman for some people right now :)

Too Much Woman

Yesterday,  I was supposed to get together with a guy I've been chatting online with for about two years. He lives in southern Illinois and coming to see me would require about a two-hour drive. Ever since I first began chatting with this gentleman I have wanted to get together with him. He looks pretty close to my ideal--tall, stocky and with large hands. But there's a problem. We have made plans to get together five times since we first started chatting and every single time we've made plans, he's cancelled on me. Yesterday was no exception. He messaged me saying that something had come up and he would not be coming to see me. That was the whole body of the message: something came up. No other explanation. Before, I had always been understanding because I know that stuff happens, even at the last minute. My best friend in the scene had a top tell her yesterday that he had been in a car accident. I've gotten that one, too but I think, in her case, it was the truth. Anyway,  I messaged him back asking him what was going on and if there was anything I could do to help. I didn't hear back from him for a few hours, which tells me he either needed time to think up a story to tell me or he had taken the time to work on his courage so he could tell me the real reason he didn't want to meet. I wasn't long in doubt as to which one it was. The message came later last night. He said he was sorry for "leading me on", that I seemed like a nice girl (he called me a girl, despite the fact that I'm five years older than he is) but he just couldn't bring himself to meet me. He said the other times he had thought he could get over his nerves (or whatever they were), but he "chickened out" every time. Despite describing himself as a dom, he told me that women made him nervous. He said "I'm scared you're too much woman for me". So there you have it. A self-described dom telling me that he was afraid of the th0ught that he would not be able to handle me; I was too much woman for him. I drank this in. It took a long while because no one had ever said that to me before. What does "too much woman" even mean?

I went and took a hot bath, thinking of the best way to respond to him. Was the comment a reference to my size? I AM a big girl, after all. I'm 5'9" and weigh 200 pounds so I guess some men might find my size a bit intimidating. And we had spent hours talking about our mutual interest in sports, both watching and playing. He knew I was a big, strong girl. The man I saw on the Fetlife profile didn't exactly look like a Casper Milquetoast-type. He looked like the burly ex-college football player he'd told me he was. I had to shake my head. Surely, he would be able to "handle me", as he put it. Or maybe the comment was more a reference to my attitude? I am not a docile, meek little girl by any means. We had talked on the phone enough times that he knew I had no problem speaking my mind. Maybe that was what he had actually meant about "handling me"? Maybe, verbally, he knew he was no match for me? We had never had an argument, but we had disagreed on a few subjects. Although he said he was a dom, I told him in no uncertain terms (like I have had to do many other times) that I was not a submissive and that, if he thought he was going to order me around, he had better go find someone else to play with. He always made it clear to me that that wasn't going to be a hindrance to our getting together just for play. I have played in the past with doms and even masters and they all seemed to be able to put the role aside and just spank me. One man that I played with was pleasantly surprised he could enjoy spanking me without having sex with me. He had never done that before. So I knew it was possible that that might not be the reason either. Although it did occur to me that he was being dishonest. My next thought was that he was lying about being single. He always maintained that there was no wife or girlfriend in the picture (although always wanting to meet during the week in the daytime always struck me as a bit strange). He came across as educated, industrious and financially comfortable; all things that would attract the opposite sex. He told me he had never been married and, like me, was childless. OK, I thought, maybe he's gay. I thought this for all of ten seconds, knowing how much I hate people jumping to that conclusion about me for the same reason.

When I did respond to his message, after mulling everything over in my mind, I asked him one simple question--"What does "too much woman" mean? I told him I always got the feeling that he wasn't nearly as enthusiastic about meeting me as I was about meeting him. I also told him that I had always sensed that I was being strung along, but always chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. I had him to know that I didn't appreciate being taken for a ride for two years. If he had no intentions of ever getting together with me, why hadn't he just said so from the beginning? Was it a question of him thinking his nerves would be something he would be able to conquer over time? Or did he just enjoy playing women for the fool? I haven't heard back from him yet, but I expect that, if I do, the next message should be a humdinger.

So is there such a thing as "too much woman"? I know there are men who prefer their women to be compliant, obedient Stepford wives. But I mean, even the meekest sparrow fart is still a woman, right? Maybe I have too much personality for a man like this? Maybe that's what he felt? I won't know anything until I hear back from him, if I hear back from him. I have never insulted a man's masculinity by telling him "I'm too much woman for you." I have never felt that I'm too much woman for any man. It seems a preposterous idea to me. One thing's for sure--his response will be telling.

BBW

I can't begin to describe the feelings I'm having as the big Atlantic City party nears. The idea of attending was first put to me by a great scene friend, DrLectr, back at the October Crimson Moon party. I had wanted to attend a party outside of Chicago for a long time, but I had always lacked the confidence and bravery to actually do it. My best friend, Sherri, and my top, Mike are both excited as well. But, for me, there have been pitfalls and roadblocks. The first hurdle to be cleared was the party fee. It was extremely expensive. But good scene friends wanted me there so badly that they volunteered to pay it. This was unimaginable to me. But that's the generosity of this particular gentleman. The second hurdle was my own fear about stepping way out of my comfort zone. Chicago is one thing. I mean, I live in Illinois so Chicago, even though it's a three-hour drive, doesn't feel like it's very far away. Atlantic City is 1500 miles from my town. Even though a lot of people I already know in the scene are going, I'm still worried. Atlantic City is vibrant and sophisticated. I'm a Midwestern girl with very little in common with this gambling mecca. Chicago is one thing, this is something altogether different. So my main fear, after all the hurdles get cleared, is what if I don't have a good time? What if the people attending, most of whom are far more experienced at travelling than I am, find me too boring or not cosmopolitan enough? What if they think I'm too "small town"? These are the kinds of things I'm stressing over as the party draws closer. Getting the time off from my job hasn't been easy either. There are number hoops they make you jump through. The party actually falls on my weekend off  (I get every other weekend off) so asking for the extra days has been the problem. I had vacation time saved up for this party, but back in January I had to use it because I had my appendix out and before my short term disability kicked in, I had to use all of my vacation time. That sucked big time. So now, I'm taking the days off without pay. I'm off work this week due to fracturing two of my ribs while getting spanked on Easter Sunday. I swear, I'm the only person on earth klutzy enough to do that. Now I'm worried that the ribs will effect my play at BBW.

My doctor is confident that the danger of puncturing a rib will pass in a week or so, which is why she wants me to take a week off from work. But what if I can't enjoy all the wonderful play I've waited six months for because my ribs are still hurting? And what about the car ride? How will I tolerate that? Add to that the fact that my doctor doesn't want me doing my usual exercise routine so I'm in danger of gaining weight before the biggest party of my life.

I'm also worried about the weather. I have no idea what to pack because I don't know what the weather will be like. A lot of people simply don't care as their feeling is that they're going to be in a hotel fort he weekend. But the party is concluding with a boat ride on Sunday. It might get a bit nippy on the water, even if he weather is warm. I'm basically stressing about everything right now. The stress is keeping me from getting too excited about the party and enjoying the pre-party planning that I usually enjoy so much.

Many of the people attending have gone to parties together before and know each other well. I don't want to feel like an outsider. There are events planned that you really can only enjoy if you're more of a social butterfly. I'm confident and welcoming at Crimson Moon parties because I've been attending their parties for ten years. Now I'm the new person. I wonder if people will welcome me and if I'll fit right in? I'm not nearly as confident going into this party and that might affect the way I behave towards people. I certainly don't want to appear snobby or standoffish. But being nervous has a way of making act that way. So I'm worried that people will think I'm stuck up.

I've been planning and anticipating this party for six months. I've endured jumping through hoops at work to get the time off, my own insecurities have surfaced and now I have a major injury to deal with. All of this has served to put a damper on what should be a very exciting time. Hopefully, I'll have the time of my life.

Is Spanking Sex?

Author's Note: Today's entry deals with sex. Sometimes, the language will get a bit graphic in nature. If this subject offends you, please don't read any further.



Today on Fetlife, a woman was kicked out of a monogamy  group because she and her husband attend spanking parties and play with other people. The group owner said that the woman didn't fit the criteria for his group and booted her out. She  brought her dilemma to a spanking group and trouble ensued. Then the group owner of the monogamy group came into the spanking group to defend himself and his group, which he felt had been maligned. Now as a group owner myself, I usually don't allow people to come into one of my groups and complain about another one. However, this spanking group is very large and almost all of the spankos I know belong to it. Of course, this guy got his hat handed to him by a bunch of spankos who disagreed completely with him and with his definition of monogamy.

So I got to thinking...is spanking sex in the practical sense of the word? After all, monogamy is by its very nature designed around sex and the belief in being with only one person sexually. I consider myself monogamous because I don't have sex outside of a committed relationship. When I'm not in a relationship, I choose to be celibate. I refrain from actual sex, but that doesn't mean that other sexual activities aren't taking place. I understand that for many, many people spanking is definitely a sexual act. For many others, it's a kind of foreplay that leads directly to sex. But where do people like me fit in? I'm totally aware that spanking has a sexual component to it (you're touching someone's bare bottom, for Pete's sake) but does that make it sex? I know for me I don't get sexual satisfaction from spanking. I can "go there" if I give myself permission, but I rarely do so usually nothing happens. My enjoyment come almost completely from the pain of the spanking. And by "enjoyment" I don't mean I get aroused or anything like that. Not usually, anyway. As I said, if I give myself permission to let that happen, then of course I can get as turned on as the next woman. I'm not frigid, for crying out loud. I happen to enjoy just getting spanked, with no extras. Most of the men who spank me are perfectly OK with this arrangement. So if I were to be in a committed relationship, and we both agreed that it would be acceptable for us to play with others, I would not feel like I was cheating on him. This group leader who came into the spanking group was all over the place talking about what the "dictionary definition of monogamy is". Well, gee, the dictionary talks about married couples. Can I not be monogamous because I'm not married? Is there some other word to describe unmarried women wh0 are only into being with one man sexually? When I allow a man to bare my bottom and spank me, am I having sex with him?

According to the man who runs that Fetlife monogamy group, this is a couple having sex. My panties aren't even down and yet we're supposedly engaging in an act that is only for married couples. And yes, note the man's wedding ring. He's married and no, I'm not his wife. His hands are nowhere close to inappropriate areas. His wife was taking the pictures, standing only a few feet away and she had no problem with anything we were doing.

So is monogamy whatever two people decide it is? Or am I deceiving myself and I'm actually not monogamous because not only do I get spanked by a lot of different men, many of the men who spank me are married to other women. Am I an adulteress? Have I committed adultery because I allow another woman's husband to spank me? Whose standards do I go by? The community at large? The kink community? My church? Who's to say what is right? That man who runs that monogamy group felt he had the right to define what it means for the whole world (even though he vehemently denied it). So according to his definition, I'm a scarlet woman. I'm more modest and chaste than a lot of women I know in the spanking scene. And I'm downright prudish if you ask the BDSM community. But according to that guy and his narrow definition, I'm a whore. Oh well, so be it, I guess. I just know that I'm having fun being who I am and living by the standards I've chosen for myself. I guess ultimately, we all decide for ourselves if spanking is actually sex or not.

Smiling Is A No-No? Who Knew?

Having been active in the spanking scene for ten years now, I've come across all types of people. Usually, I make an effort to understand what drives people to be "into" certain things. This is mostly because I find this kind of thing fascinating. It's the same feeling that draws me to read true crime books. I just have a thing about finding out what makes people tick, whether good or bad. It should be pretty obvious to anyone on Fetlife that my "thing" is spanking, pure and simple. So when I get a message from a stranger asking "Do you enjoy spanking?" I usually reply "Isn't it fairly obvious?" I have almost a thousand photos on my profile, almost all of them showing me either getting spanked or showing my red bottom afterwards. Yeah, I think it's pretty safe for anyone who sees my profile to assume I enjoy spanking. If my photos don't make that fact abundantly clear, then my fetish list should.

Anyway, the other day, a someone new friend, Tracey, surprised me with a visit. He's a rather tall, fairly good looking guy who just happens to love spanking women. He's a left-hander and has pretty large hands so his spankings are always a thrill for me. The other day, he gave me one of the most awesome spankings I've ever had. It's not that it was particularly hard, but it was just so darn fun. We both laughed and laughed, even after the spanking switched gears from his hefty left hand to a silicone bowl scraper that I keep in my toy bag. Tracey doesn't like to be photographed himself, but he does like to take pictures of his handiwork. So when we finished, he took a couple of pictures of me, still laughing and smiling from my spanking. After he left, I downloaded them to my computer and went about the task of editing them so I could post one on my profile. I chose this one:

I thought it was one of the best pics I ever posted and it got quite a bit of notice among my Fetlife friends. Because of the way the activity feed works, it also got noticed by a few others. Later that afternoon, I got three messages in my in box; two from doms and one from a master. All three took exception, to varying degrees, to the above photo (and others on my profile that show me smiling). The first one came from a dom who lived far enough away that the thought of us ever meeting was absurd. He asked "Where do you get off laughing at the One who has been put in authority over you? From the redness on your ass, I have to assume that a lesson was supposed to be learned? And yet, there you are, laughing like it's a joke. What kind of sub are you?" Well, I drank this in and gave it some thought before I answered. I told this guy that I wasn't ANY kind of sub, that my profile says "bottom" and that the man who had spanked me was a friend and not anyone in authority over me. We had just done it for fun and I wanted the photo I posted to relay that feeling, which I thought it did. The next message came from another dom, this one located a bit more closely. "You have a very beautiful ass that reddens nicely. But I notice that in today's pic you're smiling? Is this something your dom allows? Or do you do it to intentionally provoke Him? I think that pics like this, when viewed by other subs, sends a very dangerous message: that it's OK to be defiant and laugh at what looks to have been a pretty serious spanking." So now I not only do it wrong, but I'm dangerous, too? I wrote him back telling him that the man was a friend and I'm not a sub, blah, blah, blah. The last and most sinister message came from a so-called master. "About the photo you posted today...may I ask you a few questions? First of all, why are you dressed? A good slave is always naked when in her Master's use. Also where are the restraints? I can't believe your owner allows you to just assume any position you think is OK. If I were your owner, I would tie you in such a way that you would be fully exposed, then I would gag you with a gag too large for your mouth. Then I would beat you until the blood dripped down your legs. Then I would give you a couple of hours with a Hitachi to see how many times I could make you cum. Then when you're thoroughly humiliated and used up, I would take a pic of you with your tear stained face and post it. You obviously need more training." Wow! My "owner"? What am I? A car? I gave some thought to reporting this guy because his message was clearly threatening. However, when I looked at his profile, I saw that he was a 26-year-old master. My response to him was not nicely worded, I assure you. I told him to read some more books and watch a few more videos before he sends messages off to strange women telling them what he would do to them. I asked where he got his nerve, telling me how I should be doing it. I told him spanking is what I enjoy and I wanted my photos to convey that feeling. Smiling while being spanked is something I have long done. In fact, I've done it since my earliest days in the scene. Here's the first photo ever taken of me smiling while being spanked. It was taken in October, 2003:

So for me, smiling while being spanked has a long and illustrious history. I should say that most of the comments I get regarding these photos is complimentary. But there will always be people out there who take it as a personal affront if you do something differently than they do. They get all indignant at a girl who dares to enjoy it on her own terms and has the temerity to actually post photos of herself enjoying it. The second message I got from that first dom (the one who lives really far away from me) said that, while it's OK to enjoy fun spankings, one should balance the fun with training and learning. I told him that I have been doing it this way for ten years and have never gotten any complaints from the gentlemen (and not a few ladies) who have spanked me. "We just do things differently is all," I told him. I never did hear back from the so-called master.

So here it is for all of you doms and masters out there: this is MY kink. I do it the way that gives ME the most enjoyment. If you take exception to that or lose sleep over the fact that there's a lady out there who has the unmitigated gall to do it on her own terms...GET OVER YOURSELF.

Pretty Panties

I have blogged about panties before, but not for a long time. My opinion hasn't changed though. I still believe that pretty panties that flatter the figure of the woman wearing them, can and do add to the spanking experience. Most men agree with me, but not all. I know a few who don't much care what the woman is wearing and who care even less about panties. But those men seem to be in a minority. Conversely, I know a number of men who are pantie connoisseurs. They can opine at length about cut, fabric and color. I have a vast collection and pride myself on having just about any kind of pantie a person could want. Here's a peek into my collection:

Some like cute panties with something cute, bratty or flirty written on them. I bought these for Valentine's Day. They're basically pink, red and white and say "Flirt" on them in different kinds of print. Most of the tops I know adore these kinds of panties and usually make it a point to say something about them.

I'm getting really into these kinds of panties; retro or vintage-type panties that call to mind earlier times, when women wore underwear to actually cover themselves. A lot of the tops I know dislike this type of pantie because of the fact that most are full cut and remind them of so-called "granny panties". But I love these because of how soft and silky they are.

These are called Brazilian cut panties. They certainly do flatter the curves of us larger women. I don't know any top, male or female, who doesn't love panties like these.

I wore these light pink lace panties for my birthday. I used to not be a fan of lace because of how delicate it was. I used to wear panties like these to spanking parties but quite a few pairs were torn or destroyed by over eager tops. But I'm starting to love lace again.

These lacy green panties are my favorite color. And I love the open side panels. A lot of tops think these kind of panties are sexy, but I know a few who don't care for them. I thought they were adorable.

Whatever kinds of panties a top likes, I try really hard to have the kind they like. It's not because I'm doing what they tell me to do. I'm fulfilling a request and doing what I can to present a nice visual for the top. I want the person spanking me to get the most out of a scene with me. Do I owe it to them? Well, I feel in a way I do. However, I know a few tops that couldn't be less interested. They are only minimally interested in a bottom's outside clothing and even less interested in their panties. They want to get down to business as quickly as possible and view panties as an impediment to that. I'm always a little bit disappointed to play with a new top and discover that he isn't into panties. I  always feel like they're missing something. To me, pretty panties are only one piece of the puzzle. I like to be feminine. I like to look nice and smell nice. I take a lot of time and go to a lot of effort to look "spankable". The panties I wear help set the tone for the whole scene.

Surgery Isn't Sexy

I have been on Fetlife for more than four years and have seen a lot of stuff I never thought I would see. There are fetishes that I've been exposed to that I never thought existed, much less had any interest in trying. But recently, I discovered one that blew the lid off what I thought was acceptable. I'm not talking about fetishes involving children or animals or other unwilling partners. I'm talking about surgery.

Last week, I had four days off from work--my usual weekend and then New Year's Eve and Day. The weekend was my usual weekend off, New Year's Eve was my birthday and New Year's Day the store was closed. I got paid for the latter two days. On Sunday, the day before my birthday, I began to have lower abdominal pain. It felt a lot like menstrual cramps and was different from the usual IBS pain that I sometimes have to deal with. And because of where the pain was located, I knew that my gallbladder wasn't the culprit. But, foolishly and unwisely, I ignored it because I had plans the next day and didn't want to spend my birthday in the hospital. I know this was dangerous and I have been taken to task by both doctors and friends for ignoring what was clearly a danger sign. Remember, I ignored my angina for five days before going to the ER so there's a precedent there. I went through with my plans to be spanked on my birthday by a very good spanko friend. We had a great time and he took some awesome pics, which I posted on my Fetlife profile. I don't look the least bit sick or in distress in them. But by Tuesday night, the pain was becoming hard to ignore. And it wasn't going away. So I swallowed hard and made the trip to the ER, dreading it the whole way. Before I left, I joked to my sister "Watch it be my appendix!" I had had a hysterectomy 20 years ago, but knew I still had my ovaries so my first thought, given that the pain felt like cramps, was that it might be a ruptured ovarian cyst or something. When I got to ER, the chirpy receptionist smiled, despite the obvious expression of distress on my face, and said "Why are the visiting us today?" I was in a hospital, not Disneyland, for crying out loud and I desperately wanted to make some kind of snappy retort to her absurd question. But all I said was "I'm having abdominal pain. I think I better see a doctor." Now given that it was New Year's Day, I expected the ER to be filled to overflowing with a bunch of people with gastroenteritis or severe hangovers or possibly the flu. But it wasn't that busy. I was triaged quickly, where the triage nurse asked me if I'd ever had kidney stones. No, I hadn't, I told him and please don't jinx me.

After I was done in triage, I was sent out to the waiting room to wait my turn. There was the usual sights one sees in the ER--crying babies, people sneezing and coughing all over the place and a few homeless people who didn't want to spend New Year's out in the freezing weather. But I was called quickly and put into an exam room. The nurse again checked my vitals (despite the fact that they had just done that in triage) and asked me a few more pointed questions, such as had I over imbibed the previous day or was I taking any recreational drugs? No, I'm not a wino and I'm not a junkie. I'm a middle aged woman with a gut that hurts. She had me take off my clothes and put on an exam gown. Now I have posed in these on Fetlife before for friends who like that kind of thing and I have never minded doing it. But having to wear one for real is a pain. For starters, they aren't exactly flattering. And they never fit right. But the nurse got me comfortable under a couple of blankets (the kind they heat) and then I waited for the doctor. It was a rather long wait, unfortunately. But she did come in, followed by some young looking interns. She shook my hand and told me she was sorry I was in pain, but they were going to do all they could to find out what was causing it. First, she took a medical history from me; the kind of thing that you would expect from someone who was seeing you for the first time. I told her about procedures I'd had, about past surgeries and medications I'd been on. She asked specific questions about my myocardial infarction and the placement of my stent. She asked if I smoked or drank to excess. Then she had me lie flat and she pressed on my stomach, telling me to let her know if anything was particularly painful. Some of her pressing caused me to wince, but nothing put me on the ceiling. I was happy to have a female doctor though. I think female doctors understand female patients better than male ones do. I'm not saying this because I don't like male doctors. But it just seems like when a woman goes to the ER complaining of some kind of symptoms that are vague, a male doctor will pat the woman's hand and put it down to stress or overwork. In essence, telling a woman "There, there. You have a uterus so therefor you're hysterical. I'll prescribe some Valium for you and you can go home and clean the kitchen." Now, I know I'm generalizing a bit, but it sure seems to me that that's the attitude that male doctors have toward female patients. Anyway, my lady doctor examined me both rectally and vaginally (just with her finger) to see if she could feel any masses or obstructions, but she felt nothing. She told me that, since I have a history of diverticular disease and IBS, she could treat me with antibiotics and assume that that's what was causing the pain. Or she said she could do a CT scan and find out what's really causing it. I know that giving me antibiotics was supposed to be seen as a cost cutting measure, but I really felt that this pain was different than anything I'd experienced before. I asked her what were the chances that this isn't an ovarian cyst? She said that just because she didn't feel anything didn't mean it wasn't there. So I opted to have the CT scan. She seemed relieved that I had been prudent enough not to leave the ER without a definitive diagnosis. Leaving the ER with a differential diagnosis ("Well, it could be this but we're not sure.") is a very bad idea and usually leads to having to go back a second time. I didn't want to do that. As soon as I told her that I wanted to go ahead with the scan, she sent a nurse in (a male) to give me the contrast. It looked like a large bottle of water. He told me I had an hour to drink it. He started an IV and took five vials of blood. Then he asked me if I could give a urine sample. I told him maybe a little and he said that would be good enough, they only needed a little. I thought surely they aren't going to do a pregnancy test, knowing my age and the fact that I'd had a hysterectomy 20 years earlier. But he walked me to the restroom and gave me my instructions for peeing into the cup (like I hadn't done this hundreds of times before). When I was finished, I went back to the room, carefully carrying my pee with me. Then I turned on the TV to see if there was anything on worth watching while I drank my bottle of contrast. I came upon a "Twilight Zone" marathon on ScyFy Channel and settled in to watch it. I didn't realize it at the time, but the bottle of contrast I was now drinking would be my only liquids for quite a few hours. The male nurse came in at intervals to check my progress and to bring me warm blankets. We talked a little about baseball as well as I recall. An hour later, the bottle of contrast emptied, someone came to take me to nuclear medicine, where I would have my CT done. Now I'm old enough to remember well the days before scans like this. I remember the days when, if something couldn't be found on X-ray, then your next option was "exploratory surgery", where the surgeon went in to see what was the problem. I'd had exploratory surgery myself and, as much as I dislike lying still for CT scans, I will take it over being cut open. For people who have never had a CT, it goes like this: you lie on a table at the bottom of which is a large tube. The technician first flushed my IV with saline. He asked me my name and date of birth. Then he asked me if I was allergic to anything. I said no. He went to his little room and spoke to me over a microphone. He asked me to raise my hands over my head and keep them there. Then he moved me into the tube about halfway. I heard the machine whir to life. While I was actually being scanned, I was instructed to hold my breath (by a little picture of a person with a puffed out face on the front of the CT machine). After two separate scans, he withdrew me from the tube and told me over the microphone that he was now injecting the X-ray dye into my IV. I heard a little suction sound and felt the dye going into my vein. For a split second, I imagined that this might be what a felon feels during a lethal injection. Then I felt the sudden sensation of feeling as though I had peed my pants. "Hot crotch" is common when the dye is injected. It's bothersome and somewhat alarming, but it's a normal side effect of the dye. It passes fast though. I felt really hot and somewhat strange, but I was still able to follow the instructions I was being given. Then he took two more scans, after the X-ray dye was injected. Then the radiologist came out of his little room and helped me get back in my bed and helped me get comfortable. Then someone else wheeled me back to the exam room. The male nurse that had given me the bottle of contrast asked me if I needed anything. I told him I needed to use the bathroom again and he helped me to the bathroom. I asked him if I could have something to drink but he shook his head. No, because the doctor might want to order some more tests and so I couldn't have anything by mouth. An IV would keep me hydrated, but that didn't do anything for how dry my mouth and throat were getting.

When I was once again settled, I turned my attention back to the "Twilight Zone" marathon, which was still going on. After no more than ten minutes, the attending physician came in, holding a copy of my CT scan. I was scared by the expression on his face. Oh Lord, what if they found a tumor or something? How would I deal with it? He spoke quickly enough though.
"It's definitely your appendix," he told me. "You're having surgery in the morning, young lady."
I found it more than a bit odd that he called me "young lady" when he was younger than I was. Perhaps he knew that I was about to give him an argument about it? Which is exactly what I did. I asked him if I could just get some antibiotic to get  rid of whatever was causing the appendicitis. But he shook his head, telling me that my appendix looked pretty large on the CT and that I had probably only been a day or two from having a perforated appendix, which is far more serious. Great, I thought. And then my second thought was to rejoice and thank God that it was something that could be easily fixed. And I was ashamed that thanking God wasn't my first thought. My first thought had been to argue with the doctor. I asked him when my surgery would be. He told me that they had no room for me on the OR schedule that night but that it would be first thing in the morning. Then he left and the lady doctor came back in. She took my hand and said "I know you're stunned by the news that you'll be needing surgery, but this is good news. Both of your ovaries look OK. Even your diverticuli don't look to be causing trouble. I think the other times, when you thought it was IBS, it was your appendix. Your a very lucky lady tonight."
She gave me some antibiotics through my IV, which I was told was standard procedure for someone who can't have surgery right away for appendicitis. She told me that, as soon as they could get a room ready for me, I would be admitted to the surgical floor so I could be monitored until I could get on the OR schedule. She again patted my hand and said "You're going to be OK, honey." She said she would have the nurse come in and see if there was anything else I needed. She smiled reassuringly at me and left. When the nurse came back in, I told him that I needed to call my family and let them know that I was going to be admitted. He handed me the phone and told me how to use it, after first getting my promise that I was calling a local number. I called my older sister and told her what had happened. She's one of these people who believe that anyone goes to a hospital is a hypochondriac. That every medical malady can be avoided by just ignoring it. But I ignored my pain for two full days and it wasn't going away. I told her that the doctor had told me I had missed a perforated appendix by only a day or two. She clucked and said doctors were scammers. I found this strange considering she works in a hospital. But whatever. I needed her to call my boss that morning and tell them that I wouldn't be in to work that day. Just a few minutes later, someone came to take me to my room. It was shift change when I got upstairs to my room and the night shift nurse was just getting ready to leave. But she took my vitals, weighed me (in the bed) and asked me if I needed anything for pain. Yes, I did. I hadn't really needed anything before because my pain was serving a purpose. But now that I had gotten a diagnosis, I didn't need the pain anymore. So she called the doctor on call and got an order for some pain meds. All in all, I don't find hospitals to be good places to sleep. There's far too much activity going on. The nurse came back in and gave me some fentynal for my pain. Then she advised me to "get some sleep". I was worried though. What if my appendix ruptured before they could get me into surgery? They were giving me antibiotics through my IV, but for some reason, I didn't think it was strong enough. I'm sure it was my fear, doubt and insecurities talking.

I did manage to sleep some during the night. The nurse kept coming in and checking on me, changing over my saline IV bag when it became empty. But I was told I couldn't have anything, even ice chips, since they were planning on my surgery for first thing in the morning. While I readily confess that I had doubts and fears, I had no time to be afraid of the actual surgery. It all happened way too fast for that. Appendectomies are always considered emergencies, I learned and, unknown to me, things on the OR schedule were moved around so that I could have my surgery as early as possible. One thing I know from previous stays in hospitals is that doctors do their rounds early in the morning. An older man I  took to be the doctor who would do my surgery came in and saw me. He smiled warmly and asked me how I'd spent the night. I admitted that I was concerned about getting my appendix out before it burst and he nodded knowingly. He assured me that a lot of other people were worried about that, too and that everything was being done to make sure I got priority over non-emergency cases. He told me that everyone who saw my CT scan agreed that my appendix HAD to come out and the sooner the better. He said that my appendix looked pretty enlarged on the scan and he said it must have been painful. I shrugged. I'm not a wimp when it comes to pain. I'm pretty stoic actually. My main concern right now was getting the most painful part, the actual surgery, over with. He smiled again, a smile so warm and genuine that I instantly felt safe and secure, and assured me that all would be well. He would come back when they had found a place on the schedule for me. He noticed that I was watching cooking shows on TV to make up for the fact I couldn't eat anything. He said that a lot of people do that and laughed a bit. But it wasn't malicious, just something that gave him a smile. I felt so relieved that such a nice, warm caring man would be doing my surgery. About an hour later, another doctor, this one a young woman surgeon, came in and gave me the news that she would be doing my surgery. I was disappointed because I liked that man with the warm, caring smile. However, I felt that as a beggar I couldn't really be a chooser. She told me that the would do the surgery laparascopically, but she also warned me that, if she couldn't visualize my abdominal organs (because of scar tissue from my previous surgeries) she would go ahead and do an open surgery. One thing I loved was that my weight was never mentioned even once. She never once said "You're too fat for me to do this surgery laparascopically." She examined me, listened to my heart and lungs and pressed my abdomen a bit to see if she could find any localized pain. She said sometimes if you wait awhile with appendicitis, the pain would become more concentrated in one place. But mine seemed to be more widespread and she knit her brow a bit at that. She ordered some blood work, worried that my appendix may have perforated during the night. Oh, I sure hoped not. While this new surgeon went to get my blood work done, a nice nurse came in to prep me for surgery. She sponged me off and put a clean gown on me. She also gave me a hat to put on my head to keep my hair contained. I'm sure I looked horrible. And I said something to the nurse about it. "Honey," she told me, "I've been a surgical nurse for 15 years and I've spent all that time seeing people at less than their best. You look fine to me. But a little scared." I admitted that I was waiting on blood work to see if my appendix had ruptured and I was scared. And I told her I was afraid of how urgent everyone seemed to think my surgery was. She nodded knowingly. "People always think that having your appendix out is no big deal. Yeah, it's a common surgery and done every day. But for the person having it done, it's a very big deal. People outside of medicine might get blase` about routine surgeries, but we never do." She sat on the bed next to me and rubbed my back as I fretted over the blood work and my impending surgery. That nice young lady surgeon came back in and told me that my blood work looked good. It looked like my appendix had held. She also told me that I was on the OR schedule for 10 o'clock and that the transport teem would be coming to take me to the OR. She seemed to sense that this was an important operation and she again assured me I'd be OK. She explained the laparascopic procedure and told me why she felt it would be better to my surgery this way as opposed to an open procedure. Yes, there were drawbacks. The surgery would take a little longer, exposing me to anesthesia longer. But she felt that the smaller incisions and quicker recovery time would mitigate this. I knew that laparascopic surgery has been the preferred the method for a few years now. She said you're still young, active and working so it's important to take that into consideration. She told me we would talk one more time before I went into the OR and then she left. Then someone came in to take me to the OR. He smiled and told me "It's time for your close up, Cheryl." I didn't appreciate the humor at the time. I realized later that he was only trying to put me at ease and lighten the moment a bit. He asked if I could walk to the stretcher, which was out in the hall because it was too large to fit in the room. I assured him that I wasn't having surgery on my legs, which made him laugh and had him to understand that I appreciated humor as well. He unhooked my IV and attached it to a stand that was attached to the stretcher. Then he undid the pressure cuffs they had put on my lower legs, this was to prevent blood clots I had been told. I was familiar with them as I had had them when I was in for my heart attack. He made sure that my gown covered me front and back as I got on the stretcher and he covered me with a sheet. "Here we go," he said. It was a long way, down several corridors and two elevators, to the OR. When we got there, there were other people waiting to go in as well. A few appeared to be recuperating from surgery. I closed my eyes and prayed that God would get me through the operation and that He would guide my surgical team. I also thanked Him that He works through people. The anesthesiologist came over and asked me a few questions, including my name and date of birth, questions I was already getting tired of asking. But I understood why they did that. He assured me that he was the Chief of Anesthesiology at the hospital and that he had assigned himself to my surgery because of my cardiac history. He didn't want there to be any mishaps. Then a perky young nurse introduced herself as my surgical nurse. She said she would be helping my surgeon and she asked if I had any questions. It's funny about that. I have yet to be able to think of anything pertinent to ask at that time. She smiled again and told me that the surgeon was waiting to come in and talk to me one more time. When she left, the surgeon came in. She was gowned though not scrubbed yet. She was a rather nerdy looking redhead. I liked her glasses. I had gotten over my disappointment that the other surgeon had not been able to do my surgery after all. I just took the change as God saying that this was one that would be doing it. She told me they would be using inhaled anesthesia for my surgery and that I would be closely monitored and that I would be catheterized for the surgery to keep my bladder flat and out of the way. She also told me that I would have an airway that would help me breathe. Then they wheeled me into the actual operating room. It looked too small for surgery, but I guessed things had changed a bit since my last operation. They had me move onto the operating table, which was really narrow. The OR nurse unsnapped my gown and they began to press telemetry on me so that my heart could be monitored. I found this a strangely dehumanizing procedure for some reason. No on really talked to me, they just went about the business of getting me physically ready. The anesthesiologist apologized for how narrow the table was but explained that that was necessary. He put an oxygen mask over my face and that's the last thing I remember. All the other prep work was done after I was put to sleep. I don't even remember falling asleep. The next thing I remember was hearing a voice saying "Cheryl, time to wake up. Come on, honey, wake up." I felt like my arms and legs were too heavy to move. And my eyelids were too heavy to open. The man's voice said again "Come on, Cheryl. Wake up, honey." I tried to move my head, but I got nauseous. All I could do was groan. He had the nurse give me some Zofran (nausea medication) through my IV. I did manage to open my eyes. My stomach felt like a truck had run over me. The nurse asked me if I knew where I was and what had happened to me. All I could do was mutter "Surgery". The nurse wiped my face and cooed. "That's right. It's all over now." I don't remember how they got me back to my room. I do remember not wanting to be moved. When they got me back to my room (which was a private room) the surgical nurse was there. She helped them get me into my bed and adjusted my IV and the blankets. I know she  gave me more pain medication. I noticed for the first time the nasal cannula. I was being given oxygen, which is common after anesthesia to help the body get rid of it. I also realized that I was no longer catheterized. The Foley had been removed before I came to. It dawned on me that they would expect me to get up and go to the bathroom myself. Everything hurt--my abdomen, my throat, my eyes, my back, my shoulders, everything. They had filled my abdomen with gas during surgery in order to be able to see all of my organs better. Once the surgery was over, the gas begins to dissipate and it seeks out body cavities to go to. So that's why my back and shoulders hurt. That was from the gas. I was not left alone at first. I was vaguely aware of nurses checking my vitals and coming in and out of the room. I was just in so much pain it was almost unbearable. When I got brave enough to move my head again and look around the room, I saw that I was still getting saline in my IV. The nurse must have noticed that I taking more notice of my surroundings and came over to me. "How's your pain, Cheryl?" she asked. "Hurts," was all I could manage to say. She gave me some more fentynal and pretty soon I floated away again. I felt the compression cuffs go back on my legs. She told me that, if  and when I needed to get up and go to my bathroom, to call her and she would come and help me. At that moment, that was the farthest thing from my mind. I'd had no food or water since 5:00 the previous night so there was no reason to believe I would need to get up anytime soon.

All during the day, I began to feel better. The fog lifted and I began to think coherent thoughts again. I had no more nausea and that was good. I hate being sick. Periodically, a nurse or aide would come in and check on me. They monitored my vitals at intervals. Everything was entered on the computer in the corner of the room. Nothing was ignored. If I shifted position while I was asleep, it was noted. When I asked for food, they wrote it down. Finally, at around six o'clock that night, someone from dietary came in and asked me if I wanted to try to eat something. I remembered back to all the stuff I went through with Carol, how we kept certain foods in the house because she could eat and tolerate them no matter how bad she felt. I asked for some chicken broth, a grilled cheese sandwich and some Sierra Mist. I was on the general diet and could have anything I wanted. I considered ordering some fruit as well, but I changed my mind. The broth was salty and tasted so good to my famished stomach. The sandwich was gooey and toasted to perfection. The food at this hospital was better than most, I concluded. I sipped my broth and ate most of it. The sandwich disappeared completely. I was still hungry, but felt I shouldn't push my good luck. I had eaten and kept the food down with no problem. But there was no reason to compromise that. A little later, I couldn't put it off any more. I had to ask the nurse to come and take me to the bathroom. There was a container in the toilet to catch my urine so it could be measured. She came and took the cuffs off my legs and unplugged my IV and walked behind me as I walked. I was shaky at first, but I soon had my feet under me steadily. It felt so good to take a pee and know I had control of something. When the nurse got me settled back in bed, she took some baby powder and rubbed my back, just to pamper me a bit. I have to admit that I love being pampered. I don't get pampered very often so I welcome it when it does come. About ten o'clock, the nurse came back and asked me if I felt like walking the hall a little. I thought, if it would get me home sooner, I would do whatever I had to. The nurse gave me another gown, this one to wear facing the front like a robe in order to cover myself. The nurse advised me to lean on the IV stand and to warn her if I got dizzy. I admit that I didn't walk very far, only to the end of the hall and back. But I felt strong and steady. I knew the worst part was over. She let me decide how far we were going.

I actually did sleep pretty well that night. I knew I was more than likely going home the next day. I had come through the surgery with no complications and I had no doubt I would heal up normally and soon be back to work. The next morning, I called my boss. When I had spoken to my sister the previous evening, she had told me that I boss had told her that I needed to call in for myself. I shook my head. "You told her that I was having surgery, didn't you?" I asked her. Of course she'd told her. I wondered how anyone could think someone in the hospital facing surgery could even think of their job. Besides, I was in no shape to call anyone that morning as I waiting for there to be room for me in the OR schedule. So I did call my boss and spoke to her. I told her that I was still in the hospital, that I didn't think I would be discharged until later that day. What she said next blew my mind. "Does that mean you'll need Friday off, too?" I was taken aback. I said "I just had major abdominal surgery. I think it's pretty safe to say that I won't be back until my surgeon clears me to come back." I did get discharged later that afternoon. In the meantime, while I waited for my paperwork to come through, I was allowed to take a shower and brush my teeth. I had a big breakfast that morning, too: Mexican omelet, hash browns, bacon and a big glass of V8. I ate almost every bite of it. I was so hungry I would have eaten just about anything they would have put in front of me. After my breakfast, the nurse came in and took out my IV. My surgeon came in just after breakfast and examined my surgical sites and asked me how I'd slept. According to all of the information she had, I'd passed a good night and would be going home. I called my scene friend, Aaron, to come pick me up. I knew when I called him that he would come. It felt good to put on my own clothes. I hate wearing those gowns. They brought a wheelchair for me and off we went.

When I got home, it occurred to me that I had been offline for two days. This was not normal for me. I knew my friends were probably worried about me so I posted a short note on Fetlife to let my friends know that I had had to have surgery and that I was back now. In fact, my inbox was full of messages from my friends asking me where I was and hoping I was OK. Later that day, after I had posted my note, I got a rather strange message from someone who isn't on my friend list. He said "Mmmmm...I would have loved to be the doctor who got to operate on that incredible body. I bet you looked so hot with that mask on your face. Mmmmm. Please write me back with all the details of your sexy surgery." I was dumbfounded. Sexy surgery? Was this man crazy? Apparently, there's a fetish for real surgical procedures. I don't want to make a judgment here. But this is outside my experience in the scene. He never asked how I was doing or expressed any concern about my condition. He just wanted to hear all the sexy details of my appendectomy. Go figure. Yes, I went through all of that so this guy could have stroke material. I guess it's true that you really do learn something new everyday.