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.

Summer of '74

The summer of 1974 stands out in my mind as a particularly memorable one. There was a lot going on that summer. The Watergate hearings were on all of the three channels we had, so days were spent trying to find some amusement to replace watching TV. I got my first period that summer as well. It happened in June, about a week after school let out. I had felt it coming. My twin, Carol, had started that January and never lost a chance to tell me she was a "woman", while I was still a little girl. She had also taken to wearing a training bra while I remained in undershirts. Aside from getting "the curse" as we called it, I had my first cigarette, too. I remember to this day being over at my friend Lisa Q's house. She had just gotten a new kitten and Carol and I went over to see it. While we were in her room, she snuck over to her older brother, Roger's, room and came back with one of his smokes. Now Lisa had what I would call a "princess bedroom", complete with a four poster bed (with a canopy) and priscilla drapes. I was horrified that she was going to "flick her Bic" with all that lace so close. But she did. It was a Marlboro and I remember the room filled with acrid smoke as soon as she lit it. I didn't live with cigarette smokers (my father preferred cigars or a pipe and my mother was a life-long non-smoker) so I wasn't used to the smoke. She held the cigarette out, asking if we wanted to try. As with everything else in our lives, Carol got the courage first. I'm sure we coughed and carried on, but it was the beginning of 32 years of being hooked. Anyway, besides getting my period and having that first smoke, something else happened that summer. It was something that shaped me and something I have never forgotten.

Even as a skinny, knock-kneed 13-year-old, I already knew I was interested in spanking. I had a crush on Mike Donlin, who lived with his parents, a college age brother and two younger siblings just three doors down from us. Mike was a high school kid and far too old for me to seriously consider dating. Anyway, Mike was already dating a girl who lived down the street; a girl from a nice, Irish family called Athey. The name of the older sister is lost to my memory. But I remember the younger sister, Dawn, who was my age. Dawn acted haughty, like she was better than other people. When we were younger, she had a doll I would have killed to have. It was large enough to require real baby clothes, which she purchased at garage sales. Anyway, we were way past that age. Dawn had left her gawky stage and was turning into a blond haired blue eyed beauty. She liked attention and knew how to get it. She was aware that boys found her pretty and lost no chance to use it to her advantage. The Donlin's were wonderful people, friendly and gracious and would have anyone over in the summer for tea or lemonade and Mrs. Donlin's famous ice cream cakes. One day, me and Dawn were over at the Donlin's watching Mary Anne, the lone daughter, do her toenails. She wore a pale yellow bikini and had her chestnut hair in a bun. The college age brother, name Tom, was home for the summer getting ready to cut the grass. He was tall, probably about 6'4" or so and rather stockily built. But Mike was the one I had my eye on. Unlike the rest of his family, who had reddish hair and brown eyes, Mike was fair haired with blue eyes. He was a dream. Tom came out to tell us that we had better clear the area because he was going to be running the lawn mower. Mary Anne and I were sitting on a white painted wrought iron bench, while Dawn sat on a matching chair nearby. When Tom came out and made his announcement, Marry Anne and I dutifully got up to go to the driveway, where she kept a chaise lounge. Dawn didn't budge. She was wearing a pink terry cloth one-piece short thingy. They were all the rage that summer. Hers was strapless and showed off her perfect tan and budding chest. Tom went over and started the lawn mower, n0t realizing Dawn was still sitting in the chair. I guess he was so concentrating on the task at hand that he didn't notice her. Well, Dawn hated not being noticed and when he made a pass by her, which sprayed her with grass clippings, she sputtered and made a fuss over it. She was standing there calling him every name in the book. He shut off the mower and walked towards her with quick, purposeful strides. I knew immediately what was about to befall her. Tom marched over to her, grabbed her by the arm, walked over to the bench and turned her across his knee, still swearing a proverbial blue streak. I was blushing because I had never heard such language before. He pulled the pink terry cloth one-piece short thingy into a wedgie, baring Dawn's bottom. This made her even more indignant as she threatened to tell her older brother, Dan, and he would come over and clean his clock. Tom didn't reply to any of this. He simply gave her one of the hardest and longest spankings I've seen to this day. By the time he stood her on her feet, her bottom was bright red and her freckled face was streaked with tears. I didn't know what to say so I wisely kept my mouth shut. I had a feeling that Tom had been wanting to do that for years.

A few days later, I was standing in line with some other kids waiting for the snow cone man. Two older boys, John and Doyle, came driving by in Doyle's car, an old model of undetermined make. When he saw the group of us, all girls, standing there, John grabbed something out of the car and put his arm out the window, shaking it. I saw immediately that he held a paddle.
"Don't let us catch any of you out here again!" he warned. "If we do, you won't sit for a good long time!"
I turned to my friend, Julie; the one I had shared so many school paddlings with.
"What was that about?" I asked.
She shrugged.
We figured they were just blowing hot air. Anyway, I didn't see them around for awhile so I figured there was nothing to it. About a week later, I had walked the five blocks to the gas station near my house to buy some cigarettes. I remember I was wearing a pair of cut off shorts and a peasant blouse that day and I had purchased the smokes from the machine out front. They were cheaper from the attendant, but I knew there was no way Mal (my buddy from the skating rink) was going to sell them to me. I tucked them into my back pocket and started for home. There was a grade school (and not the one I attended) right across the street from this gas station and the school had a big, open field. As I entered school grounds, I heard the engine of a car being gunned nearby. Looking behind me, I saw it was Doyle's car. I would never outrun them. So I made a beeline for the field, running as fast as my skinny legs would carry me. I heard the car engine and die and saw John and Doyle getting out to chase me on foot. Doyle had the paddle this time. It didn't take them long to catch me. I put up one hell of a fight, believe that.
"What did I say about catching you kids around here?" Doyle asked.
"It's a free country!" I replied brattily.
"Not for you, it ain't," John replied. "I meant what I said before. Now you're gonna get yours, little girl."
"I'm NOT a little girl!" I protested.
Doyle and John lost no time in getting me on the ground and it took both of them to get me turned over on my stomach.
"Well, lookee here," Doyle said, taking the cigarettes from my pocket. "This bad girl smokes."
"Hey, those are mine!" I said. "Give 'em back!"
Back in those days, cigarettes didn't come in a crush proof box (called a hard pack when they first came out). They came in soft packs that were easily damaged.

I think these old Marlboro ads might be where my "thing" for cowboys comes from, too. Who knows? Anyway, Doyle tossed my brand new pack of smokes to John, who stuck them in the pocket of his Levi's.
"Little girls shouldn't be smoking," Doyle admonished. "Now to teach you a lesson!"
With that, John held me down while Doyle paddled me. He simply unloaded on me like no one had ever done before. Even as naive as I was concerning boys, I knew that neither Doyle nor John cared if I smoked or not. In fact, they might have found me a bit more alluring after the fact. I thought they were doing it for pure meanness. It turns out that this really WAS a warning. That gas station had a shop where people could come in and get a tire changed or get their oil checked. Mr. Willoughby, the man who owned this station, along with Doyle and John and some others (including Doyle's older brother, Dave) smoked grass and played cards in the shop when there was no business. Because of the Watergate hearings, business was slow. Turns out, they had seen me go in to buy my cigarettes and had come after me as soon as they saw me leave. They didn't want us going into the shop and seeing what they were doing. But I have had some time to think about this and I believe there was another reason. I believe those boys were horny and curious and spanking had always been an acceptable way of touching a girl's bottom without getting into too much trouble. I consider this my first erotic spanking. I was certainly turned on, despite how angry and embarrassed I was. It was a way for them to get some sexual release without having to do anything sexual to me. I may have been interested in spanking, but I fought them tooth and nail.
"Man, this one's a little hellcat!" Doyle said and continued to swing the paddle.
I was exhausted and in tears when they finally got back in their car.
"That was a baby spankin'," John said pointing at me. "You'll get the real thing if we catch you around here again!"
My bottom felt like a thousand bees were stinging it and I could barely walk. I tried to crane my neck and survey the damage, but I couldn't stretch my neck that far. When I got home, I looked in the mirror. I was aghast. My whole bottom was bruised and the bruising extended to the backs of my thighs. Nowadays, I always look at my bottom after I get spanked. But this was the first time I did it that wasn't from my father or a teacher. Two days later, they got my friend, Lisa, pulling her off her bike as she rode home from summer school. She told her older brother, Roger about it and Roger and some of his friends paid John and Doyle a visit. My mother was a nurse and told us about John being brought into the ER with a broken arm. My mother knew John's family, the Ufens, well because she had been selling Avon to his mother for years and we also shared German heritage so we often saw them at Oktoberfest. I smiled to myself at the justice of it. If only my older brother had been able to do something like that. If you think having his arm in a cast dissuaded John from continuing the campaign of terror, you're wrong. He just never messed with Lisa again.

People who are young and don't remember these days may think this was barbaric. But we always considered things like this to be a rite of passage. We were just innocent teenagers back then. That Summer of '74 stands out as a momentous one for me. I was no longer a child, but not yet a woman either. I was curious to see if, like my friend Dawn, I had any kind of allure. Now what I'm about to relate still shames me deeply to this day. But to pay for my new cigarette habit, I needed cash. My allowance (plus the money I'd made that summer detassling corn) wouldn't support me. So I devised a way to make money. For $1, I would allow a boy to put his hand in my pants for ten seconds. Any boy with the money was given this privilege and word soon spread about my enterprise. I still had a crush on Mike Donlin and offered to let him have the honor for free. He pushed me away and told me take my hot pants somewhere else. I was stunned by his reaction. It never occurred to me that Mike was a nice Catholic boy and was mortified at the thought of compromising me in any way. He took me by the shoulders and shook me.

"You should have more respect for yourself than that," he scolded. "You should value yourself. Now go on home and hope to God I don't tell your dad."
"Are you gonna pay for my smokes?" I asked.
"That's a silly question," he replied. "Of course I'm not."
"Well, then I need money," I told him. "I make it the only way I know how."
"There are plenty of ways to make money," he said.

He was right, of course. But maybe, just maybe, like those boys who had chased me down and paddled me, I had mixed a bit of business and pleasure. Whatever the case, I stopped doing that after Mike's reaction. It was an interesting summer for sure.

October Chicago Crimson Moon Party Review-- Day One: Raring To Go

Well, it's November, so you all know what that means. The October Crimson Moon party is now a memory. It may have been the best party I've ever been to. The combination of awesome room mates and fun play just made this a perfect party. I don't see how it could have been any better. The drive up was great, with awesome weather and we only got lost once. Word to the wise: if you're driving to a Crimson Moon party from the south and you see the Sears Tower, you missed your turn somewhere. I knew, having Morton at seven a.m. that the chances were very good that our room wasn't going to be ready when we arrived. And it wasn't. But we had to get to the party early because Sherri was picking our other room mate up at Midway when her plane landed. The only thing we could do was sit in the lobby with our luggage and wait until a room was ready. Meanwhile, Sherri went to pick up Lisa, our other room mate, whom we were both meeting for the first time. While Sherri was gone, I went to lunch with another party attendee. I was famished and wanted something substantial. He suggested I put my luggage in his car rather than leaving it in the lobby and risk something being taken. I was in no position to argue. So we put my stuff in his car and he drove me and two other women next door to a restaurant. This restaurant pretty much knows us CMer's on sight. They have been waiting on us since we came back to this particular hotel back in 2008. I had my usual--nachos-- and bade everyone excuse me while I made a pig out of myself. I was so hungry I was lucky I didn't eat my fingers off. When we got back to hotel, after the guy wouldn't let me pay for my own lunch, Sherri hadn't gotten back to the hotel yet. I was getting worried because Lisa's plane had landed by then. What I didn't know was that there had been a slight delay and the plane had landed late. I guess this happens a lot and no one thinks much of it. When they arrived, I hugged Lisa and then went to get us checked in. No room was yet available. But one was being cleaned and the manager assured us that she would keep us posted as to when it would be done. She went ahead and let us check in because the room was "close to done". Finally, she gave us a room and key cards and had us go up. The elevator was crowded because of the cart we had our luggage on. I was nervous because I was conscious of how heavy we were. The elevator bumped to a stop on the fifth floor and, finally, the party could actually start. As soon as we stepped off, we heard the pleasant sounds of spanking. I smiled to myself. Oh yes, the party was starting. We got to our room and, to our dismay, the maid was making the beds. The room wasn't ready but they had allowed us to go up, probably to get us and our luggage out of the lobby. I wanted to rest because, quite frankly, I was tired out from dealing with the situation with the room. It was no one's fault. This is just how hotels are. But my friend, Jim, had other plans for us. We had no sooner got the maid out of the room, when Jim was knocking at the door. I was happy to see him, of course, but I was perplexed at how he had found our room. He said he had knocked on doors until he found us. I was dubious to say the least, but anyway, it didn't stop me from letting him spank me. Not only did he spank me, but he spanked Sherri and Lisa, too. This wasn't his first time spanking Sherri, but it was the first time he's spanked Lisa. He enjoyed having three bottoms to choose from, believe me. While Jim was there, Sherri got a phone call and stepped into the hall to take it. Lisa left as well, I think because she sensed that Jim wanted some time alone with me. Jim and I have a lot in common, including mothers with Alzheimer's. I asked him how his mom was doing and he told me "not good." I asked if she was going to rally and he shook his head. "Not this time," he said ominously. I felt like he had to know the end was near. I already knew how he felt about me. We had some time to cuddle and talk and then he had to leave. It was just about time to get registered, so I put on my party clothes and did my hair and make up. I had done my nails the previous evening and they still looked good. When we were all dressed, we went downstairs together. The newbie orientation was well underway and, in fact, they were finishing up, when we arrived. There was also a "sneak peek" where the vendors showed what they would be selling on Saturday. One of the vendors, who goes by Big Bubba on Fetlife, was there showing the paddles and straps he makes. His wife, Sissy, was with him. I asked him if he was available to play. He was wearing a cowboy hat, a western shirt and boots. He told me he had to hold off for a bit because he needed to get his gear packed up. Sissy volunteered to stay and do that so he could play. So off we went. Bubba is just about my ideal when it comes to a top. He's tall, well upholstered, has big, hard hands, listens well and loves to have fun with it. He also has a very comfortable and inviting lap. When we got to his room, we lost no time in getting the spanking underway.

We were about half way done when Sissy came back with the stuff. She was kind enough to take some pictures for us, which I posted on my Fetlife profile. He put me over the ottoman and used some of his toys on me, including a loop johnny and a mini-rug beater, both from Cane-iacs. He also caned me very nicely, being mindful though that it was only Thursday and I still wanted to play more. I always enjoy talking to Bubba and Sissy. I did that first at the July party, where I sat in their room for more than hour learning about how they met and how they got into the scene. But soon, it was time to leave and go find someone else to play with. That first "real" party spanking sort of sets the tone for the whole weekend. Photographically, this was a great party. I think I got more pics than at any other party. One of my favorite scenes of the night, aside from the one with Bubba, was getting a strapping from Joe, who goes by DrLectr on Fetlife. Bubba makes these straps called "Bible belts". It's just a strap with the word "BIBLE" stamped into the leather. Getting Bible belted is fast becoming a popular fetish. I had the privilege of getting Bible belted twice that weekend, once by Joe and once (with Lisa lying next to me on the bed) by Bubba and Rodney. It was so much fun. I had a blast. The catered dinner from Jimmie Johns was awesome, too. But the Bible belting was one of the first evening's highlights.

Joe is a great guy and a terrific top in his own right. He's gaining a lot of popularity, not only in CM but also in other groups whose parties he attends. He's a gentlemen and is another one who listens to the bottom. I'm growing very fond of him. In fact, Joe gave me my last spanking of the weekend. We were off to a good start and that could only mean that the next day was going to be just as good, or even better. But it was getting late and it had been a very long day. I was eager to hit the sack. When Sherri and I came to bed, Lisa was still off playing. And it was after one o'clock in the morning when Sherri and I came back to the room. I was soon drifting off to sleep, my sore bottom giving mute testimony to how much fun the first day had already been. I couldn't wait for Day Two.

Walk On The Wild Side

It all started innocently enough. A few months ago, I posted my first nude shot on my Fetlife profile. It was nothing to get excited about. It was taken at a tasteful angel that left the things I didn't want to show covered. Some called this cheating, but I was proud of my courage in posting something I wasn't completely comfortable doing. If I was going to post a nude photo, I was going to do it on my terms. I don't have the most beautiful body in existence. Not everyone is turned on by folds of fat, stretch marks and cellulite. So I have to be creative about how I pose and what angle the photo is taken from. That first photo started me with being more comfortable about showing my body naked. I still don't show myself from the front, but I've gotten braver when it comes to posting photos. Recently, I've become interested in the titillating possibilities of photographing myself bare bottom outdoors. Now don't misunderstand me here. I'm not one of those nudists who thinks everyone should just walk around with no clothes on. And I'm not one of those people who takes the risk hoping they will be seen by some vanilla person. I know quite a few people who love nothing more than shocking people. I'm not into that. I guess it's the threat of being seen that I find exciting. If I was actually caught, I would probably be mortified. I live in a small town and if I was to get caught with my pants down in public, I'm sure the people I work with would find out about it. My first pants free outdoor shots were taken on my deck. The house behind us, which I always thought was empty, has been sold recently so now there are neighbors on all three sides. I have to be very careful. The photos are taken on the sly and there's no chance for re-takes. I have to watch for neighbors, the mailman and also for people living in my own house. I never thought I would get any braver than this. But yesterday, someone dared me to take one out in a public spot. Now you have to know this about me before I go on. I have never been able to resist a dare. No matter how dangerous or how stupid, I have to do it. However, I draw the line that things that destroy property or inure someone else. Anyway, we have a bike path near our house and I picked this spot for my photo. The part I usually walk on runs adjacent to the highway. It was a gorgeous day--sunny and about 68 degrees--and so there were going to be a lot of people on the path. So I chose the part of the path that went the other way, into a wooded area. Call me a coward but the other way would have more than likely gotten me caught with my pants down. As I walked along, I began to look for something to rest my camera on. But there was nothing; no picnic table, no garbage can, nothing. So I kept walking, smiling politely at the bikers who passed me. Then I saw it. Right before a bend in the path, I saw a sign of some sort with a nail sticking out of it. My camera has a little string that can go around your wrist which is supposed to keep you from dropping it. I hung the camera on the nail, steadied it as best I could, set the timer and walk a few steps ahead. I was getting a tremendous adrenalin rush from this. I pulled my pants down just far enough to bare my bottom, then made to pump my fists in the air, but the shutter opened before I could do that. I debated doing a re-take, but thought better of it. I quickly pulled my pants back up and checked the camera. The photo turned out pretty good, considering the breeze was probably moving the camera a bit and my hands look awkward.

But all in all, this was a very cool experience. And it doesn't hurt that I'm getting $50 from the person who made the bet with me. Will I be doing more photos like this in the future? Maybe. Who can say? But to be bare bottom out in nature is an exhilarating experience. I have no plans to kiss discretion and common sense good-bye though. For right now, this is enough.

Crimson Moon Spanking Party Review--Part Two: The Rivalry

I woke up on Friday morning excited! One of the gentlemen in the group had arranged for a group of us to attend the Cardinal-Cub game at Wrigley Field that afternoon. All of the people in the group who have known me for any length of time know that I'm a rabid Cardinal fan. I haven't been to Wrigley Field since 1988, about a year before they finally modernized it and put up lights for night games. There was still some confusion about who was going and who had decided to stay home. Keith wanted to give a ticket to Pat as a birthday gift (he's a Cub fan, she's a Cardinal fan). The day before, I'd given my friend and fellow Cardinal fan, Tony Trystero, a paddle that I'd had made for his birthday. It was a small paddle with the Cardinal logo painted on it. He had been pleasantly surprised because last December when he'd had his birthday (three days before mine) we'd talked about me getting him a Cardinal paddle. But I'm sure that, until I gave him the paddle, he thought I had no intention of actually going through with it. But the look on his face when he got it was priceless. Tony's wife, Mary, decided to stay behind so Pat could go. It was a very selfless thing for her to do because she's as big a Cardinal fan as Tony is. At breakfast the game was THE topic of conversation. I noticed with some concern that storms had hit us overnight and earlier that morning. I hoped we'd get the game in without a delay or a rain out. The man with the tickets was proving hard to locate, too. So I was still worried about whether or not we were actually going. I hadn't yet paid for my ticket but I planned to give the money to the man who held them as soon as I saw him. I was also worried about being able to sit at the game. I was very sore and so I worried about the seats. I knew we were going to be sitting up in one of the higher decks so I knew the seats weren't going to be comfortable. I wore my red Cardinals World Champion T-shirt and white shorts. Breakfast was important because I knew I wasn't going to eat before dinner. There was no way I was going to buy any of the overpriced stadium food. I can eat anytime. I was there to watch a ballgame. I ate pretty hungrily, knowing that I wouldn't be eating until later. I was hoping to get some play in before we left, but that didn't happen. There was just too much last-minute confusion. We took the hotel shuttle to the Mall, where buses would be waiting to take us to Wrigley. I had no idea that the stadium was an hour away from our hotel. It was a Cub bus, but there was enough Cardinal fans to make the ride somewhat pleasant. Tony came to sit next to me. I told him brattily "This seat is taken!" but he just smiled at me and sat down. We talked baseball all the way to the ballpark. There were quite a large number of us, almost all of us having participated in a thread about the game on Fetlife. I was meeting these ladies for the first time. A couple of them were Red Sox fans. They had no interest in either team that was playing. They weren't even interested in the National League. But it was baseball and a great way to spend an afternoon. I wondered what the teams would have thought if they had known that a bunch of spankos were in the stands that day. We had good seats, beautiful weather, my three favorite players hit home runs, and the Cardinals won 9-6. It was a perfect day and there was spanking fun coming that evening. Here's one of the guys who homered that day, Matt Holliday:

The ball he tagged went a very long way. It came in his first at bat in the top of the first inning. Yes, the wind was blowing in the right way, but Matt is strong enough to hit a ball out of any ballpark, no matter what the weather. Yadier Molina, the Cardinals' Gold Glove catcher, also homered that day. So did Allen Craig, who is filling in at first base for our regular first basemen, Lance Berkman. The Cubs went on to take the remaining two games in the series, but this game, the one I was at, was an awesome win for us. Walking back to the buses after the game, the heavens opened and we got a downpour. We were drenched by the time we reached the buses. Of course, as soon as we got on the bus, the rain stopped and the sun came out. The air conditioning on the bus was turned up and we had a cold, wet one-hour ride back to the Mall. I couldn't wait to get into a warm shower. It was after 5 o'clock when we got back to the hotel. As we waited for the shuttle to take us back to the hotel, the bus driver admitted he had a "hot date" that night. I asked Tony if he wanted to try my paddle out on me while we were both still wearing our Cardinal gear, but he was wet and probably tired. I had no illusions that someone else probably felt that paddle in earnest before me. He did give me a few furtive smacks with it when I gave it to him. But I wanted a real session with him. He promised me one later. I went back to my room and got into a warm shower. I was so cold and wet, the shower felt awesome. Keith and Pat had enjoyed the game, even though the Cardinals had won. I got out of the shower and got dressed. Sherri had wanted to go, but had opted not to. She was a Cardinal fan, living in Kansas City. She asked me about the game and I told her. She seemed disappointed that she had missed her chance to go. The first person I looked for was Tony. Sherri put a sheet of paper on his door that said the room had been quarantined due to dreaded "noodle arm disease". I ratted her out to him. He had wondered who had put the sign on his door. First, we posed for a photo with the paddle I'd given him.

He really did love the paddle. The lady who made it had altered the Cardinal logo just enough to keep us from getting in trouble due to copy write problems. He had no idea I had actually gone and had it done. We had talked about how cool it would be to have a Cardinal paddle. It took me a long time to find someone willing to do that. Finally, I appealed to my friend Kitty of Kitty's Exotic Paddles. The result of her work, done despite the fact that she had been ill with a lung ailment, is the gorgeous paddle you see in this photo. But looks are only part of the picture when it comes to beautiful wood paddles. The way they feel is also important, so I had to have it used on me.

He really enjoyed paddling me with that paddle. Anyone who lives in Illinois knows and understands the Cub-Cardinal rivalry. Games between these two teams aren't like regular games, such as when the Cardinals play the Mets or the Dodgers or even another team in the National League Central. The Cubs-Cardinals rivalry pretty much exists because Peoria (my hometown) is halfway between Chicago and St. Louis. The body of Cardinals fans are called Cardinal Nation. There is no Cub Nation, Brewer Nation or Reds Nation. The Cardinals have a fan base that encompasses all 50 states to one extent or another. Places like Phoenix, Miami, Denver and Washington all have their own MLB teams. But whenever the Cardinals visit these towns there is always a large contingent of Cardinal fans. Tony and I talked about baseball while he spanked me. Then he gave Sherri a great spanking, which I photographed for her. Sherri is one of my dearest friends in the scene. But she has an issue with her appearance because she has no hair. So she's convinced that men won't play with her because she's bald. So she was thrilled that Tony played with her and appeared to enjoy it. I think that's what turned the party around for her. She also had a great time playing with my blogging buddy, Dr. Ken. Unfortunately, I didn't get to play with him. I missed out on a lot of play. There were just people I didn't get to play with. However, I did finally play with Suburban Spanker, one of my favorite people to play with. It had been a year and a half, almost two years, since I'd last played with him. We played, as we usually did, in Morgan's Lair. He put me on a bed with pillows under me and used several straps to strap me into bliss. The one thing that kind of disappoints me is that he almost never hand spanks me. He's a fabulous hand spanker. But he's also got enough of a sadistic streak to not be too concerned with me not getting exactly what I want. I don't say that he's uncaring, because that's not true. He's very caring. But he likes to inflict pain and like having pain inflicted on me. So we're a perfect match. His babygirl is a sweetheart, too. We didn't do more than say "hello" to each other. I assume she was kept very busy. I had another session with Big_Bubba which involved a cane made of some kind of wood. He told me what it was made of, but I forget now what it was. It stung a lot but it was awesome. Bubba is a great top and he certainly enjoyed playing with me. I spent almost an hour sitting in his room with him and his wife and they're wonderful people. They're also wonderful scene people, which means that they care about the scene and the safety and happiness of others. We need more people like this.
Between the scene with Suburban Spanker and Bubba, I was pretty toasted. But as I was walking down the hall, I ran into DrLectr standing there. He smiled at me and gave me a hug. I adore this guy. He says on his Fetlife profile that he was kicked out of Bible college for spanking women. He gave me a wonderful hand spanking, owing to the fact that I was pretty well toasted. Then he rubbed lotion on my sore bottom. We made plans to play again the next day but it never happened. Another one I wanted to play with was Michael, who goes by InspecherHide on Fetlife. There was enough back and forth between us on Fetlife for me to be relatively certain that he wanted to play with me. I certainly wanted to play with him. He was the complete package for me--nice looking, tall, blue-eyed, likes to laugh and is respectful. I think he got a bad impression of me. He and I set up a time to play that night, but I wanted to go with Sherri to Dr. Ken's room to play. She was afraid to go alone to his room and he was perfectly OK with me being there. But I missed our meeting time. When I went back to the public room to find him, he was gone. I was so disappointed that I'd missed him. He was someone I'd wanted to play with very badly and now the chance had passed. I didn't expect him to sit and wait for me. While I was disappointed, I also knew that there was still time for us to play. But I worried that he would think badly of me. I didn't want him to think that I played games. I did play more that night, but my mind was on thinking of how I had disappointed Michael.
Like the night before, it was about 2 o'clock in the morning when I decided to call it a night. Keith, Pat and Sherri were already in the room when I came in. I was sore but had had a fun-filled day. Day Three was ahead.