Sin spanking chat rooms
We were in bed, still in those heady, lust-filled days of a new relationship.
I really liked her, suspected that I might even love her, which meant I had to tell her the truth about myself.
I didn't want to have spanking on the side; I wanted it front and center.
Last November, the New York Times' Modern Love column ran an essay by lifelong spanko (official term) Jillian Keenan, called "Finding the Courage to Reveal a Fetish." As she put it, "For as long as I remember, I’ve been fairly obsessed with spanking.
At one point, I was in a hot tub with a woman who acted in spanking films and the female host, a retired police lieutenant.
But as exciting as that was, I wanted to experience spanking with someone I loved.
If they let me, I landed a few gentle slaps to the bottom until I got a curled lip and, "That's just weird. The closest I came to telling anyone was Jennifer, the girl I dated right before Emily.
She told me it was sick and made me see a psychotherapist who, I found out later, labeled me in her notes as a sexual sadist.
That's the essence of my shame, deepened by the impossibility of trying to explain it to someone who is not a spanko, someone who isn't wired to understand. A few playful swats during sex seem fun, while serious spankings seem damaged and perverse. I can tell you that just one of the many spanking subgroups on the adult website Fetlife contains more than 17,000 members. “OK, I'll give it a try." That was 14 years ago.
Her name tag said, "Melanie," and with a polite, almost shy, smile she asked what we'd like to drink. And they were very strict: if she messed up our order, spilled one drop, or even let our glasses go empty, she'd get a spanking. And then I became nervous for me: would I have to administer it? They knew that the technique for caning is different from the one you use to crop.
They knew about role play, "domestic discipline" and aftercare.
She likes it so much that we now call her "vanilla, with sprinkles." No, for her the problem has always been understanding my need to connect with other hard-wired spankos. We took our first step on an October night, when we parked on a quiet Austin street at dusk and headed towards the sound of clinking glasses and gentle laughter. Organized by a bubbly redhead known as Chef Steel, these parties feature three-course meals paired with wine, served on china and crystal by respectful staff who glide about ensuring the guests' needs are attended to. These were people like me, who in this post-50 Shades era, had nothing in common with the vanilla couples toying with handcuffs and blindfolds, making up safe words and buying heart-shaped paddles.
I've explained that not everything about spanking is sexual and that wanting to meet, talk to and even play with others doesn't reflect one whit on my love for her. A server approached us, a pretty young lady no more than 20 years old. I knew the rules, they'd been emailed to everyone before the party, so no doubt she did, too. These people were true aficionados, who'd wielded (and felt) those paddles, as well as hairbrushes, floggers and straps, for years.