This is our truth, tell us yours
This blog started out from a relationship between Jem and myself, a relationship that reflects our shared paraphilias as well as my admiration for her brain. Sometimes it’s good for the blog to remember its roots, and today is one of those days. If you are likely to be embarrassed or offended by reading about sex, you shouldn’t be here for what follows.
I can’t remember why, when I first spanked someone, it was a performance in the classic, over the knee spanking style, with her draped across my knees, the blows dealt out in a simple, straightforward six of the best coupled to admonishments that she must be better in future. I don’t think I even knew what she must be better at, but it seemed like the right thing to say. It needs to be said, too, that she enjoyed it, and the sex that followed was as good if not better, than any of the sex we’d had previously.
Spanking is, in my head, always a performance. When does a slap become a spank? The whole concept is deeply imbued with meanings that reflect cultural practices, and in some cases transgressive memories of family discipline. My knowledge of what to do doesn’t reflect what happened in my family; my mother ruled with a handy left hook as well as the occasional slap, and being ordered upstairs to face dad using his belt was rare, and never formalized in any way since his temper was ferocious, and in command when he felt the need to beat one of us. So how did I, as a teenager, know what a formalized over the knee spanking should look and feel like? I don’t know, but I knew what it was, and I did it.
The thought strikes me with some force, about the performative nature of spanking, because I’ve done it so many times and not considered it; the insight that there is something called spanking distinct from other kinds of sexual violence moves from my unconscious to my conscious and startles me. In my head I distinguish between a slap, a spank and a blow. It sounds risible in the cold light of day, but I’ve even said to someone, who asked if I was spanking her when I slapped her arse while she rode me, ‘No, that’s not a spanking, this is’ and gone from fucking to an over the knee position. Why? Again, I don’t know.
The reason why this came to mind was because of the divine one’s shock when, on Friday, I held her down and slapped her arse in rhythm. Not rhythm as in the parade ground rhythm of a spanking, but rhythm as in the syncopation of ‘shave and a haircut, two bits’. She was shocked, and aroused, so I did it again. In my head, emphatically, it was not a spanking. Nor was it a beating. It was playful, funny, sexy, arousing, just another way of stimulating and arousing her.
The shock came from the realisation that the playfulness, the desire to giggle even as I experimented with beats and riffs, was much more congruent with who we are as people than a poker faced disciplinary slow march. Playful BDSM has implications of role playing, of pretence, but this was neither. It was simply joyful.