I had a (horrible? creepy? awesome? startling?) realization while I was e-mailing The Boy I Currently Like yesterday. (Apparently "Sweet Can" hasn't taken off like I thought it might. *sigh* Back to the drawing board.)
Some background: When I was little, I got spanked pretty often. When I got older, my mom progressed to hitting me with a variety of objects (hairbrush, wooden spoon, wet towel ... whatever was handy). I never thought it had much of an impact on the way I turned out, though one of my college roommates was convinced it gave me a short temper. There were many times when I was pretty little, maybe three or four, that my mom would chase me around the house with a yard stick with which to spank me because I was refusing to take a nap or talking back or doing whatever other bad things I did as a wee lass.
So, The Boy had feigned indignation (as he so often does) at some horrible thing I'd done or said and called me Jessica instead of Jess. I was all, *bites lower lip* "Have I been bad? Are you going to spank me?" All I could think about was him chasing me around to spank me because I was so naughty. Except it would be fun, not scary. And I'd be laughing/shrieking instead of crying/shrieking. And it would end on the bed instead of under/behind the bed.
Honestly, I have no idea where this came from. One would think it would manifest itself well before I reached my early 30s ... but whatever. As it turns out, after all the personal, confessional stuff I've said in the nearly two years of this blog, it is this entry that has me thinking to myself, "You're really going post this?" But if I can't tell you, my friends and random strangers on The Interwebs, who can I tell?
I can't figure out how I should feel. But I'm sure a post like this will really bring the freaks out of the woodwork. Spanking! Cast fetish! Sluts with black eyeliner! Bacon fucking! It's all here, people.