Heart Song Anthology Carolyn Faulkner (rooftoppers txt) 📖

for the first time just after Neil and I began dating, and for reasons I can’t quite remember right now, I actually consented – to being spanked again, that is. The very first spanking was kind of an impromptu event, and my approval or disapproval was more or less immaterial at the time. It just happened, sort of like in a John Wayne and Maureen O’Hara movie, only without the funny lines.

As I said, I can’t recall precisely when or where, or in what specific words I gave my consent to being spanked on a regular basis – as determined by my beloved. I like to believe that it occurred during a period of sensual delight, or after way too much in the way of strong spirits. I think I may have envisioned being spanked as some sort of erotic variation on one of the lovely activities Neil had already introduced me to. (Yes, I was a late-blooming virgin when we met.) I certainly don’t remember it being mentioned in connection with discipline, or pain, or in any way involving my not being able to sit down for prolonged periods of time without a cushion.

Neil, on the other hand, tells me that it was all very clearly discussed, after an episode in which I borrowed his new Corolla without permission, discovered mid-excursion that I didn’t know how to drive a stick shift, and ended up in Santa Monica Bay, in three feet of skuzzy water. Neil is a forbearing sort of guy, but since he’d only had the car for two days, he was understandably peeved when I drowned it. Especially when I stubbornly refused to admit that I might be the tiniest bit guilty of poor judgment. My contention, as I recall, was that it was the highway department’s fault, for having placed a curve on a scenic roadway, where someone trying to read a road map and talking on her cell phone at the same time might not notice it. Fortunately, a very understanding highway patrolman came along and fished me out of the bay, but Neil’s new car wasn’t quite as lucky. (Salt water is apparently very bad for leather upholstery and all that electronic stuff they put in vehicles, today. Who knew?)

The highway patrolman drove me home, and by the time someone called Neil and he got back to the apartment, I was sitting in his tidy living room, waiting for him to come home and comfort me after my ordeal. Which is exactly what he was doing, until I began explaining about how none of what happened was really my fault.

“You’re kidding me, right?” he asked, apparently incredulous. I said that no, I wasn’t kidding. Someone should file a complaint with the state – or something. Neil opted for the “something” alternative, by pulling me across his lap (on an impulse, he said later) taking down my panties, and laying into my bare behind with his wooden desk ruler and a whole lot more gusto than I believe was called for. When he was finished, I ran to the bathroom in tears, mainly to inspect the damage. I expected to find livid welts, but all I saw were some reddish splotches. Actually, it was kind of disappointing, but the sting more than made up for it.

I know now, from fairly extensive experience, that it wasn’t an especially hard spanking, but since it was my first, I did find it a bit shocking. Especially the part where my pants came down. Embarrassing doesn’t begin to cover how I felt at the time. Removing my underwear was something he’d done quite a lot before, of course, but never when he was scowling, and armed with a fat desk ruler.

Thermostats and drowned Corollas and all that aside, one of the most important things that men don’t “get” is why some women have an inherent need to see everyone happily paired off. You’ve probably heard that old joke about what a man needs to do to get a woman in the mood. First, he has to dress up in a suit and tie and take her out to a romantic dinner. Then, he has to ply her with fine wine, flowers and candy, put on the soft music and dim lights, and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. It also helps to pretend that he likes her parents, her dog, and her driving.

And what does a woman have to do to achieve the same result? Arrive naked, and bring beer. And if it’s not summer, she can skip the beer.

The joke may be old, but the concept behind it is still true. Most men just don’t “get” romance. They learn enough to get by, and that’s it. And once they’re married – happily or otherwise – they have little or no interest in seeing their buddies paired off, as well. Women, on the other hand, like everything in sets of twos. Most married women I’ve met look upon any unmarried friend as a challenge, and in need of help. Which is why matchmakers have traditionally been women. Kindhearted, concerned, caring women.

Like me.

Despite the occasional spanking, I wouldn’t trade my husband for any other man in the world. When I got mad at him, I used to say that I’d trade him for Henry Cavill or Liam Hemsworth, or maybe Scott Eastwood, but Neil retaliated by making his own list. The list kept getting longer, and younger, and more bizarre. He left me a note on the kitchen counter every morning, with the new additions to his list – always someone more outlandish. Then, he started calling me at lunchtime, to ask me what I thought of some new idiot’s qualifications to be his wife and mother to his children. I finally called a truce when he put Sarah Palin on the list.

Anyway, the point of this rambling monologue is that I, like most other women, don’t like to see any of my friends, or Neil’s friends, without