Sometime in July 1955
shortly after I finished High School I found myself alone and horny in an empty
house. Parents and sister momentarily gone. Afternoon light streaming in
through the bathroom window of our new midwest tract home.
the bathroom seemed less messy than cleaning up afterwards in my room. But as I
faced the mirror and the washbowl my eyes caught a glimpse of a plastic
hairbrush on the stand. Memories of early childhood discipline in another
country surfaced quickly.
We were a good family with the usual small
problems, life went smoothly most of the time. But discipline was sometimes
necessary. It was always meeted out immediately, in anger and, if necessary,
harshly, with a short but hard hand spanking. The spanking came from either
mother or father, whoever was closer and angrier, and was delivered fully
clothed while we struggled to get our rears as close to the ground as possible
to avoid the punishment. Then came the time in the corner, after that the
There was no premeditation in the physical punishment. You were
warned, if you did it anyway you got spanked. But the warning threats stayed in
the young and impressionable mind. Not "I'm gonna tar your hide!" or "when I'm
done you won't be able to sit down for a week!" but (translated) "I'm going to
make your ass as red as a tomato!"...
The translucent pink brush tickled my
mind. What would it be like... feel like... look like? I took off all I had on,
my shorts, grabbed the brush and turning to look back at the mirror tried a few
swats. Too soft... too hard... reaching my left cheek not as hard as I
thought... digging in underneath felt good... hey, this is fun...and as I kept
going, the realization that the longer I spanked the harder I could hit for the
same sting level. It was a very fine afternoon indeed. Very red, very hot
cheeks. Very stinging but not very painful. New sensations sitting down on
I did that one more time that summer, alone in the woods with
part of a dead branch, nothing else smooth at hand. Not satisfying, the feel of
a flat surface was gone. Sitting on a hot rock surface afterward sort of made
up for it.
Since I had seldom been
spanked in my childhood, why were the threats:
"I will make your ass as red
as a tomato!" or even
"I am going to leave marks on you!" so terrifying yet
Why did they provoke such fascinating, diffuse
images of reddened flesh?
Erotic... brings other words to mind:
erythros: red (Greek adjective)
Eritrea: Land of the Red Sea
the name of the moon of Megas, a red giant in the novel Nemesis by Isaac
I find the connection of eros to erythros quite
resonable, given that most erotic surfaces are, or are near, red or dark red
areas rich in blood supply and feeling.
Perhaps, at the deepest levels,
the primate in estrus never really left me.