The Spanking Writers

The chap in front of me coming through immigration at Heathrow yesterday was wearing a sweatshirt emblazoned with the slogan:

“Cane VIII 2001”

He was in the queue for British citizens, naturally.

I’m fascinated. Who are the Cane Eight? Were they wielding or receiving?

Did they perhaps compete against other nations in a Caning World Cup tournament, each country sending teams of four caners and four canees, points being awarded for style and stoicism respectively as they thrashed it out live on primetime TV to carry off the coveted Golden Rattan.

I wonder who selects the team? Abel for England?! All those training sessions would doubtless be tough, but if my country calls…

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According to today’s Guardian, she has a sense of humour. Here’s a joke she told at the Hay-on-Wye literary festival:

A prostitute is having a weekly special. She will do anything for $100 as long as you say it in three words.

A Frenchman comes and says, “Anything I want? Suck my toes.” She does it, and money is exchanged.

An Englishman comes and says, “Spank my bottom.” Done.

A Canadian comes and says, “Anything I want? Hey! Paint my house.”

I bet you didn’t know that house-painting was seen as ever so slightly transgressive in Canada.

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My final Washingtonian startle was a shop sign: “Correctional Shoe Repairs”. I know a fair few fans of the slipper and plimsoll; how nice that they can get them patched up professionally after serious use.

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I had to share this wonderfully-evocative sentence from Sparkle’s latest entry at The Punishment Book:

And then he comes to my side, takes my hand, and pulls me up off the bed and I’m sure my eyes are too wide and what possessed him to spank me for forgetting about laundry, of all things, and oh my dear angels in heaven, this spanking is hard and it wasn’t fun and I didn’t like it and please make it stop…

My own young lady has been a good girl lately, so hasn’t had to post to The Punishment Book for the best part of a month. Those of you who follow news there of her misdemeanours will realise that Haron is now entering the Danger Zone. A disciplinary spanking leads to a period of impeccable conduct. Four to six weeks later, her halo slips. I, or rather she, will keep you posted.

Meanwhile, I am travelling home from the States tonight. My mind has already started to wander towards the spanking that Haron’s going to receive on my return. Not, I hasten to add, for any real-life offences. Purely for perverted fun

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You couldn’t make these up:
- the author whose book I spotted in a store yesterday: Ergun Caner
- the baseball player on the TV last night: Nick Swisher
- the sommelier listed in the restaurant ad in our hotel room, a Todd Thrasher.

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Location: Washington Dulles Airport, Domestic Arrivals, Luggage Carousel 3

Time: 9pm Friday night, the start of the US holiday weekend

Assorted happy teens, released from the confines of their flight, rush round manically, giggling loudly.

Stern female teacher shouts over the crowds: “[School name deleted!] over here. Now!”. Miss Jean Brodie, with an American lilt. Even the adults in the area stand up straighter, fall quiet.

The group gathers in a flash, suddenly silent. There are 15 of them: a dozen girls, three (lucky?!) Boys.

Their teacher lectures the assembled semi-circle, her voice quiet enough to command their absolute attention (and, sadly, to ensure that nearby pervs like me are unable to hear quite what she says). Chastened young students nod their promises of impeccable behaviour.

One girl mutters a comment under her breath. Dark hair, tied back. Sixteen? Braces, too-tight orange top, designer-looking jeans, red Gap rucksac. (’Allie’, I later overhear).

Second teacher, male. 40ish, joins the lecture. Finger is wagged at Allie. Scolding continues. Finger wags some more. Allie looks satisfyingly downcast.

“You will be soundly paddled for that comment when we get to the hostel, young lady. We will not tolerate insolence on this trip.”

At least, that’s what I imagine he was saying

The group has since claimed their bags, and have been lined up in pairs to walk out to their transport.

Poor Allie. I hope the other girls look after her afterwards.

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If you’re not (a) British and (b) in your late 30s or older, stop reading NOW. The book I’m about to recommend will hold no interest for you whatsoever. If you fit the bill, however, do I have the book for you…

It’s called “Lost Worlds” by Michael Bywater – an alphabetical anthology look back at things and phrases that used to be commonplace, but which have long-since vanished. It’s erudite, witty, calculated to inspire regular “I remember that” moments of nostalgia. Hugely recommended (buy now as an early stocking filler for loved ones!).

Of course, looking back on things we’ve lost from a British, veering-towards-middle-aged-or-even-older perspective, there are one or two entries of interest for the likes of us. Take this, for example:

“Dungeons & Dragons was once the epitome of the lost life, reality subsumed in fantasy, pale people on sentimentalized Arthurian quests at the roll of the dice. You could even play it in real dungeons: I went to one, in Cheshire, and my chest was caved in by Orcs. No wonder it had to stop.

Perhaps the devotees simply grew up, paired off, and started going to other dungeons, on other quests, where the dress code was no longer a latex head but a latex bustier, and nipple-clamps cast an entirely different spell.”

Quite, quite wonderful.

PS I know I said it would have ‘no’ interest for you younger foreigners. On second thoughts…

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This is a cutting from my archive: a letter from “The Times”.

The Vanishing Hanky

[…] One day in the 1920s when [my father] and my uncle were attending school, the latter suffered a massive nose bleed, and was subsequently caned for having no handkerchief with him. The same punishment was duly meted out to my father for failing to have a spare on to lend to his brother.

For the rest of his life, he could always be relied on to have at least two handkerchiefs, and generally three, about his person.

- Jan Robinson

This is so delightfully warped and unfair that it would sound pretty implausible in a spanking story. If somebody could pull it off, I’d love to read it, though.

That said, if stuff like that had happened to me at school, I’d have grown up to be an axe murderer.

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I was reading a biography of the writer Naomi Mitchison,* not expecting much in the way of kinky doings. She was, after all, an early feminist writer - that was, before she became pals with Tolkien, or started writing science fiction. One doesn’t expect pervery from early feminist writers.

I was wrong, and was happy to be proved so.

When Naomi was in her early teens, her controlling mother took her out of school so that she could learn womanly things with a governess:

She and three other girls who shared her governess would fantasise that they were captives. […] They tied one another up; they were in bondage and they were sacrificial. Naomi, innocently enough, played bondage with her friend Frances Parkinson until they were 16 years old, suggesting, perhaps, a connection to the larger social, psychological and sexual realities of their lives. [p. 20]

I don’t know how tying up one’s little friends relates to social realities of one’s life, but I won’t dispute it. Naomi certainly felt confined within her social circle. Her mother didn’t even let her have her own bedroom: instead, through her entire adolescence, Naomi’s bed was in her mother’s bedroom.
When Naomi got married to Dick, who was a friend of her brother’s, she was 18 years old, and had no idea about how things worked between men and women. Amazingly, nether did Dick. They kind of fell into a marriage before they knew what love, or desire, or sex really was. Lots of people were in this situation at the time, of course, but unlike most people, Naomi and Dick didn’t just write off their sexual lives altogether. When they found out that there was a lot of fun to be had out of sex, they decided to have an open marriage.

It was, apparently, a very warm relationship with many guest stars in it. Naomi probably enjoyed more sexual adventures than most women at the time. Unfortunately, when she tried to write books about it (which is what early feminists apparently did: write erotica), the publishers were far too cautious to publish them uncensored.

For example, at one point a publisher thought that it was far too risqué to print a mention of a woman unbuttoning a guy’s trousers. In the end, he told Naomi she could leave the word “button” in, if she left out the word “trousers”. (Honestly, using words like that in fiction… scandalous. Trousers, indeed.)

Anyway, Naomi had a rather more exciting life than her mother had probably intended for her:

In Naomi’s memoirs as well as the diary that she kept during the Second World War, it is clear that she particularly admired Rudi Messel. Naomi describes that playful and rather trusting relationship: “…he asked me to tie and beat him, which I did, making fierce faces and quite enjoying it myself but not, I expect, hurting him as much as he might have preferred. Why should we insist on certain patterns of conduct?” [p.88]

She wasn’t into it, then. That’s a pity. Nice of her to out this Rudi guy, whoever he was, but he might have been dead by the time the memoirs came out.

Unfortunately, after WWII either Naomi had had enough of sexual experimentation, or, more likely, the biographer grew tired of describing it, so the rest of the century - and the book - was rather uneventful in this regard. Ah, well.

———————–
*“Naomi Mitchison. A biography” - by Jill Benton; Pandora Press, 1992.

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