The Spanking Writers

I have a question for the girls.

Seriously, girls only; chaps, look away.

The question is this. When you go to stay with your parents, do you take your… er… buzzy toys with you?

I have never before contemplated this idea, but then, I’ve never faced such a long time alone in Vanillaville - not since I discovered buzzy toys, anyway.

I made and remade my mind on this a dozen times before leaving. “My parents’ flat! Sacrilege! - What’s the big deal about that? It’s not my childhood home or anything, no memories of innocence to despoil. - But my mother is such a light sleeper! - Yes, and Ann Summers make quiet toys. - But airport security OMG! - Yeah, and? You’ve flown with canes before, woman. And you’ve got a spanking book in your luggage. Any qualms about that?

Anyway, I gave in to my devil-may-care side, and Mr Buzzy travelled with me.

So yes. How do you girls deal with this dilemma? Is it even a dilemma for you?

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Whilst ogling a particularly cute young lady the other day, I started to wonder: what do vanilla people get up to in the bedroom?

I mean, for spanko couples, a romantic night in behind the closed bedroom door might start with the partners discussing kinky ideas. The girl might end up over one’s knee, being warmed up with an initial spanking - gentle at first, then increasing in intensity. There could well be some role-playing next: stern lectures to set the scene before (say) a measured caning.

There’d be cuddles after the whacking – calming a punished girl, applying soothing creams – before moving on to intimacy (even then, perhaps, allowing time for the odd pause to tie an occasional rope).

But vanillas? I guess the whole process is just accelerated: shut the door, and move straight to cuddles (without even the need to rub in some arnica). It must be so boring. I guess they must just fall asleep earlier at night…

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This has nothing to do with spanking… but everything to do with the sort of language young ladies should not use. But hey, it comes from the “Times” wildlife column.

There was a time when this column was banned by The Times. Or at least, by the newspaper’s anti-filth control, which is intended to protect staff from pornography and gambling on the internet.

We couldn’t understand it. Every now and then, I would e-mail the week’s column over and it would never arrive.

At last, we found out why. The banned columns all contained the word “tits”.

The Times journalists are really screwed if they want to write columns about Essex, Scunthorpe, or the Arsenal football club…

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Day in, day out, we blog about spanking. Snippets, stories, startles, scenes. And yet one thing’s missing.

That’s right, folks: this blog’s a sex-free zone.

Actually, it rather amuses us. Here we are, crafting a blog that, presumably, classes as erotic. And yet - by design - we miss out what many might see as the main ingredient.

Pure as the winter snow, us. Honest

PS and any of you who happen to have met my gorgeous wife will realise why I can’t keep my hands off her, in far more ways than one!

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One of my favourite pastimes when I have to hang around in town waiting for something, is to go into a public library and browse the biography and memoir shelves for porn. (That is, mentions of spanking.)

I was pinning a lot of hopes on Lord Byron, I really was. He was notoriously ill-behaved in the sexual sense, and so it was reasonable to expect sordid sado-masochistic affairs in his biography.

No such luck: there’s incest, there are orgies, there is lots and lots of garden variety sex - but I haven’t found any whips and chains. Damn.

Moreover, even though he went to Harrow (you know, one of those places where they used to flog people), the regime didn’t make enough of an impression to be mentioned in the biography. It spends more time describing how the boys used to sleep several to a bed.

Either I was reading the wrong biography, or the famous libertine was completely vanilla.

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So, TeachersTV is supposed to be a channel where they tell teachers about different methods they can use in the classroom.

Does it have to involve, um… you know?

They claim it’s a debate, but with teachers, you never know what they’ll actually be watching…

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Most of the time schoolboy humour is lost on me, but I did have a giggle at this correction in the Guardian:

Oh dear. Even by our own exacting standards, managing to spell Penistone as Penistown was a bit of a cock-up.

I can see little blue-haired ladies blushing as they fill in the address on their postcards…

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The office I was working in yesterday is gripped by World Cup fever. Each department has adopted a team, and decorated its area accordingly with national flags, photographs and shirts.

They’re also hosting mini-events, to raise money for charity. Every wall was decorated with posters publicising the latest such scheme: “Come along and experience all things Brazilian”.

I must spend too much time with kinky girls, but I did a double-take as my mind jumped to entirely the wrong conclusions. Sad to say, the young ladies in the office were not being shaved en masse; nor were they being bent over to be taken advantage of in the style so popular in that country. Mere “win a bag of brazil nuts” and limbo dancing contests were all that was on offer - but with my dirty mind, I had to surpress giggles every time I walked past one of their notices.

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You can tell how often I tidy my office at home by the fact that my latest near-archaeological dig through my paperwork unearthed a newspaper clipping from 31 January:

“Secret papers released under the Freedom of Information Act revealed how two schoolboys once damaged one of the disputed Parthenon marbles figures when they began fighting in the British Museum in 1961. Apparently one of the boys fell and knocked off part of a centaur’s leg.”

It doesn’t take a huge feat of imagination to picture the consequences, does it?

One other cutting that I’d stashed away is more romantic than kinky. The musician Alex James (of Blur fame) was asked to describe the most romantic place he’d ever been. The answer:

“The Sahara. I rode into the dunes with a girl I’d known for six weeks and when we rode back out two days later, we were engaged… We stayed in a Bedouin camp under the stars. I bought the rug we slept on. It stinks of camel. We’re still married.”

Awwwwwww….

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Another of our oh-so-occasional non-kinky entries. I mentioned yesterday that we’re off to a wedding tomorrow. Coincidentally, I’ve just been browsing the website of Suzanne Vega (a brilliant singer-songwriter, and a truly awesome performer) in the hope that she might tour the UK later this year.

Her home page shows a picture of her, looking radiant, at her recent wedding. There’s a formal announcement:

New York City, February 13, 2006: Suzanne Vega of New York City and Paul Mills of Los Angeles were married on February 11th, 2006 at her home in New York City. She is a singer-songwriter, the daughter of Richard Peck of Irvine, California and Patricia Vega of New York City.

Not just “a” singer-songwriter, Suzanne. One of the greatest. Her modesty sums up her brilliance.

But it was the final line of the announcement that tweaked the heart-strings, and made me want to share this with readers here:

“This is the bride’s second marriage and the groom’s first, the last for both.”

“The last for both”. How touching is that? I’m sure that anyone like me who’s been married previously, before meeting the true love of their life, will cherish that phrase forever.

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