Common Threads: The Embarrassment / Fascination Paradox

During a recent e-mail conversation concerning the I Love Lucy clips, I was reminded of the contradictory and confusing feelings that came over me as a kid when I watched spankings depicted in popular TV shows. This didn't happen very often, but it was often enough that I paid close attention so as not to miss the next spanking reference.

During those 1960s programs, the word "spanking" was used in dialog fairly frequently. Even a passing reference was enough to make my pulse race. Occasionally, characters would talk about spankings they had received or would soon receive or were afraid they might receive. Sometimes, a noisy spanking would occur offstage. Other times, we would see only the aftermath (typically heartfelt contrition and difficulty in sitting).

Cartoons were chock full of spanking references and I sometimes watched purely in hopes of seeing one of "those cartoons." Looking back, I think that someone at Hanna-Barbara was a dedicated spanko. Tom and Jerry, in particular, included lots of swats.

The best, though, was when real characters received extended spankings on camera. These scenes provided the foundation for many of my favorite kinky fantasies.

I recall sitting on the floor in our den in front of a black and white console television. Other family members were in the room. When a spanking scene began, I felt simultaneously entranced and mortified. I was embarrassed because I feared my feelings must be obvious to everyone. In retrospect, I doubt anyone had any idea I was obsessed, or that someone could even take an interest in such a thing. I imagined that my face must be glowing as red as a freshly paddled posterior.

And yet... I couldn't take my eyes and ears away from the action on the screen. This was a spanking. It was a real spanking, or as real as anything on a TV program could be. This was what I had been waiting to see.

I wanted to stare, but I didn't want to be seen staring. I wanted to be sure to memorize every word and gesture, but I wanted to appear disinterested. How can one experience one of the high points of their adolescence while pretending nothing was happening? Such was the paradoxical life of spanko in training.

These became treasured memories and they remain so to this day. Like keepsakes, I would recall the images and words with fondness a hundred times over. In bed late at night, I would blend these recollections with my own vivid fantasies. The result was a desire, not just to watch, but to become an integral part of the action. I wanted to be the special one, the one who accepted this vigorous attention. I wanted a strong man to pull down my panties and spank me hard.

From these roots grew my passion for spanking and my desire to be spanked.