My Life as a Closeted Exhibitionist

From an early age, I’ve carried a secret: I love spankings. It’s my obsession, the cornerstone of my partnership with Randy, and the wellspring for a thousand delicious fantasies. For readers of this blog, that’s hardly a shocking revelation. But to the people in my personal and professional spheres, it really would be. I created this space to explore my kinky, fun, creative side in relative safety and anonymity. But everywhere else, I’m just a vanilla grandmother. I even bake cookies.

I strive to conceal my real-life identity while on the internet and my internet identity while outside. I don’t want these worlds to intermingle. It’s not that I am embarrassed to be either Bonnie. There would just be more questions than I care to answer.

And yet, there’s another important ingredient in my primo spanko gumbo. I am sometimes aroused by a little bit of danger. Oh, I don’t mean base jumping or running for political office. Nothing like that. Randy likes to play my fear of disclosure against my curious attraction to the flame of risk.

In years past, that meant spankings in semi-public places – a limousine, a deserted bar, beaches and forests, the back of a truck, and lots of hotel rooms. Each of these experiences had that intoxicating mix of risk and excitement.

Since then, we’ve transitioned to more subtle flirtations with disaster. We go for hikes in our favorite parks. In these warmer months, Randy encourages me to wear shorts that are not quite long enough to conceal fresh red crop marks at the top of my thighs. It’s not just one mark that could be easily explained away as a scratch and the shape is pretty unmistakable. Yep, it's hard to deny I got punished.

On one hand, I’m horrified that someone will recognize my marks and remark, “That poor lady got a butt whoopin'." On the other, I am thrilled to be just a tiny bit out. I am spanko. Hear me yelp. And I’m not ashamed. Yes, I was spanked today and I’m grateful and happy.

How much danger is there really? Probably not too much I suppose, but it’s enough to get my juices flowing. And what a great excuse for a spanking, a hike in the woods, and a roll in the sheets later.

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.

OK, Uh, Never Mind...

I was at work yesterday, sitting in my cubicle and minding my own business. I had a project to complete by the end of the day. I was finding it rather difficult to concentrate because it was Friday afternoon at the end of a long week and the weather outside was beautiful.

My co-worker picked that moment to drop by for a chat. Gwen has been there maybe two months. She's in her mid-thirties, never married, and has no kids. She's a friendly person who always seems to have a lot to share.

We got to talking about weekend plans. Gwen said that she and her boyfriend were hosting another couple on Saturday night. I was politely smiling and nodding until she blurted out that they were all going to play the Cornhole Game.

At the sound of these words, my mind was immediately racing. I envisioned two-on-two nasty pillow-chomping anal sex! My next thought was that you sure can't judge people by first impressions. I then wondered if they managed to work spankings into this little game. It seemed a natural extension to me.

"Oh, don't you know about Cornhole?" Gwen inquired, no doubt picking up my puzzled expression.

"Er, I guess I don't." I mumbled. A second later, I decided that it might be best to save this conversation for a less public venue. But it was too late.

"I'm from Cincinnati. Everybody plays it there. It's great."

By now, I was completely dumbfounded. I listened in amazement.

"The Cornhole board is a sheet of plywood with a small hole cut in one end. The object of the game is to score points by tossing beanbags through the hole."

"Beanbags?"

"Right. They were originally filled with corn, but any kind of beanbag works. It's so much fun!"

"Yeah, it sounds like it." I don't know if I was blushing, but I easily could have been. I felt so stupid.

"Maybe you and Randy could come over sometime for Cornhole. It's really easy." She seemed enthusiastic about that prospect.

"Yes, maybe we could."

"So what are you two planning for the weekend?"

By this time, I was determined to not out myself any further. "Oh, nothing special," I replied in a deadpan tone.

"Well, I hope you have a good time doing it." Gwen was still bubbling with Cornhole-inspired eagerness.

"I'm sure we will..."