Mija’s Room

Orange Socks and Spanking

Posted on By Mija

“Oh no! Daddy heard I was wearing orange socks and told me to wait for him in my room….”

What’s the connection between wearing orange socks and spanking? Did you even know there was one?

“Naughty Santa put orange socks in my stocking again this year! I swear the jolly old elf is trying to get me in trouble”

I posted the above picture (me wearing orange knee socks) and told this little bit of spanking history on BlueSky and Twitter today:

A million years ago… no wait, in the late 20th century (that is the 1990s) on the Usenet group alt.sex.spanking, there was a discussion of how to ask for a spanking and/or “punishment” scene1This was long before the term “funishment” came into usage. without actually asking. Someone posted how in their house there was an absolute rule against wearing orange socks. Any wearing of orange socks merited punishments of varying severity.

“What on earth?!? I cannot believe you’re wearing those orange socks again. I thought we dealt with this seriously enough last time but clearly you need another lesson.”

“Orange socks” struck some sort of chord, maybe because it was both simple and silly (who doesn’t like that?) and it quickly became an inside joke and shorthand on the newsgroup. “Orange socks” as a punishment/spanking trigger was especially popular with several posters who were married/partnered with former vanillas as a way to playfully nudge or “ask for it.” For a while there was an”Orange Sock Award,” people would report orange socks sightings, and share places they’d found to buy them.2This was so long ago Amazon only sold books.

“I’m hoping it’s an orange socks kind of night.”

“Orange socks” as an inside spanko joke migrated with the group from alt.sex.spanking to soc.sexuality.spanking and came to mean a punishment that wasn’t about anything important but might still be severe. It was used periodically on the newsgroup until we put the lights out in 2012.

“Wait! That’s not fair! The rule is about wearing orange socks. As in a pair.  I’m only wearing one orange sock. Singular!!”

Now you know. The reason I’ll always give anyone in orange socks a second look.

  • 1
    This was long before the term “funishment” came into usage.
  • 2
    This was so long ago Amazon only sold books.

At Willow Street Station – A Real Life Story in Two Parts

Posted on By Mija

[I started this post on October 10, 2024]

Last night I posted the following on Twitter:


Background and Details:
On Tuesday, before I picked Paul up at the Willow Street Station, I changed out of the long pink skirt I’d worn when I’d dropped him off into a new1New to me — it was an eBay find. brown corduroy skirt, a tan turtleneck, white knee socks, and tennis shoes. I left on my thick, white knickers. My logic was, arguably, that it was past 7PM and now chilly as a marine layer rolled over Long Beach. The skirt’s corduroy was certainly heavier and warmer than the pink skirt’s light cotton.

For so far as the skirt covered.

This last bit is, perhaps, important as my new skirt is full, pleated, and so short it barely covers to the middle of my thighs. And that would be the middle of my thighs in the front. It is shorter still from behind. Still, I reasoned, it was quite dark, and the train late enough that the platform would be pretty quiet.

I parked close to the station platform just as the train was arriving and got out with our very adorable dog.2I almost wrote “puppy” but she turned one year old last month. They do grow up fast… She’d come along because she’s both the most spoiled creature in the world, AND convinced I am constantly leaving Paul places. She’s always delighted when she’s able to “find” him and thus force me to bring him home. Standing there, holding the leash as people disembarked and the train continued its journey south, I watched for Paul, watched the dog, and had a bit of creeping awareness that the skirt felt a bit shorter than I remembered. Had it ridden up a bit? I carefully tugged down its, um, rear.

The pup saw Paul and bounded toward him, tugging the lead, and forcing me to follow. She greeted him as though he were returned from a months’ long dangerous adventure while side-eyeing me, clearly saying “See? I found him again.” He greeted her, hugged me, took the dog’s lead, and, I think, commented on my skirt.

I opened the front passenger door and started to get in.

“Get back out, please.”

Paul and doggo still stood on the curb, him urging her to jump into the back. My getting in is sometimes a trigger for her, so I got out and stepped onto the curb. As she finally jumped in, I got back in too.

“I said ‘get out of the car, please.'”

A jolt passed through me as I realized (duh!) this wasn’t about the dog.

(more…)

  • 1
    New to me — it was an eBay find.
  • 2
    I almost wrote “puppy” but she turned one year old last month. They do grow up fast…

A Brief Interlude at Rosy Peaches OR Mija’s First Munch

Posted on By Mija

[I began writing this post on Thursday, September 26, the morning after the munch.]

When peaches meet…

Last night, I dashed out of the second-floor classroom and hurried down the stairs. The Uber I’d requested five minutes before the class ended was early — the app alerted me the driver was already there.1I’d thought about sneaking out early, but I’ve found it more difficult to pull that off now that I’m the professor. I was wearing what I think of as my “Barbie Flight Attendant” outfit – a pink plaid fitted jumper,2I’d received comments about “looking nice” all day on campus. That means I either did look nice or stood out like a sore thumb. Or maybe both. pink striped shirt, burgundy tights, black buckle docs, and white knickers no one could see. My hair (finally) is long enough to need clips to hold it back.

The waiting Uber took me to The Auld Fella for my first Rosy Peaches Munch. I arrived at 10:25, barely a half hour before the munch was scheduled to end. When I took a peek at the outdoor area reserved for the munch, I was surprised at how many people had come and were still there. It was a crowd — and like Oasis, a much more diverse one than I’d experienced ten years ago. I was glad to see that, but, you know, a crowd is still a crowd.

Those of you who know or have spent any time with me know that in-person (as opposed to online) social interaction is, to put it mildly, hard for me. For a brief moment, I considered retreating inside the pub and waiting there for Paul, who was scheduled to pick me up at 11. Fortunately, the endorphins from three hours of teaching caught up, and I walked in. A bare moment later, one of the organizers greeted me, asked my name, and began to introduce me. Here entered a haze of names and faces, including two lovely people I’d met at Oasis last month. Unfortunately, at this point, social overwhelm found me stumbling for conversation, and all names immediately left me.

Happily, at that point, I ended up in conversation with someone new3How new? She has no scene name yet. to the spanking scene, who made a point of telling me how great it was to meet another “hard-wired spanko,” and the two of us got into it; the rest of the munch, for me, receding into the background.

Talking with her for the brief half-hour we had, I found her obvious joy and wonder at the, brand new to her, spanking scene infectious. As I caught some of her emotion, it brought back the wonder, pleasure, and excitement I felt in those first few months after discovering this online4Confession: in 1996 when, inside my university email program, I found alt.sex.spanking I had a misapprehension that it was a real place… in Florida for some reason. More on that later… community with post-after-post about spanking. She was clearly having so much fun. It reminded me how much fun this scene can be. Seriously heart-lifting.

Time flew — it felt like only a few minutes later when I got a text from Paul saying he and our doggo were parked nearby whenever I was ready. Sure enough, it was already 11 and time to go.5Have I mentioned I’ve got a 10:30 PM bedtime? Yeah, well, I do. We walked out together, exchanging contact information, still pouring out our hearts, chatting until her Uber arrived. Scolding, discipline/punishment, “good girl”/”naughty girl,” dictionary word searches, hiding, being seen, painful vanilla relationships — it felt like all the topics from a weekend spanking party were captured and mentioned. As her ride pulled away, I remembered how fun talking in person about all things spanking with another spanko woman is. On the ride home, I struggled to keep my enthusiasm from boiling over.

Finally home and in bed, thinking about everything that had happened in an hour, happy and excited, I wished we’d had longer and hoped we could speak again soon. Friday morning, I woke up feeling all the joy, smiling at how much fun we’d had, plotting new adventures.

Friday, I also got whacked super hard with our London Tanner tawse and wrote lines at my new-old school desk. But that’s another story/post.

Image credit: https://pngimg.com/image/4902
  • 1
    I’d thought about sneaking out early, but I’ve found it more difficult to pull that off now that I’m the professor.
  • 2
    I’d received comments about “looking nice” all day on campus. That means I either did look nice or stood out like a sore thumb. Or maybe both.
  • 3
    How new? She has no scene name yet.
  • 4
    Confession: in 1996 when, inside my university email program, I found alt.sex.spanking I had a misapprehension that it was a real place… in Florida for some reason. More on that later…
  • 5
    Have I mentioned I’ve got a 10:30 PM bedtime? Yeah, well, I do.

Readers, Welcome – Also, What Is This Place?

Posted on By Mija

Hello…hello…Can you hear me?

<tap, tap>

….Is this thing on?

AI-generated art that looks pretty like me… on a good day.

Welcome. 🙂 In honor of Mija’s Room receiving its first, and so far only, comment (thank you, Natty!), here is my welcome to my room. In my imagination, this is my corner of The Treehouse, the virtual real estate in the town of alt.sex.spanking/soc.sexuality.spanking where Pablo and Mija once lived.

I’m not sure if many people are reading here yet — if you are, please leave a comment if you can — this blog and site are still taking shape. For a new site it’s trying to do a   – but is mostly going to be a place where I post about my flavors of the kink, musing about ToGI, and all things that, for me, connect to spanking.

One reason it’s trying to do a lot is I have a lot of writing from 1997-2015 that’s not on the ‘net at present. Before it was taken down, it was in three places:

Part of the front page of Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse before it was taken down.
  • Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse – started in 2001 as a Christmas gift from Paul to me. It housed both Paul’s writings, my writings, and a few that we wrote jointly.  They were mostly written for the newsgroups alt.sex.spanking and soc.sexuality.spanking.
  • el tercer ojo – my first blog, started on TypePad in the early 2000s. It originally was going to be a space where I wrote about kink, politics, education, and all the other areas of interest. It soon became clear that it was mostly going to focus on kink. This blog is a kinda extension of that one, I think.
  • The Punishment Book – started in 2004. It was a blog I started with a group of friends. We wrote (sporadically) about how discipline and punishment fit into our lives and relationships, with a lot of real-life accounts. Other than the newsgroup, it’s been my favorite writing community ever — there was a great group of readers and a lot of fun discussions.  I wrote more about it here and would like to find the time to write even more.

All three had to be taken down, literally overnight. The reasons are complicated and have to do with a vanilla friend who, several years ago, unexpectedly became the focus of some of the nastiest parts of the alt.right. They was doxxed on a right-wing website; their connections were combed over as well. Because we’d shared hotel rooms at conferences and we were known to be close friends, I feared my kink might get added to the already terrible attacks they were already experiencing. I couldn’t think of anything to do other than take everything down and erase as much of Mija from the web as I could — not an easy task since the sort of massive data analysis possible now was science fiction in 1997 when I started writing. It felt like Mija died — that we’d had to kill her off, though in truth, I wasn’t actively writing.

That band has thankfully moved on.  As I’ve come back into the scene, I’ve been surprised to hear from a number of people that The Treehouse was a significant site for them and that they miss it. I find that deeply moving because I miss it too, more than I realized. The Treehouse was the first place “Pablo and Mija” lived together. The domain “thetreehouse.net”  was our first “home.” Plus, I like having control over my stories, knowing that there weren’t ever going to be ads or the like.

So, the structure. Obviously, there are dated posts (this is one of them). Posts are new unless I mention somewhere in the subject line or first paragraph that it was posted earlier somewhere else.

At the top, under the header, or in the hamburger at the far right, you can find the pages that are not posts.

Home: This will take you back to the blog’s first page.

About: Basic facts about me as well as art credit  — this banner is an adaptation of a drawing by KayQy’s “Solitude Lineart” – shared under a Creative Commons license.

Glossary: I sooo like a good glossary. This is where I’m going to try to EXPLAIN IT ALL by describing or defining things I write about that may not be obvious to all readers. It will, of course, be chaotic and inconsistent.

Links: This page has links to sites of friends, sites where I read, and eventually, sites where I’ve bought things. Basically, anything kink-related I enjoy and recommend.

Stories: These are my stories, both fiction and real-life accounts, mostly from Pablo & Mija’s Treehouse and The Punishment Book. Most of my writings have been somewhere in the discipline/punishment genre, with a fair dose of school uniform stuff. Hopefully, these will eventually end up on The Treehouse 2.0.

I’m tempted to commit to some sort of posting frequency, but let’s be honest, that would be a piecrust promise. We’ll need to see how this goes.

Meantime, leave a comment if you can.

Spanking Hazard! – Apple Loud Environment Alert

Posted on By Mija

Recently, while I was hand-spanked, otk in the middle of our living room, I felt a vibration on my wrist. Since I was a bit preoccupied, I didn’t check at the time. Since I have ADHD plus assumed it was likely work-related, I promptly forgot about it, that is until I opened my phone and saw this:

95 decibels — how loud is that? I had no idea so I looked it up on the interwebs and found that 95 decibels is as loud as a jackhammer or subway train.

That’s pretty loud. Again, this was a hand spanking. Taking the news to the website formerly known as Twitter, I shared my news:

The always lovely @JanTweetly commented that she had questions. When I asked what they were, she replied:

This is said post.

Q: Whose?

A: Mine– receiving.1She was too polite to ask “why.” Even though it was pretty recent, I don’t remember. Maybe just because it’s fun?

Q: What noise exactly set it off?

A: The sound of Paul’s right hand clapping.

Q: Does it [Apple Watch] expect any response from its alarm?

A: No, but it scolded me, saying that “prolonged exposure” might cause hearing loss.

Q: Does Siri make inappropriate comments?

A: All the time, but not at that precise moment.

This sound alert brought me back to a discussion years ago in another time and place. When people were talking about the first word that came to mind when they thought of a spanking, mine was “loud.” It was not anyone else’s selection.

The sound spanking smacks make (especially with a small light paddle) is deafening to me and ratchets my fear level up to eleven. I’ve always assumed it was the association I somehow made with childhood as I was spanked far too often, far too hard, and a lot of times with a wooden ping-pong or other paddle.

This means I can react to a loud spanking as if I’m being killed, but be rather stoic, at least some times, for canings or strappings/tawsings. Since being diagnosed as neurodivergent, I’ve now begun wondering if it’s as much a feature of that. I am pretty reactive to noise generally, finding it near impossible to focus where there’s loud music, conversation, televisions, or slot machines.

I also try super hard not to make noise/cry out myself.

Do you find the sound sound of spanking difficult?

  • 1
    She was too polite to ask “why.” Even though it was pretty recent, I don’t remember. Maybe just because it’s fun?

Newsguy Repost – Details: Uniforms and Canes (M/F)

Posted on By Mija

[This post was originally written for Newsguy, the now-defunct Usenet host and provider, in July 2000. For a brief couple of months, Newsguy paid me to write the occasional post for their front page. This focuses on the respective specifics of a friend, Paul’s, and my flavors of the kink. ]

“A fetish is nothing if not specific.”

My partner made this wise remark to me at some point when I joked, with some amazement, at the effort and expense he had put into finding just the right gymslip and knickers for me (grey pleated and bottle green, respectively). When one is dealing with something that has the power traditional school uniforms have for my partner, expense, and inconvenience –not to mention my own physical discomfort, British school uniforms being somewhat less than seasonal in my desert clime– seem trivially unimportant.

“A fetish is nothing if not specific.”

My brain echoed the phrase again as we sat the other night admiring a friend’s1You may know him on FetLife as HH (HenryHiggins) canes. He’s got quite a few — all with distinct (and distinctly painful) qualities based on their length and the density of the rattan they’re made from. They are sanded and varnished to precise silky smoothness. All but one has the crook handle of a traditional English cane. Each cane has specific value to our friend for its own sake. As he flexed the canes and swished them through the air, their number (six, I believe) obviously didn’t seem excessive to him. Choosing the right one to impart the right message was an important part of the ritual discipline he’d be administering.

For me, sitting nervously, watching and listening, which cane he would use seemed unimportant. Had he owned but one or two, that would have been enough to make me shift nervously in my chair. The swishing of one would have made me cringe slightly, probably visibly. For me, the detail that was important — specific — was that I was to be caned in the specific and traditional manner of a very strict English school. The caning would be slow and exceptionally painful, yet I would be expected to remain as still and quiet as possible during it. Since, for me, restraints tend to make scenes easier, the authenticity of this caning was what would make it possible for me to restrain myself.

Our friend knew this about me, knew that how and why I was being caned was as important (or more important) than the caning itself. So beforehand, we carefully discussed what I’d done that merited this level of punishment. As we talked, I became a disobedient schoolgirl who deserved the sort of strict, harsh punishment I imagined would be meted out by a traditional (and perhaps sadistic?) headmaster at a strict school sometime in the past. I felt guilty and nervous, my hand finally shaking as it tapped gently on his “office” door.

This is the power of specificity for me. My friend, knowing his role, scolded me and slowly maneuvered me into position. In the past, this part has been extended by conversation, time in the corner, essay, and line writing. By the time I’m bent over, standing on tip-toe, blushing and dying of shame as my knickers are slowly lowered to my knees, I’m generally already in tears. Some might think (and sadly *have* thought) that the caning itself is irrelevant at this point and that the strokes don’t need to be very severe. But for me, this isn’t the case. Our friend didn’t disappoint; each stroke was delivered with full force, in straight lines, with a great deal of time between each. I thanked him for each one and willed myself to stay in position for “twelve of the best” as befits a girl receiving such a traditional punishment.

In the morning I could see where each stroke had left the distinctive double marks or “tram-lines” that are the evidence of a traditional caning. I couldn’t help smiling at the proof of my “punishment” as I admired it in the mirror. It’s all about details, you know.

After all, a fetish is nothing if not specific.

What details of your kink matter most to you? For me, I’m all about ritual.

  • 1
    You may know him on FetLife as HH (HenryHiggins)

Goodbye Tony

Posted on By Mija

 

https://shadowlanestore.com/blogs/news/a-message-from-eve-howard-june-2020

One terrible day in March 2020 as I drove home from the hospital where my mom was being treated for late-stage pancreatic cancer, my phone rang with the horrible news that the wonderful, irreplaceable Tony Elka was ill, dying, likely very soon. The friend who told me said it was the final days, that from what she’d heard he was really already gone. We talked, mostly about Eve, both heartsick for her, making sure she had what comfort and support there was to be had in the face of such sadness, thinking about how the pandemic made even a funeral impossible. I don’t remember the rest of our call, nor how I managed to navigate home.

Paul was as shocked as me. Individually, both of us had known Tony (and Shadow Lane) for years — for me since 19971Actually, it was earlier. Telling our origin stories, Tony and I had figured out our paths had nearly crossed a number of times, including in the 1980s when I was an undergraduate at UCLA and didn’t *quite* make it to any of the spanking gatherings at the Sportsman’s Lodge. when I first delurked on alt.sex.spanking. Finding out I was in Southern California, he’d gently urged me to come to a Shadow Lane party, over and over. He became a friend, someone who seemingly could always make any situation easier or better, whose unexpected humor I grew to expect.

Sitting on the sofa, not knowing what to do, I wanted so much to see him somehow, to say “goodbye,” for him to know how much, by touching it, he’d changed and shaped my life. Even in this, Tony managed to grant me a moment of what I can only call grace. After talking with Paul and not knowing what else to do, I sent Tony a text, figuring even if he never saw it, I could a least say a kind of “goodbye” there. The grace was two days of text exchanges where I got to say how much Paul and I loved him and read him saying how much he valued our friendship, that he loved us too. That he had the support of his family, and they didn’t need anything.

That was all. A few weeks later we heard that he was, finally, gone. It’s been over four years, and it’s still hard to imagine the world without Tony in it.

Rest in love and power, my friend.

https://shadowlanestore.com/blogs/news/a-message-from-eve-howard-june-2020

 

  • 1
    Actually, it was earlier. Telling our origin stories, Tony and I had figured out our paths had nearly crossed a number of times, including in the 1980s when I was an undergraduate at UCLA and didn’t *quite* make it to any of the spanking gatherings at the Sportsman’s Lodge.

Do You Remember The Punishment Book?

Posted on By Mija
PB blog circa 2011

Other than Pablo and Mija’s Treehouse and el tercer ojo, The Punishment Book was a spot Mija 1.0 lived on the web. It was a space I imagined and created in 2004, shortly after Paul and I moved to Santa Monica as a place to blog with a group of friends, all of us trying different ways to explore how discipline and punishment could work in our respective relationships. Its success was less due to me and more due to the wonderful writers who took part– all of us embracing reality and pushing back against the fantasy, something that ended up feeding the fantasy. PNB had its time and was already inactive when I had to take it off the ‘net. Looking at my now, I miss the decade and remember the space fondly.

Someday, with the permission of the other contributors, I’ll try and put the PB back up as an archive. The writings are worth saving. If you’re curious about what they were like, here’s an example of an entry. This one is about a tawsing. Some posts were more discussion-oriented. We had the most wonderful commenters on the web as far as I am concerned. 

The following was taken from a post written for the PB in 2010.

 

In late 2004, after Paul opened an account for us on Typepad and, after I played with a personal blog and got the hang of it, I wrote to a few friends. These were women I’d met online in the previous decade, but also got to know on different levels in real life. We were very different but had in common a love of writing and a fascination with the use of discipline and punishment in real-life relationships. You see, I had an idea — we could start a group blog (there weren’t many then) as a place to discuss the nitty-gritty of trying to make discipline relationships work in our respective “real” worlds. Because they’re such good friends they claimed to be both excited and flattered and were sure it would be great fun. From the start, I knew we should call it “The Punishment Book.”

February 2005, the blog entry officially opening and explaining The Punishment Book read:

Punishment books were records kept by schools and reformatories recording punishments given. Records were kept of who punishments were given to, how much and why each punishment had been given. Most often, though not always, the punishments were corporal.

Though we took our banners from scans of historical punishment books, that history is not what this blog is about. There will be accounts of punishments here, of course. The punishment book dot org is about punishment, especially spanking, being used to correct real-life behavior. This is something the authors of this site all have in common: the use of disciplinary punishments in our real lives to some degree or other. Not as role play, although some of us are role players (and in some cases, real life can feed role play). Not as foreplay, though some of us are into erotic spanking, but as part of our real lives and relationships. We’re all pretty funny (well, I mean, in so far as we amuse each other), but this isn’t a game. The issues of discipline and punishment are something seriously important to each of us.

There’s a lot of stuff about domestic discipline out there on the ‘net, but not much any of us felt related to our lives, for reasons that will eventually be discussed in some detail somewhere on this site. The blog is our attempt to explain it all.

Oh, and just in passing, each of us has our own opinions, our own lives, and at least slightly different takes on every issue. Assume each author is only speaking for herself, her own situation, and her point of view.

[back to the 2010 post]

While all of the above is still true, lots has changed since then — there have been marriages (including my own), interviews and articles, break-ups, reunions, graduations, relocations, illnesses, children, and some grieving too. Some you’ve seen here or on our individual blogs. Other changes, since this is just a window into our lives, have been private.

There has also been the addition of other friends, people we’ve come to know, again in our real lives. Something central to this blog is our need to keep it real, to know that the other authors are both celebrating and struggling with their relationships, not an idealized fantasy (there’s far too much of that on the ‘net already, especially with regard to “DD”*).

What have we discovered? I can’t speak for anyone but myself, but my first thoughts are:

  • This Thing We Do (TTWD) is hard, but enriching. There’s an intimacy to it that I recognize across our relationships.
  • TTWD doesn’t touch us the same way. Some (sparkle leaps to mind here) suffer from guilt, others, like me, not so much.
  • Our partners are all different people, but they share a courage and commitment that at times blows me away.
  • TTWD isn’t a magic cure to relationship woes. In my experience, the relationship needs to already have a solid foundation with good communication and trust. In fact, TTWD isn’t a magic cure, full stop.
  • It’s not easy to write when things aren’t working. Much as I always plan to share that too, I find it difficult/impossible to be that vulnerable. Maybe in the next 5 years?

There’s other stuff too, but my brain is full of memories of reading wonderful posts and discussions here. Which gets to something else — how much readers of the PB mean to all the authors here and how much we love knowing you’re reading, nodding along, disagreeing and thinking about these things too, whether this is your thing, you think it might be or it isn’t at all but you’re trying to understand. You’ve stuck with us even through silences that last months — something for which I’m very grateful.

So this entry is my Valentine to Zille, Bridget, Iris, DykeGrrl, Angie, sparkle, Natty, Haron (who find time to write here, have lives, and keep up their blogs too!) and you our Dear Readers. It’s been a fantastic five years.

Replies should list favorite wooden implements in honor of our the start of our fifth year. I’ll start with the ebony hairbrush as it holds a horrible fascination for me.

Thus ends our history lesson. If you’ve got memories of the old site or ideas and recommendations about current or new ones, please let me know. Other than the one linked at the top, I’ll be adding more of my entries to this blog. To find them look under the “Stories” menu at the top.

Oasis Party – Labor Day Weekend 2024

Posted on By Mija

OMG! It’s next week! [Okay, last week  – whatever.]

This year (next week!!) I’ll be at the Oasis Party, the Las Vegas Labor Day spanking party reborn.  For the first time in a couple of years, I also have sustained interest and thoughts about spanking in the front of my mind, so much so I’ve even, well almost1I say “almost” because I haven’t actually *finished* anything yet. , started writing stories again. [Edit: Thanks to a discussion with Marie, I found and (sort of) finished an old story, begun back in the newsgroup days and finally posted here the other day as “Hot Wax”.]

The Oasis party started a few years ago, but this will be the first time I’ve gone to any scene party since the last Shadow Lane Party held Labor Day Weekend in 2019,  the last one before the way-too-soon deaths of Tony Elka and John. I couldn’t bring myself to go back to the Suncoast, knowing I would be unconsciously looking for the people who wouldn’t be there.

[I wrote the above two weeks ago. Thinking about lost friends stopped my writing cold.]

Jumping forward in time.  Learning how to use Telegram… yes, am old.

[Written Friday, August 30]

So it’s Friday, and I’m here. It’s wonderful — seeing old friends and making new ones. Oasis is something new, for me. There’s a new generation and I really like them, like the assumption of open acceptance, the mixers, the energy. COVID intrudes, of course, but it’s been a lot of fun. Highlights so far:

Friday

  • Seeing friends I haven’t seen since before the pandemic… and making new friends too.
  • Eating at Blueberry Cafe at 2AM after flying in on the last flight Wednesday night
  • Going to a POC (People of Color) brunch this morning where I met the delightful Al Doyle (among others) and won an amazing door prize made by Bad Kitty Care.
  • Getting to have coffee and meals with people I care about.
  • Listening to a lecture about implements by Strict Dave.
  • British Detention2then, of course, punished at home… with Stephen Lewis (more on that later)
  • Peeked into the vendors’ fair (there were too many people) and saw many kewl things for sale, especially super clever cards.

Saturday:

  • Did something completely new: I attended the Boys and Bois suite party. What was new?
    • Topping in a public space
    • Topping men
    • Getting direction on topping from a lovely pro-switch named Alaska Rae from .3Whose paddle I ended up somehow stealing. Eeek!
    • Got to hang out (too briefly) with a *perfectly* uniformed Paul.4His attention to uniform detail puts mine to shame.
  • Briefly hung out at the Dinner Dance in the most princess dress I’ve ever worn.5Not a bad way to celebrate 57. And 57 is a cool age to be when in your head you’re still roughly twelve.
  • ….but, at bedtime, I made the horrifying discovery that my beloved Bryson bear had gone missing again.6This, combined with being unable to get needed medication from the Vegas pharmacy where my doctor sent it, cast a shadow over the rest of the party. Emotional regulation and rejection sensitivity off meds and combined with “top drop” is no joke.

Sunday: 

  • Continued search for Bryson. 🙁
  • Hung out with friends.
  • Watched Jesus Christ Superstar with a super fan, Marie, and Paul, while under the influence of gummy edibles. We were… amusing.

Monday: 

  • Made fliers offering a reward for Bryson’s return — though no one from the hotel would take them.
  • Said good-bye to friends.
  • Had an impressive emotional breakdown lasting well into Tuesday when I (finally) was able to get my meds. 🙁
  • 1
    I say “almost” because I haven’t actually *finished* anything yet.
  • 2
    then, of course, punished at home…
  • 3
    Whose paddle I ended up somehow stealing. Eeek!
  • 4
    His attention to uniform detail puts mine to shame.
  • 5
    Not a bad way to celebrate 57. And 57 is a cool age to be when in your head you’re still roughly twelve.
  • 6
    This, combined with being unable to get needed medication from the Vegas pharmacy where my doctor sent it, cast a shadow over the rest of the party. Emotional regulation and rejection sensitivity off meds and combined with “top drop” is no joke.

Story – Hard Wax

Posted on By Mija

 

For Marie who wanted it finished. 

 

[Recently I started sorting through files and folders stashed on an old hard drive. In a folder called “In Progress” I found this, a story I’d started roughly twenty years ago and, at first, could barely remember writing. I’ve got a hazy memory of starting it partly to explain on the newsgroup what a “Brazil wax” is (yes, it was that long ago) and the post somehow morphing into a fantasy/story.]

Every month I go see Laura, The Brazilian Princess (trust me, that nickname fits, being both her nationality and part of her profession) to get my “bits” waxed.

I don’t wax for Pablo; as far as I know he neither wants nor requires me to give my nether bits the Full Monty. I’m not sure he even cares. That might make it easier, but no, monthly waxing is my own choice, my own agony of tender embarrassment, done for my own vanity.

Brazilian bikini waxing done “Hollywood style” (the waxer that takes off *everything* –all the pubic hair, front, back, and (eek!) in between) hurts, not too much to bear, but plenty. First, the wax is hot, not too hot, not hot enough to burn, but *almost*. Hot enough to feel it might. I have to lie completely still while she’s spreading the sticky, honey-colored mix or it might go somewhere too painful to think about. Plus, my Catholic school-girl-self never gets used to spreading myself on the waxing table, exposing everything in every possible sense for the 10 to 15 minutes it takes Laura to rip my hair off. A gyno exam is a modest little *nothing* compared to a Brazilian.

Brazil waxing is also interactive, requiring active participation. Laura even pulls my bottom cheeks apart and waxes between them. Once the hair’s gone she gently, oh so gently, rubs sweet almond oil everywhere she’s defoliated, finally sprinkling my defoliated bits with baby powder.

Mmmm. Admittedly, that part’s pretty nice.

Since she charges $50 –$60 with the tip– cash only I figure she takes in at least $800 a day, easily. No wonder she only works three days a week. Laura’s the best Brazil waxer in Los Angeles and that matters. Getting a Brazilian is like open heart surgery. This is not a part of your body where you’d want to be a novice waxer’s “learning” or “practice” client. Not even in their first one hundred.

Dressing after, I *hate* pulling my panties back on. No matter how soft or light they are, the woven cotton feels rough against my newly-smooth, freshly-oiled skin. Sometimes I don’t, and stay freshly bare under my full cotton skirt. Wiggling against the pink fabric as I drive through the Santa Monica Mountains, I can feel how clean and bare I am. It feels completely delicious– “Too nice for boys,” a friend says.

When “down there” is so freshly smooth I long to be touched and admired, at the same time embarrassed, imagining my bits being inspected. [What would that even look like?] My embarrassment doesn’t decrease my desire. *Wanting* such a thing while knowing Pablo *knows* what I want adds to the embarrassment. I try holding still, but my body trembles like something deep inside my bones is vibrating out to my skin. My thoughts are dreamy, and unfocused.

Yes, they’re naughty girl thoughts even as I try to focus on driving. Somehow this is your fault. Or mine. Or something.

Enter my “hard wax” fantasy…

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