
[Wanna win a new London Tanner paddle? One’s being raffled this month on this very blog. You enter by posting a comment to any post or page on the blog. Each new comment or reply to another comment gets you another entry.]
That Escalated Quickly (2025)
by Mija
M/F
[texting with a friend during a break in writing something super important1The academic job letter is the worst writing genre in the world. It manages to both be extremely boring AND incredibly high-stakes stressful at the same time. ]
Me:
I just had things escalate unexpectedly here.
Not Me:
Oh?
Not Me:
👀
Me: Yup. Here goes…
So, I’m wearing my Scottish uniform—the green one. I’m wearing a green plaid skirt, sweater, white shirt, and green knee socks. Paul had just got home, and after we’d unloaded the groceries, I was taking a break from what’s been a 14-hour workday (so far) by chilling in the living room while Paul worked on fixing the smoke detector. I realized I had about 20 minutes left on my break (more like five now).
I joked, “There’s not much point in having you guess my knicker color today.”
Paul goes, “They should be green.”
I was like, “Right,” and went back to Candy Crush.
Then he said, “Well, show me.”
Normally, he makes me stand up, touch my toes, and then he lifts my skirt to check if my knickers are the “right” color—before giving me/them about a dozen smacks with his hand.
Paul was on the other side of the room, and honestly, I was too lazy to actually stand up (major facepalm). So I quickly turned and pulled my legs up so my feet were over my head with my toes touching the cushion, thinking it’d be a cool “flashing” my knickers moment for him.
I was already amused with myself, so I was caught between giggling and laughing hysterically.
See where I’m going with this? Yeah, I didn’t really nail it.
I only meant to be in that legs-up position a second so he could see that my knickers were the classic bottle-green school ones, but there was one fatal flaw—I couldn’t see a thing because I was laughing so hard, and my chunky thighs were totally in my way.
Then Paul goes, “Don’t move,” and comes over to smack me on my knickers. I was still laughing. It didn’t hurt, his angle was off; plus, since I was in bottle green heavy cotton school knickers, it might have even hurt him more than me.
He said, “Don’t move,” again, and started rummaging through drawers (everything had been scattered on the dining room table over the weekend, but I’d tidied up on Monday before the dog trainer showed up. We do try not to scare the (presumably) vanilla folks.
Paul muttered, “I don’t know where anything is,” and told me to stay put.
I figured he was after our little paddle. Okay, maybe I secretly hoped he was, so I finally said, “I dumped everything in the school desk.”
With my thighs practically covering my face and no glasses on, I couldn’t really see or even hear what was happening. Did I mention I was laughing? I had no clue what he’d grabbed—or that he’d even made it back to the sofa—until that dreaded tawse landed.
[insert picture]
Yeah.
I did move then, but (I think) his left hand was still on my thighs, so instead of escaping I ended up pulling my legs back even further.
I tried not to move but ended up practically (okay, forget the practically) screaming, “Wait, no, no, wait!” as clearly as I could.
After five more screams, it was finally over.
Six of the best.
For now.
There was barely time for a hug and this text before my “back to work” alarm went off.
Now I’m back at my desk trying to work—well, typing this post out first, and then maybe doing some more actual work.
But seriously, that escalated quickly.
- 1The academic job letter is the worst writing genre in the world. It manages to both be extremely boring AND incredibly high-stakes stressful at the same time.