Your senior year of high school should be one of the best years of your life. You are the top of the heap among your academic peers and other friends (and about to discover that you’ve only scaled a molehill compared to the mountain of college that lies ahead). You think you know everything in your little world (and are about to realize that you know nothing about the vast universe out there). You can drive on your own (whether your car or your family’s), dating and romance tend to get more serious, tastes get defined and refined in fashion and music and foods, etc.
I look back on my senior year as a pivotal time; yes, the pinnacle best of some things, but also the nadir in other matters. It changed my life, both for the better and the worse.
I went with my older sister, Cynthia, whom we called Cindy, and her best friend, Andrea, to the latter’s modeling agency just to have something to do on a Monday afternoon. In the waiting room, when the agent came out to greet Andrea, she turned to me and asked who I was represented by.
“What do you mean?” I returned.
“Don’t you model?” she asked in foreign accented English.
“No!” I giggled.
“You should. Do you want to sign-on with me?”
My jaw dropped. I nodded. They didn’t ask Cindy, just me, took care of Andrea in minutes and kept talking to me for almost an hour. I left the office on Cloud Nine, then floated even higher two days later when Judith, my modeling agent, called to tell me that I’d booked the call I auditioned for on Tuesday after school. I was headed for Europe with Judith and two other girls! I didn’t even have headshot pictures (called a Zed card in the modeling business) taken, now I had that along with a passport and all the other many arrangements to see to, along with my mom’s help.
My mom seemed to undergo a miraculous change. We’d had an argumentative relationship recently. But she was the one that convinced my dad that this would be a good thing for me. She seemed to see me with fresh eyes, where I wasn’t relegated to younger child, but someone who had blossomed into her own overnight. She didn’t ask, but rather informed my school that I would be missing a week and a half of instruction, and that they had to make plans for my continuing education accordingly.
I’m going to take a tangent that shows what kind of parent my mother was. She wanted to know our dating status, Cindy’s and mine. She wasn’t prying into our personal affairs, she wanted us to be knowledgeable and protected. When Cindy developed a serious relationship with a guy who had been a friend, my mother took her to the gynecologist. No other questions were asked. Before I left on my European excursion, she booked an appointment for me there, too.
“Mom, I’m not seeing anyone, won’t get into something that heavy in just over a week in Paris, I’ll be working practically nonstop, this is silly!”
“I just want you to be prepared,” she replied lovingly, and I was fitted for a diaphragm.
If she seems enlightened and open-minded before her time, withhold that judgement for a bit. In Paris I did work a great deal, wasn’t able to see many sights or do any touristy things. In fashion shoots, you, as a model, are changing from one gown into another in seconds flat. I was often stark naked in front of the photographer and all his staff, and just got inured to it. I thought this was sophisticated, natural.
So I came home from France with this attitude, and lots of spending money, and generally thought that my shit did not stink. My family took a vacation to our cabin in the north woods on a lake for Memorial Day. With my new, laisse faire attitude, I promptly stripped off all my clothes and went skinny dipping in the lake, even sunbathing on the swim raft au natural. Cindy could not believe her eyes, though we’d shared the same bedroom growing-up. She was apoplectic, sputtering that the neighbors could see me.
“It’s no big deal,” I casually responded, as I was in the habit of saying. “I did this all the time in Paris,” and that was true.
If Cindy was all worked-up, our mother was cool as a proverbial cucumber when we came in for lunch. She did not make eye contact, she did not speak to me, it was like I wasn’t there. This went on all day, all through dinner. I wondered to myself how long she could keep this up. I thought she was being childish, the one being immature. But, at the same time, I wanted to clear the air. If it meant having a big blow-up, it would be better than this silent treatment.
Growing-up, my parents didn’t really have a punishment policy. My mother disciplined us more than our father, but I thought that was because she was around the house more than he was. It wasn’t like my mom to say, “Wait ‘til your father gets home…!” It was like her to grab a wrist, yank the clothes off one’s butt, and give it several fast and brutal whacks with a wooden spoon.
So, it’s after dinner. It’s silent, there was no television at the cabin. Mom and Dad are staring into the roaring fireplace. I’m reading a book, but thinking about the elephant in the room, my skinny dip and swim raft disrobing. The thought went through my mind that I should just go over to her, bend over the back of the couch where she was sitting, pull my pants down and say something like, “If you want, give me some smacks with a wooden spoon. I’m sorry…” But I didn’t do this; I didn’t think I was in the wrong. I thought that I was more worldly than she was.
Then Cindy came out of the bathroom and announced that we were out of tampons, and she needed that product. Mom said that she had a couple other items to buy, so picked up her car keys and purse and the two of them were out the door. She and I didn’t even say a good bye.
The rural roads up there are full of twists and turns. The police reconstructive team thought that a speeding truck came around a blind curve taking more than half the road, that Mom over-corrected. They took Mom and Cindy by ambulance to the nearest big city hospital, but they were both already dead.
A relationship with someone dear doesn’t end when that person dies. I’ve had lots of conversations with my mom and my sister since that night, in thoughts and prayers. As I’ve shared, I’ve long had fantasies about getting spanked in a romantic, sexual way. I don’t know if losing the spanker in my household at age eighteen affected that. I don’t know if seeing my sister get swats when I was four, or receiving my own set of spanks at six has any bearing. No one knows if experiencing trauma is related to developing a fetish. I know that my relationship with my mom had no closure. I know that I felt burdened by that for years, but no longer. I know that I’m hardwired to get-off on spanking. I know that I wouldn’t change that, even if I could. I know that I’d like to live past one hundred years of age, to die peacefully in my sleep, after a raucous session of spanking and fucking with Robert.
(I publish this so that my readers will know me a bit better, but also to know the questions I have. I do not need an outpouring of sympathy; this loss happened long ago. I’ve digested it. But that doesn’t keep me from wondering why we (spankos) are like we are. Robert lost his mother when he was about four years of age. Does this uncommon loss that we share in common contribute to our orientation? Many questions and no answers. Anybody out there have insights? I love talking with you in the comments! If it’s too personal, feel free to email me.)