There’s a nice column in Salon by a serious spanko who learned, pretty much the hard way, that he had to come out to his new girlfriend about spanking. Here’s how it went for him:
Six weeks after we started dating, I told Emily my secret.
We were in bed, still in those heady, lust-filled days of a new relationship. I really liked her, suspected that I might even love her, which meant I had to tell her the truth about myself. She sat up to listen, and I trailed my fingers over her thigh, eyes down, nervous as a teenager. I was 30 years old and for the first time in my life I was going to tell a girlfriend that I wanted to spank her. No, not wanted to, needed to. And I knew that telling her might mean the immediate death of our relationship, but I also knew we’d never be perfect together unless I looked into her pretty blue eyes and told this sweet, innocent, beautiful woman that I had a spanking fetish.
Let me clarify something: I’m not “into” spanking the way you might be “into” Celine Dion or “The Bourne Identity.” Spanking is a part of my psyche, an essential element of my sexuality. It’s not like slavering over cheerleaders, or fantasizing about sex on the beach at sunset. When I was a kid I used to look up the word “spanking” in the dictionary, and I got a visceral thrill when I saw a spanking scene on “Little House on the Prairie” or “I Love Lucy.”
I [had] never told any of my girlfriends about my fetish, although I often made clumsy attempts to engage in spanking play. If they let me, I landed a few gentle slaps to the bottom until I got a curled lip and, “That’s just weird. You don’t really want to hurt me, do you?”
I didn’t, no. Not really, not unless she wanted it, too, and none of them did. The closest I came to telling anyone was Jennifer, the girl I dated right before Emily. She told me it was sick and made me see a psychotherapist who, I found out later, labeled me in her notes as a sexual sadist. Another heaping of shame from my girlfriend, and a horrifying diagnosis from a professional. You can see why I kept this to myself.
As time went by, I did find comfort in knowing there were others like me, but as I sat on Emily’s bed, they all seemed irrelevant because she wasn’t a spanko. I knew that for sure. As with every girl I met, I’d dropped hints, used the word “spanking” to get a reaction. I’d gotten none from her. The only question now was whether she’d call me a freak and kick me out.
I took a deep breath and told her.
I spoke for a while, explaining that I didn’t understand why, that the why didn’t even matter anymore. Spanking was a massive part of my sexuality, and that was something she needed to know. When I finished, she furrowed her brow.
“Spanking is a thing? A sexy thing?” she asked. When I nodded, she paused for a moment. “OK, I’ll give it a try.”
That was 14 years ago. We married a year later, and our sex life today would shock the neighbors. Once or twice, when we’ve forgotten to close the bedroom window, I suspect it has. It’s not been plain sailing, though, and this isn’t the end of the story because a kink is a powerful beast. The hardest thing has not been the play; when turned on, Emily can take an almighty spanking, and a caning that would make an English schoolboy squeal. She likes it so much that we now call her “vanilla, with sprinkles.”
Nice to see one of these accounts that has a happy ending!