The Joy of Spanking

Clipped from http://www.salon.com/life/feature/2011/02/10/inside_world_of_spanking/index.html

Fetishists open up about their private thrill, where it came from -- and how normal they really are

"You guys look under 45," the guy says with a smile.

After trying to decide if I should say thank you or glare, I realize that the comment is meant to be neither complimentary nor insulting. When you're at one of Strictly Spanking New York's bimonthly parties, something like this is merely observational.

My friends and I are, indeed, under 45 -- and the same can't be said for many of the other people milling about the room. There are a few younger people: I spy a 20-something girl mulling her options by the raffle table and another one who could be even younger munching on Swedish fish next to a table piled high with snacks.

Mostly what I see is people getting spanked. A lot. Those who aren't lying someone across their lap or lying over someone's lap behind one of the red curtains are socializing in the main room, chatting the way they would at any other mixer. But this isn't any old mixer, as evidenced by the name tags, which reveal information far more relevant than just names: red tags are for bottoms, blue tags are for tops, and yellow tags are for those who switch between the two.

The man who determined we're under 45 is a top and is also probably the most handsome man in the room -- though, it should be noted, this is not a group that's going to be confused with the one lining up for fashion week at Bryant Park. There doesn't appear to be a sign of plastic surgery or a gym-sculpted body in sight -- just the sort of normal-looking folks you might see at the DMV or an airport. "In a world where everyone is obsessed with being skinny," someone tells me later, "this is one place where people want big butts over cute little ones."

It seems, in fact, that there's only one thing to be ashamed of in this environment, and that's being someone without a kink -- a vanilla. And it takes our group's comparatively handsome would-be spanker about 20 seconds to diagnose us, correctly, with this malady. "I'm not entirely a vanilla," I start to object. Then I realize I don't know if "vanilla" in this context is a noun or an adjective (is it "I'm not a vanilla" or "I'm not vanilla"?), which causes me to abandon my pathetic attempt to fit in. "Yes," I finally say, glancing at the bottles of hand sanitizer in between all the Swedish fish and sandwiches on the refreshment table. The scent of cold cuts wafts under my nose as I add, "I am vanilla. A vanilla." Read more at www.salon.com

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