I’m not sure, but I think that makes it worse.
And don’t think my ability to humiliate myself has gotten better with age. It hasn’t. If anything, it’s getting worse. When I got to college, I met Mat and his best friend, Will, at water polo. I liked them both right from the start, but Mat especially. As soon as I met him, I knew I wanted to be friends with him. They were both a little older than me, so I wanted to impress them even more than usual.
I’d been trying to insert myself into their lives for a while, and I was super happy the first time they invited me out for a meal with them. We went to this Indian restaurant near their place. The food was amazing, and I behaved almost perfectly for the entire meal. They were both digging my vibe, not just Mat, who’s an easier nut to crack, but Will too. I could tell I was finally in with them. I was amped.
There was a little convenience-type store attached to the restaurant, and after the meal, Mat wanted to pop in to buy some ingredients to try to replicate what we’d just eaten. Will and I went in with him. I started feeling a little off while we were in the store. The whole store was full of things I didn’t recognize. I had no idea what I was shopping for, but Mat was putting a ton of things into his basket, so I picked up a few jars and spices and followed him to the cash register. Once there, things started to unravel.
The man behind the counter had questions about my purchases—what I was going to make with it, etcetera—and since I didn’t have a fucking clue what I was buying, much less how to use it, his questions weren’t all that easy to answer. I handed my items to him to scan, and when prompted, I handed him my card too. He took it, swiped it, and said, “PIN, please.”
I distinctly remember thinking,Huh, are we giving that information out now?
I glanced back and saw Mat, Will, and several other people in line looking back at me expectantly. I remember feeling vaguely pressured and having a strong feeling something wasn’t quite right, but that didn’t stop me.
I answered boldly, with completely misguided self-assurance, “It’s 572…”
As I spoke, I was dimly able to recognize signs of confusion that morphed into horror on the man’s face. “No, no, sir,” he cried, waving his hands frantically to get me to stop talking. “Pleaseenteryour PIN.”
Because, of course, as anyone who has left the house at all in the last two or three decades would expect, there was a PIN pad in plain sight on the counter, ready for use.
Mat doubled over with laughter immediately, and so did several other people in line. When I sought out Will for moral support, I found he’d left the entire store, so extreme was his secondhand embarrassment.
I hastily entered my PIN, burning hot from head to toe.
I have no memory of whether or not I said anything else.
I hope to God I didn’t.
Knowing me, I did.
As bad as these mortifying moments are, none come close to the humiliation of what’s happening to me right now. I’ve finally plucked up the courage to open my mouth and tell Stuart things I want. Things I need. Things that have damn near drowned me with shame and longing for so long that I can barely remember a time they didn’t. By some miracle, he’s agreed to them. He’s into it. He’s given me rules and everything. He’s given me safe words, for Christ’s sake.
Safe words, I ask you.
How goddamn embarrassing. As if I’d fucking need them for what he does to me.
I swear, even if you rolled every embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to me into one, it still wouldn’t come close to being as embarrassing as the fact that Stuart fucking Wiseman bends me over and scolds me until I’m shaky and scalded. Until I’m aching from being on the cusp of experiencing something I want more than I know what to do with myself, only to smack my quivering ass with all the vigor of a little old lady who’s saving her strength for bingo, or book club, or crochet class, or whatever the hell it is old ladies save their energy for.
Okay, so I’m not just embarrassed by this half-assed spanking anymore. Humiliation has seeped into my pores, and I’m mainlining it now. It’s there all the time, under my skin, making me hot. Bothering me. It’s in my chest, rubbing against every other strong emotion I feel. Sparking and fusing. Melding with frustration and desperation, turning to something that feels an awful lot like anger.
Stuart spends all his time watching me with those ocean eyes. He lurks behind me or beside me. He’s there all the time, waiting to pounce. Waiting to make me feel worse. Waiting to drag me to the edge of something momentous only to drop me like a wet noodle. He looks stern and disgustingly attractive when he does it. Faded gold hair and brilliant blue eyes. I can’t take it. My blood, nerves, or something else that’s very fucking serious, is constantly bubbling under the surface.
Every second I’m around him is charged. The air between us seems to crackle with tension, yet he’s calm and controlled. Cold. Ice cold. His voice is husky and soft when he scolds me, but it feels like nails raking over my skin. My entire body breaks out into goosebumps when he says my name now. It’s horrific. I spend all my time ducking and diving, trying to avoid him. And trying to get close to him.
I have that feeling I get during hookups, the one where it feels like someone is trying to scratch an itch, but they’re missing the spot. It’s like that, but worse. Way worse. Now it feels like Stuart knows where the itch is, but he’s purposefully avoiding it. When he bends me over, it feels like his fingertips are glancing the spot. Touching so lightly, my nerve endings can’t fully register the sensation. It’s close—so goddamn close—to where it needs to be. When he starts spanking me, the itch explodes and multiplies exponentially. I’m itchy everywhere. Prickly and inflamed. I’m frantic. Feral inside. Squirming and desperate and using everything I have not to scream.
Or to moan.
He spanks and spanks, scratching and scratching, but keeps missing the spot.
Seriously, I don’t know how women deal with this shit. It amazes me every day that more of them don’t become violent.
If this keeps going for much longer, I’m going to lose my mind. Or worse, I’m going to start using my words and telling this man what I want.
I find myself sitting at work, Googling things likehas anyone ever died of sexual frustrationandcan horniness kill you.
Google’s a little vague on the matter, though it’s abundantly clear that people have gotten into very stupid situations on account of being hit a little too hard by the horniness stick.
Given everything I know about myself, I have no reason whatsoever to think I can safely rule that out for me.
