Does anyone remember Antoine Dodson?
Well, to coin one of his more eloquent statements,
I am so dumb. I am really dumb. For real.
Seriously? I have GOT to learn to keep my fucking mouth closed [sidebar]. SHUT. ZIPPED. LOCKED UP.
And yet, I think we can all agree there’s a better chance of the Cowboys winning the Super Bowl – or maybe the Jets.
The thing is, JD and I live in an environment where oftentimes sound, or more specifically the necessary lack thereof, is a major factor. Not always, but often. As we refuse to acknowledge this challenge as an excuse not to enjoy our lifestyle, over the years there has ensued an ever-constant, ongoing search for implements of a quieter variety. Last weekend we were having a conversation about said implements, when apparently I had some manner of truth stroke and blurted out, “I hear switches are virtually soundless.” Wait, what? Who fucking said that? Oh, fuck, it was me. You could almost see the bulb light up above JD’s head. He nodded, changed the subject to our Fantasy Football League and the day carried on.
That evening as we got ready for bed, JD slipped up behind me, slid his arms around me, nipped me on the back of the neck and said, “Have I ever told you how brilliant you are?” I bit my bottom lip, not wanting to blurt out what I was really thinking, which was, “Well, hell, this can’t be good.”
And you know what? It was, um, not.
No, because out of seemingly nofuckingwhere, JD produces a switch. And not any switch, but a Forsythia switch. Have you ever seen a Forsythia bush? Yes, those branches are stunning to look at. The colors, are indescribably beautiful. But. They are not so stunning when you are looking at it over your shoulder as you are bent over the bed, bare bottomed, and still deliciously sore from being paddled and hairbrushed the night before.
And then you hear it. The softest of whispers through the air. And yet, in the deepest part of me, the part that knows what’s coming, it’s as if lightening is striking. I silence that voice. Chiding myself, I think…it’s so quiet, how bad could it possibly be? And then it connects. Fresh wood on fair skin. Just below the creases…his favorite spot, my worst enemy. It’s as if an army of yellow jackets, in perfect lateral formation, have all stung at once. The bright red line is instantaneous…and indescribably beautiful. I can almost hear JD gasp in satisfaction. He is pleased.
He raises the switch back into the air, I hold my breathe in anticipation. It comes down again and again, a dozen times before I can even register the first. It is painfully magnificent. It is torturous poetry. It slices through the air, effortlessly cutting through all of my bullshit, and leaving only me – raw and lined. He continues until he is satisfied with his efforts, spending more time than usual admiring his handiwork as I kneel in the corner. I hear the shutter of the camera several times, but do not look up. Instead, I muse…
Perhaps I will learn someday. Yes. I will learn to keep my tongue in check and my thoughts to myself.
Or perhaps, just perhaps, I will decorate my house with these…
So you can run and tell that, An-toine.
[Sidebar] I say fuck – a lot. I like the word fuck. I also like the word filibuster. But I probably won’t use it as much.