My Life, No Plan, Just Serendipity

I grew up in a rural area on a dirt road. There were three stables with riding rinks close by, but no kids for well over a mile. I was on my own. I was not socialized. And it showed. 

My Dad saved every Life magazine during WWII. I read them all. I read or flipped every page of the World Book Encyclopædia. I read every Reader's Digest from 1940 to 1955 - every Improve Your Word Power.

I never finished the 10th grade. Why bother going to classes when I could roam the city and get into shenanigans?

After one grand day involving beer, girls in bikinis, and the water patrol, the judge and my Dad agreed the US Navy would be suitable for me. While I occasionally had some good times, spending three months at a time cruising in a small box of water in the South China Sea was boring.

I got a GED while in the Navy. Easy Peasy. Out of the Navy, I drifted from one low-wage job to another. 

While working, I started college. Got good grades. I was scared of math, but I screwed up my courage and took two quarters of remedial Algebra. It proved painless.

I got a job at a small life insurance company. As a Management Trainee, I worked for a few months in every department. I loved Actuarial. The President of the company bought an IBM 360/30. He had one programmer who did not know jack. Since the Navy had sent me to several programming classes, the president tapped me to program. I had zero practical experience, but I managed to create what he wanted.

So I was serendipitously sucked into programming. After I graduated (with honors, not bad for a HS kick out), I got a job with a company that was moving its data processing from McAuto in St. Louis to in-house. Suddenly, I was immersed in languages I knew nothing about. I was surrounded by very experienced programmers. It was sink or swim.

Skip ahead a few years, and I again fell into what was at the time a narrow field - online programming on an IBM-directed project. Two years and four IBM classes later, I knew my way around.

At another company, I was hired to install and customize an online system. I poured myself into it. I went on to install several more third-party systems and write my own. Staying late and having a computer to myself was intoxicating. I was a full-fledged nerd.

Five years later, I was a subject matter expert. I started my own company teaching both popular and arcane courses on the IBM online subsystem - CICS.

I had a woman booking my classes, and I nearly wore out a stainless steel air travel card. I was home Friday night and outbound on Sunday. We raced a sailboat, and sometimes Bacall would pack my clothes for the next week and trailer the boat to the regatta site. I would fly out Sunday to wherever the next class was, and Bacall would take my dirty laundry and the boat home.

It was a bit hectic, but the pay was exceptional. Most people would not work without the guarantee of a paycheck. It never bothered me.  I might not get a nickel one month, and six figures the next. I always had a few bucks left over as a seaman making $74 a month. Now I was making more in some months than most made in a year.  Not shabby for one who never finished the 10th grade.

~~~~~~~~~

Memory

We had planned a short trip to Cajun country to eat with a stop in Perdido Key (west of Pensacola).  We raced the sailboat there every year. Sunday after racing, we went back to the condo and jumped in the cool pool. Refreshed, I would go to the room, usually on the tenth floor, and prop the door open and open the sliding door in the bedroom to let the sea breeze come through. Damn, it felt good. Seafood dinner to end the day.

Zac Brown - Toes.

 

Foolishness

Many former readers do not know that posting resumed over a month ago.

That's an LDS church in the background. I can tell by the steeple. I can't tell the brand of her jeans, but the fit is superb.

Becky Spanks Herself (by Al Gore)

I "found" this in Drafts dated from August of last year. Sorry for losing it Al.

I got home early one afternoon, there was a sound, a rhythmic thump, almost like someone was playing a game in the bedroom. My first thought was the cat was doing something weird, funny, or cute, so I tried to be quiet. As I made my way upstairs to our bedroom, I noticed the door was ajar, and the soft, muffled sound grew clearer. It was a steady, rhythmic smack. Curiosity piqued, I tiptoed closer, not wanting to disturb the cat. But when I reached the door, I realized the smacking was definitely not coming from our cat. It was a sound I had heard before, but not exactly like this, and certainly not from Becky. Becky stood in the middle of the room, naked, with a reddened bottom, with my favorite ping pong paddle in her hand. Her eyes were closed and a look of intense concentration on her face.

Becky's hair was wet, plastered to her skin from a recent shower. The damp towel she had wrapped around herself was now discarded on the bed. Her pink ass still glistened with a light sheen of water, and the scent of her freshly washed body filled the room. She brought the paddle down on her cheek again, a smack that echoed in the room. The sound of the paddle on bare ass, wet and firm, followed by a small hop and a guttural moan that sent a shiver down my spine. I had never seen her do this before, and she was so...vocal. The next smack was to her thigh, a little softer, but no less impactful. Her thigh quivered with the sting, and she let out a sound that was somewhere between a yelp and a sigh of satisfaction. I so wished I could record this moment to listen to it later, her moans and squeaks, the smack of the paddle, the symphony of her self-inflicted pleasure.

The rhythm grew faster as Becky's breathing grew heavier. She had always told me she liked it when I spanked her by hand, but her paddling was so much harder than I ever had..  It was fascinating and a little intimidating. I felt a twinge that I had not gone far enough, but it was quickly replaced by admiration for her ability to enjoy such spanking. I had always been careful, mindful of her limits, but here she was, pushing past them with an intensity I had never seen.

Becky did one more quick flurry of smacks, alternating between her cheeks and thigh, building up to a crescendo of moans and sighs. She opened her eyes, and the moment she saw me, a flash of embarrassment crossed her face. Her hand froze mid-air, the paddle hovering over her reddened ass. For a second, we just stared at each other, the silence thick with anticipation. Then she took a deep breath, and her face softened into a smirk. She let out a shaky laugh. "Well," she said, trying to play it cool, "you're just in time for lunch."

Entirely Suitable for Spanking

 

Shoo-wee, you hurt me like a bee
A bumble bee, an evil bumble bee

Highly Spankable Bottoms

 

Heinlein Spanks

I enjoyed reading Heinlein. The Spankings were a dessert. 

Robert A. Heinlein included spanking (often as disciplinary or erotic elements) in several of his novels, typically in contexts involving authority, family dynamics, or future societies. Below is a list of confirmed instances, based on direct textual references and fan analyses (e.g., from the Heinlein Society and reader discussions). I've noted the context briefly to avoid spoilers:

• Glory Road (1963): Explicit spanking scene during a romantic/disciplinary encounter between the protagonist and a female character.
• I Will Fear No Evil (1970): Contains a spanking scene in a BDSM-influenced context involving the main characters.
• Time Enough for Love (1973): Multiple references, including Lazarus Long spanking a female companion as part of their relationship dynamic.
• The Number of the Beast (1980): Features spanking in adventurous/sexual scenarios among the protagonists.
• To Sail Beyond the Sunset (1987): Maureen Johnson (the narrator) describes being spanked as a child and later in adult contexts.

Less explicit or debatable cases (mentions without full scenes):

• Stranger in a Strange Land (1961): Brief reference to corporal punishment, but no detailed spanking.
• Have Space Suit—Will Travel (1958): Implied disciplinary spanking in a family setting, but not graphic.

Heinlein's later works (post-1960s) tend to include these elements more openly, reflecting his evolving themes of free love and alternative social norms. For exact quotes or page numbers, check physical editions or searchable e-books, as they vary by publisher.

You Tell Us

Were you ever spanked in the backseat of a car?

Were you ever taken to a woodshed to get spanked?

Memories

His memory popped into my consciousness. He was a professor at UAB. Bacall and both had him. No one who had a class with him will ever forget him. I had him for a course on the history of the Spanish in the SW. It was my senior year. I missed one question on the midterm. It was school tradition that graduating seniors who aced the midterm were excused from the class with an A. Fuck that; he was my Wednesday night entertainment. I missed one question on the final about a caballero who killed some Indians. We were to name the mesa in New Mexico where it happened. Nothing in the library about it. He told me no one aces his exams.

We unexpectedly came across him socially a few years after graduation. I would tell tales of that, but smoke and booze muddled my memory. He wrote a book telling the history of New Orleans through cocktails that were developed there. There is a challenge for a young man. Take a walking tour through the French Quarter, drinking one cocktail at each bar that specializes in it. You will be crawling by the time you get midway through. Ask me how I know.

I looked him up today. Found that his middle name was Lazarus. And that he had been knighted by King Carlos for his research into the history of Spanish rule here.

Here's to you, Jack Holmes.

~~~~~~~~~~

We had a big soirée for Bacall's 50th. Probably 50 guests. Family, friends, co-workers. Had heavy hors d'oeuvres catered. A memory for me was a game of Pin the Macho on the Man. The man was a 3 by 3 poster. For an hour or so the women were sharing scissors, calmly cutting out cardboard penises to pin on the man. I kept wincing.

~~~~~~~~~~

We raced a small sailboat all over the eastern side of the country. From Maine to Coconut Grove and as far west as KC. Most of the regattas were at sail clubs, cousins to yacht clubs. Yacht clubs are a different breed. I recall one that had a helicopter landing pad, and the family arrived from NYC for the weekend. The daughter deplaned carrying her formal gown.

At another club we walked the docks looking at the yachts. A gold platter pulled in. A uniformed crew made the boat fast to the dock. A middle-aged woman emerged and did exercises on the dock. When she stepped aboard the yacht, the crew again emerged, cast off lines, and they were gone. It's a different world.

Most clubs have reciprocal arrangements. Our membership from our sail club allowed us entry to exclusive clubs. The women always wore gloves to dinner.

Spanked

 

Happy Birthday America

I suspect many OBB readers only want pictures and are closing their browser tab right now. For readers, I think you will find optimism here.

Loudmouths daily say how bad things are.

Visiting strangers tell how good we have it.

by Peggy Noonan

On our 250th birthday, let us never forget the gift of the Scottish national soccer team and its followers, the famous Tartan Army— the pleasure and delight they gave as they marched through America, drank our cities dry, sang their songs, and said: We love you. They brought something out in us; they moved us and helped reveal something we’d stopped noticing. They allowed us to see our battered old country whole, and through fresh eyes. 

No one knows exactly how many global visitors have come and are coming to the U.S. for the World Cup. Oxford Economics predicted a surge of 1.2 million international tourists for the games, peaking in June. The U.S. Embassy in Luxembourg said as many as 10 million would come to the 11 host cities. 

However many there are, we are hearing from the young ones as they fan out across the country to venues down South, out West, in Texas, and in Utah. They are seeing an America they never imagined and have made now-famous videos about how shocked they are—in the most positive sense. They expected a dark and brooding nation; they discovered a sun-filled magnificence. It’s so big, so spacious, has such wondrous shops, the best food, and absolutely wonderful people. The videos have flooded TikTok, Instagram, and X, and they speak with the wonder of 18th-century explorers who discovered an unknown indigenous people on a brilliant new continent. discovered an unknown indigenous people on a brilliant new continent.

They couldn’t stop talking about it. Texas barbecue, ranch dressing, endless refills—in England, asking for a refill is like “asking for a second mortgage” said one video—huge portions, 24-hour gyms, Buc-ee’s, Costco, Chickfil-A. Football stadiums, air conditioning, the sheer variety—all the hot sauces, and 50 states with different rules. Strangers smile and ask how ya doin’. Among my favorites: seeing them delight in yellow school buses, which they thought only existed in movies

A young man in his 20s, with wonder: “I would trade my Canadian passport for American citizenship without hesitating a single second. Some states have no state income tax.” Here, he said, a young person can compete and succeed. A British woman, about 20, driving through a suburb, asked to be adopted “by anyone in the USA as soon as possible.” With Britain’s housing crisis, you “have to live in a cardboard box for your first house.”  She’s driving past homes here, finding their prices on websites, and is staggered by the bang for the buck. 

One video has a German telling CNN’s Jake Tapper that back home he’d gotten “a lot of negative views about the Americans in the last five years,” but had discovered “the people are amazing, so welcoming, the culture is amazing.” 

A young Englishman in his 30s: “The media portrays Americans as rude, lazy, all of the above, and it’s further from the truth. . . . The amount of hospitality and kindness . . . and pride Americans hold is truly like no other country I’ve been to.” 

A 30-ish bearded South African man: “I’m in awe of the United States of America.” Walking through a park, he sees “women walking along in fancy handbags, jewelry on, glasses on, they’re not being harassed, nothing. If this were South Africa, gosh, first of all I wouldn’t be able to walk through this bloomin’ park by myself.” 

An African or Caribbean man of perhaps 30 marvels at his room service. “When they say everything in America is big, I understand it. Why the hell is this quesadilla the size of my head?” A now-famous blond woman of about 25 at a fast-food drive-through: “They have bible verses on the bottom of their cup!”

Why were they all gobsmacked? Because when they hear of America in the news, it’s school shootings and assassination attempts, riots, Los Angeles burning down with no fire trucks or water in the reservoir. This isn’t the fault of journalism; it’s an inevitability of journalism: News is the big thing that’s happening. Over the years, they’ve probably absorbed the idea that Americans are violent incompetents—a fat and sated people who are altogether a new thing in history: dull-eyed fanatics. 

They have also been brought up surrounded by powerful information systems, not only in media but also in academia and other institutions, that reflect general progressive international opinion, which sees America as a cruel place where ignorant people eat bad food in bleak landscapes.

And then they landed, and none of this matched. The offerings were fantastic. The people were good. 

I keep wondering if, when the millions go home, they’ll remember what they saw, and it will have an impact on future international relations. (It is 2056, and the final, crucial meeting at the Quai d’Orsay. The U.S. representative says, “I am asking you to trust us, Pierre. Because our nations go back, and because for all our theatrics, we are a good people.” Pierre waves his hand. “You don’t need to say that, Jake. I was there in ’26, at the games, in Missouri. I know who you are.”)

Why have the visitors’ views mattered so much to so many of us? 

There’s a funny thing about America: We’ve not cared about the approval of other nations, and in this, we are unlike other nations. 

And in part it’s that the negative portrait of America absorbed by Europeans in recent years was also absorbed by us. We internalized our troubles, which are real. The dark sides of our country made us see ourselves pessimistically. But what the World Cup tourists saw was real, it wasn’t just sentimental. The spaciousness really is staggering. The generosity of Americans, our openness, is exceptional. The abundance is real, the food culture extraordinary in its range and quality. 

What they saw functioned as a needed corrective. 

Something else. The visitors confirmed something—that the American character still lives at the street level, in ordinary encounters. They documented what endures and is genuinely lovable. 

For me, as I scrolled through them at night, as I thought about why I was so drawn to them, I realized: I am moved because they prove the thing I love is actually there. 

Those young visitors, who saw us clearly and said what they saw, gave us a little 250th birthday present. 

And here, soon, it comes. No party owns this birthday, no president has dibs on its meaning; we’re simply marking an epic journey through history as a people who invented a new political arrangement for man, who knew how to survive, how to triumph, and still care about the opinion of the stranger. 

What a journey. 

Here’s to it, to us, to more. Onward to 251.