Holiday Heat: Heartwarming and Bottomwarming Stories for the Festive Season

by April Hill

  “But, I look like a whale,” I sputtered. “A damned cow! The Goodyear blimp! The…” I ran out of similes.

  Josh leaned across the table and kissed me. “You look terrific, babe. I’m not complaining.” (Men are so egotistical. Like their sex drive is all that matters. Anyway, their hormones make them very poor judges of these things. Josh was still turned on when I was nine months pregnant and the store was closed, metaphorically speaking.)

  “Of course you’re not!” I sneered. “You’re used to it—all twenty-two pounds of disgusting whale blubber. But I’ll bet you ogle other women at work when you get the chance.”

  He sighed. “The only woman at the precinct is Edna, the file clerk, and she’s sixty-eight years old.”

  “You see attractive woman all the time. What about that adorable little waitress at the coffee shop where you guys go every day?”

  “If you mean the one I think you do, her name is Marsha, and she’s got the IQ of salt,” Josh said.

  I explained patiently that it has been my experience that girls who look like Marsha do not need an IQ substantially higher than salt to get ahead in the world. Their pert breasts and firm asses are more than adequate.

  “Why don’t I try to get home a little early, today?” Josh suggested. “While the kids are still at school? I can remind you how I feel about your breasts and ass?”

  But I wasn’t in the mood to be mollified. “Sure, and maybe you can catch Doris, setting up her Halloween crap,” I said with a sneer. “And if you’re really lucky, she’ll be stuffed into those hot-pink shorts you admire so much. The ones three sizes too small, that she wears for your benefit?”

  “Well, you’ve got to admit the lady’s got a terrific ass,” he remarked, with another wink.

  So, I threw the salt-shaker at him, and got my own ass bared and spanked with a plastic spatula. He was only kidding around, but it still stung like blazes, and it was only 8:28 in the morning. And since these things tend to happen in threes, it made me a little nervous.

  * * * *

  A not- too- brief word, here, about getting spanked:

  Did you know that in the dark days before Sigmund Freud and Prozac, that “insane asylums” regularly flogged or beat their patients, on the theory that it cured insanity? Or that the Greeks (or maybe it was the Romans?) believed that spanking women on a regular basis kept their buttocks soft?

  My husband is, simply put, an all-around nice guy—the nicest, kindest man I’ve ever known. Josh takes care of people. He catches house mice in a plastic cup and drives them three blocks away to set them free in an open field. In our relationship, he’s always been the one with the “cool head,” whereas I “blow my cool” with very little provocation. It’s a tendency I’ve had since childhood, which has made our life together sometimes complicated, sometimes colorful, and sometimes pure bedlam. I tend to shout, and given the opportunity to do so without retribution, I throw things—pretty much anything that I can lay my hands on. Josh is different. Josh is calm, and patient, and reasonable—up to a point. He does have a temper, and he does have his limits; and, when he reaches his limit, he reaches for a hairbrush, or a folded belt, and… well, you probably get the picture.

  So, when the moon is full, or when I simply run amuck, Josh steps in and straightens things out. Straightens me out, to be more accurate. And he’s proven to be very good at it.

  All in all, the “arrangement” we hammered out all those years ago has worked well, and life has been noticeably smoother since it was implemented. Unlike some other women I’ve read about, though, (like Madonna) I don’t actually enjoy being spanked, possibly because Josh is usually pretty tough about it. Over the years, I’ve spent a lot of time in a lot of painful and humiliating positions, devoutly wishing that I were somewhere else. Unlike all those adoring ladies out there who claim to feel serene and loving after their hubbies or significant others have just blistered their tails, I sometimes find myself planning his mysterious disappearance or emasculation.

  These feelings always pass, after a while, because Josh is usually (but not always) right about what it was that caused the problem in the first place. But with that said, I’m still not quite as sweet-natured as other “disciplined” wives, and I occasionally think evil, vengeful thoughts as I sit on my cushion at dinner.

  When I was in college, I would have left a guy who had ever dared to hit me, and had him arrested. I was the kind of woman who walked around with an ERA button on my purse and a matching bumper sticker on my VW bug. Not a feminist to be trifled with. If I’d married a man who slapped me, I would leave him on the spot. If he tried to beat me, I’d call the cops. If he took away my “privileges,” I’d ignore him and do what I wanted. But when Josh spanks me for some offense, I pay attention, and I do try to do better. I don’t know why, exactly, but spanking seems to fulfill a need in me that nothing else does. (I suppose we could have chosen some other method of discipline, but cattle prods seemed a bit harsh.) Truthfully, I’ve never had a spanking from Josh that I wanted, encouraged, or physically enjoyed. And that’s the important word—physically. Emotionally, and maybe even spiritually, some of my spankings have been valuable, and often life-changing. After the fact, and after a lot of consideration, I have even appreciated some of them, if that word doesn’t sound too dumb. I’ve begun to believe that between a man and a woman who love and trust one another, there may even be something spiritual about all this. (Okay, I know that using the word “spiritual” is going to make some people gag, but there it is.)

  Occasionally, though, I have felt a little disloyal to my sex. Let’s face it. Wife-spanking isn’t politically correct in most parts of the world. But, Josh and I are both adults, and we’ve agreed, together, that we want to do things this way. If it had been only his idea, or if had he had forced me, or even coerced me into it, then it would be wrong, absolutely. For me, though, a big part of being “a liberated woman’ is being free to make any choice I want to make about my personal behavior, and not to have to live up to someone else’s vision of feminism.

  Josh doesn’t spank me for just anything. That was never part of the deal. If I got spanked for what I do best—mouth off and be stubbornly opinionated—I’d be black and blue all the time. Josh and I have a list. It’s a constantly changing list, but a fairly short one, of what constitutes “spankable offenses.” We always make the list together, and then try to abide by it. Thus, if I choose to step over that very well-defined line previously agreed upon, I am subject to the penalties previously agreed upon. Most of the items on the list have to do with my bad habits, of which I have way too many. I’m also free, at any time, to opt out of the arrangement, and so is Josh. Both of us, at various times, have done just that. But the fact is, we keep coming back, because it works for us.

  I never get spanked for disagreeing or arguing with Josh, or even fighting. Nor do I “get it” for being generally obnoxious, willful, contrary, or being a less-than-ideal housekeeper. As Josh cheerfully points out, he knew all that when he married me.

  Lying, on the other hand, is always a spankable offense, and completely non-negotiable. Even the smallest fib can end with at least a few good swats. My husband is the most honest person I have ever known. Me? Well, not so much. When I lie to him about something, Josh says it shows a lack of trust. (I usually see it as simply being creative.) The fact is I’ve spent more time over Josh’s knee with my pants down and my behind on fire for lying to him than for anything else. I’m apparently a very slow learner.

  “Inappropriate” language is another problem. Josh does swear, by the way—like a longshoreman, on occasion. The difference is, he never does it in front of our kids or anybody else’s, women (other than me) or the elderly. I am not quite as circumspect, and would probably start using the “F” word in front of the Pope is he hung around for long.

  Seat belts. I think Josh has had one ticket in his whole damned life, for an illegal left-hand turn when he was seventeen years old, and he’s a fanatic a
bout seat belts, whereas I am always late, for everything, so speeding is sort of a way of life. One time, when Eric was eight months old, I got stopped for speeding. (47 mph in a 35mph zone.) The baby was tucked safely in his own car seat, but I, of course, wasn’t wearing my seat belt. I will remember the spanking Josh gave me that night when I’m a white haired great-great grandmother, older than my beloved Grandma Helen. I still squirm when I think about it, and I’ve never driven a car since that day without buckling up.

  The next item on the “list” is not finishing what I start, but it has to be something important. I rarely finish the dishes, mopping the floor, or get the laundry done on time, for instance. Nor have I finished painting the dining room (two years and counting.) What Josh originally meant by this one was my finishing college. I have “gone back” four times, and dropped out each time, usually the night before the final term paper comes due or just before the final for which I haven’t studied. Josh has promised that the next time I drop out, I’m going to get “The Spanking to End All Spankings.” I’m not sure what this means, but Josh assures me that I’m getting perilously close to finding out.

  Other behaviors that will bring on a spanking are: What Josh calls my fourteen-year-old temper tantrums, like throwing things, screaming, slamming doors. Especially when used on innocent bystanders. (Ask me sometime about the waitress I yelled at in Las Vegas, and what happened when we got back at our hotel. No, on second thought, don’t ask. )

  A rather obscure category, rarely enforced, has to do with my eating habits, which are abysmal. I’m lazy and indolent, and regard Hershey Bars and Double-Fudge Oreos as two of the major food groups. Josh, on the other hand, consumes far too many vegetables to be normal, and works out every day, without fail. Personally, I think he invented this category for the day I end up in the emergency room after scarfing down two boxes of Mallomars at one sitting. He just wants to feel justified in coming to the hospital and spanking the daylights out of me under the watchful eye of a room full of medical professionals.

  * * * *

  Shopping wasn’t as much fun that year as it usually was, maybe because I had a stricter budget, or maybe because I was starting to understand how Josh felt about the annual competition between Doris and me. I guess I’ve always known the whole Halloween nonsense was about jealousy, but I couldn’t admit it. I wasn’t really jealous of Josh, but of Doris. Josh was right, you see. She does have a great ass, and a knockout figure. The inflatable chest was just the icing on an already delicious cake. Doris didn’t need the stupid implants, but I suppose she has her own demons. I’ve never been beautiful, so I can’t really understand what it’s like to have it and lose it, and then lose your husband to a younger woman with an even bigger inflatable chest—which is what happened to Doris.

  After two solid days of shopping, I hauled the last of my purchases home, and began the engineering phase of the giant spider display. What I had envisioned were two major webs, each one attached to opposite edges of the porch roof, and extending out into the front yard. Visitors to the house on Halloween night would have to make their way under the webs, upon which a four-foot long, black Styrofoam spider lurked. Wispy threads of black webbing would hang down to add to the effect, and the whole scene would be lit with a flashing, eerie green strobe light. I, wearing the fabulous Spiderwoman costume I was in the process of putting together, would supervise the handing out of candy bars, while Eric operated the sound effects and the fog machine. Josh, of course, would be off in a squad car that night, patrolling the streets, but he promised to swing by the house to see how things were going.

  It took Josh, Eric and I two full days to get the spiders and the webs hung, and though they hung a bit crookedly, the effect was terrific. I went to bed that night a tired but happy woman, anticipating my day of triumph. Doris would be green with envy.

  * * * *

  I waited for several days for Doris to start her own Halloween decorating, but nothing happened for close to a week. Then, one morning, after Josh had already left for the precinct, three white trucks pulled up in front of the Morrison house. Six guys in jumpsuits hopped out and started pounding stakes in the grass, and minutes later, the lawn was covered with what looked like enormous piles of laundry. Doris was cheating again, by renting the props for her Halloween display. I stood by my dining room window and watched as the men hauled what turned out to be air pumps from the last truck. Soon, the piles of laundry began to move, growing taller and wider, until it became obvious that Doris was preparing to stage an inflatable spectacle to rival the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade.

  The first object to take shape and become recognizable was a scowling jack o’lantern the size of a damned Holiday Inn. It was taller than the house, and if it had been a house, the entire neighborhood could have moved in and not felt cramped.

  Next to appear were two smaller jack o’lanterns, one on each side of Big Jack, himself These were modestly sized—approximately the size of a couple of double-deck tour buses. I felt my stomach begin to churn. Not only was she cheating. She was cheating big!

  Before long, the Morrison front yard resembled a giant’s vegetable garden that had been fertilized with nuclear waste. Okay, so under normal circumstances, vegetables don’t have the scare factor of my Styrofoam spiders, but the sheer size of these puffy orange monsters was somehow nightmarish—the sort of thing you end up dreaming about after wolfing down a whole platter of jalapeno tacos and a couple of pitchers of margaritas.

  And then, the farmer arrived. A severely overweight, twelve-foot tall inflated hayseed wearing bib overalls, a straw hat and checkered shirt, and a toothy grin that looked capable of swallowing a minivan. A garish pink pig completed the bucolic scene, but moments after its appearance, the inflatable Babe slipped his tether and drifted off over the hedge into the back yard, where he had an unfortunate encounter with a rake, and drowned in Doris’s swimming pool.

  When the guys in the white coveralls had finished erecting the striped circus tent and strewing the lawn with hay, they packed up and left. Before they drove away, though, they paused long enough to string a six-foot banner across Doris’s circular driveway, advising trick-or-treaters to drop by on Halloween night for their complimentary pumpkins, king-sized candy bars, and the absolutely free drawings for a Blu-ray player and two bikes.

  * * * *

  With my throne in grave danger of being usurped, I knew it was time to regroup.

  This wasn’t the first time Doris had imported inflatable creatures. She loves them. She’s probably as bonkers as I am about holiday decorating, and she’s got a lot more money to play with. Around four years ago, she started putting up inflatable pilgrims at Thanksgiving, progressed to bulbous snowmen and Santa Clauses at Christmas, and a week before the Fourth of July, I walked out onto my porch and saw two inflated founding fathers conferring on her front lawn. I called Josh immediately.

  “She bought this pair of humungous blow-up presidents,” I shrieked into the phone. “George Washington and some other dude I think is supposed to be Thomas Jefferson, but he looks more like John Lennon. And there’s this huge, nylon sleeve shaped like a firecracker, with a fan inside, like they put up to advertise used car lots? You know what the damned thing looks like when it’s flopping around like that?”

  “Yeah,” he said wearily. “ I think I can get the picture.”

  “Well, anyway, it looks gross. I’ll bet all the neighbors complain.”

  He chuckled. “Appropriate really, knowing Doris the way I do … and that’s just an expression, by the way.”

  “You’re right about it being appropriate, I grumbled. “Of course, everything about Doris is inflated. From her ego to her chest. I can’t believe that men still like that kind of thing.”

  “Don’t try to lay that on me,” Josh protested. “Have I ever seemed unhappy with the uninflated chest I come home to every day?

  I decided that this remark was probably not meant the way it sounded, but rather, that it was an app
reciative comment on my unaffected inner beauty and natural endowment.

  “The bitch is out there, right now,” I crowed, “in a pair of shorts two sizes too small for her, showing off her inflated–”

  “Could you try to crank down the rotten mood just a little before I get there?” he asked, sounding a little less amused by the conversation than he had been a few minutes earlier.

  “I’m not in a rotten mood,” I protested. “I’m simply reporting what I see. Why do you always defend her?”

  “I’m not defending her. I’m just trying to head off another range war.”

  “By taking her side?”

  “I have to get back to work,” he said wearily.

  “Yes, darling, I know,” I cooed sweetly. “I do recognize that this village of nearly 23,000 citizens is a seething cesspool of crime, but I had hoped you might be able to tear yourself away from the pursuit of evildoers for just a few minutes, to talk to your wife and the mother of your children. Please forgive me for bothering you.” And then, I slammed down the receiver, cutting him off in the middle of a sentence. When the phone rang again, twenty seconds later, I ignored it.

  Not the smartest move. Josh came home at the usual time that night. When he walked into the kitchen, I was still rummaging through the fridge for something to cook for dinner. As he passed by, he didn’t say anything, just tossed up the hem of my skirt and landed one quick, stinging smack across my rear end.

  “That hurt!” I yelped.

  “Glad to hear it. I’d hate to think I’m losing my touch. Hang up on me, again, and see what happens.”

  When George Washington suffered a terrible accident the day before the Fourth, guess who got the blame? Good guess. Now, try guessing who got bent over the kitchen sink with her underwear at half-mast, and walloped with a wooden spoon until her ass looked like a matched pair of candy apples? Right again!