Among all my other endeavors, I recently began working in retail. One would imagine that working in retail would have nothing to do with the subject of this blog, aside from the fact that the store in which I’m employed sells wooden spoons, rubber spatulas, hairbrushes, bath brushes and decorative bundles of bamboo rods. Originally, I felt slightly embarrassed whenever someone purchased one of these items, and I was much more uncomfortable if they came through the line to buy one of those things and nothing else, but it wasn’t noteworthy. Let’s face it: I’ve got spanking on the brain all the time, and any indicator that a stranger knows what I’m thinking about makes me feel paranoid and terrified, so these little discomforts were no different than my daily life has been for as long as I can remember. There was one awkward incident where a woman came into the line with two spoons and asked me which one I thought was “sturdier,” and that was particularly awkward for me because I could give a very thorough answer indeed if I had wanted to, but I figured that was as bad as things would ever become there.
One day in the middle of December we selected names for our Secret Santas and I thought nothing of it, besides the fact that I am generally not particularly good at gift giving, especially when it comes to strangers. The first Friday arrived and I dropped off my gift in the break room. During my lunch, later, I found a package marked “ALEX” sitting on the table there and, while several of my coworkers watched, I opened it up.
It was a rubber spatula.
Now, several people to whom I’ve recounted this story have responded that there’s nothing abnormal about giving someone a spatula, but you have to admit that it’s a very weird gift, especially when there was nothing else with it. If it was part of a baking related set, or if any of my coworkers at the time were aware of the fact that I was fond of domesticity then it might have been acceptable. It could conceivably have just been a totally random gift. I guess it does have a nice green color.
It didn’t matter what the giver’s intention was. I turned bright red, despite my best efforts to play it off. For my entire life, I’ve been paranoid that people look at me and can tell that I’m a spanko, and this seemed like some kind of terribly cruel evidence that this is the case. I hid the spatula in my locker for about a week before I felt brave enough to bring it home, and when I did, I threw it in the pile of implements in the bedroom because I couldn’t imagine myself using it for cooking. It has yet to see any kind of use.
I would have greatly enjoyed if this was the end of my work related spanking stories, but alas, this is not the case. About a week before I went away for the holidays, I received a particularly hard spanking. I had a large and extremely tender bruise on the lower part of my bottom on the right side and on the top of my right thigh. Perhaps my least favorite thing about this particular job is the fact that I have to wear pants while working (which is the subject of a whole other post entirely) and said pants are extremely uncomfortable against a sore bottom. The day after this spanking, I was walking through work and trying to pretend that every step I took didn’t feel like someone was tightly grabbing my bruises and rubbing them with sandpaper. While doing this, I ran into my favorite coworker. He’s a bit older than I am, physically attractive, educated, witty, clever and amusingly bossy towards me. I’ve harbored fantasies that the rubber spatula came from him because he’s secretly a spanko, too, but I also know that my amazing luck for meeting awesome spankos in vanilla life isn’t going to last forever and that’s probably not the case.
This particular day, my coworker asked me to do him a favor which, being the polite and helpful girl I am at all times, I sarcastically refused and instead stuck my tongue out at him. I was, however, not expecting what happened next. My coworker gripped me by the shoulders, spun me around and gave me a playful but firm swat on the backside. By sadistic luck, he hit me directly on my bruise and I let out a yelp.
I knew that I had technically been sexually harassed, and I was hugely embarrassed by the fact that it happened, but on some level, I was rather pleased about it. As long as no one had seen, I saw no reason why it should ever be brought up again, since it clearly did me no harm and was meant in good fun.
Unfortunately again, someone did see. A coworker reported it, and the two of us got called into the main office and scolded about sexual harassment and how I should have reported it straight away and how “spanking is not appropriate for the work place.” I nearly died.
Because this story involves me, however, it gets worse. The whole thing was not a particularly private ordeal. Several people knew about what happened, it turns out, and they all talked to their friends and soon I overheard someone saying “Alex? You know? The girl who got spanked?” when referring to me.
That’s a very accurate nickname for me. Alex-the-girl-who-got-spanked. Except it isn’t so much in the past tense most of the time.
So now, when I’m working there, my coworkers make spanking related jokes to me whenever they can.
“Get spanked recently, Alex?”
“Having trouble sitting today?”
“Better do what you’re told so you don’t get spanked again!”
They have no idea how true these statements are. Unless they’re reading right now, that is. 0_0