Finding Vera
by Jack LennoxAny resemblance to real persons or organizations is purely coincidental.
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August 1994
My mind outside my body, looking down at a moment insignificant to the universe, but where all my worlds collide.
Nirvana's Heart-Shaped Box was grinding and snarling its way through the decadent cavern known as The Casualty Club. The place was packed. A line had formed at the door to the rancid closet of a bathroom, but wasn't moving because a romantic couple was busy inside exchanging bodily fluids. The Stiff Trousers were on a break, but would be screaming at us shortly. The feeling that I was standing at some nexus in time had passed, and I was again just another spiky-haired Romeo looking to get lucky on a Saturday night. I choked on a little smoke and spotted through the gloom four girls standing in a cluster. My eye was drawn to only one of them.
I was 18, just out of high school. Diploma displayed proudly, my "big picture" was a composition of schemes for avoiding work. The ratty club, located in Denver's oldest, seediest section of town was as much a home to me as anywhere, but recently I'd succeeded in finding a rent-free place to live--a tiny detached guest house offered to me by my bud, Dave. Dave had an even better gig; he got to live in the big house with his parents. And more good fortune had smiled on me. I had just gained access to seventy-two thousand dollars, sitting momentarily in the bank from a lawsuit filed on my behalf when I was 12. The scars, six years later, were barely visible.
I didn't know the girl. I didn't know why I couldn't stop looking at her. About my age, I figured an impartial eye might describe her as something between pretty and plain. Her features were attractive, but not quite harmonized; large eyes, nose a bit strong, chin a bit square, face a bit long. I guessed she was a natural blonde--something vaguely Scandinavian about her. Straight golden hair parted in the middle hung limply to her shoulders, but framed her head nicely. She was slim, compact, feminine, but did not possess the graceful architecture of a model, or the amplified curves of a centerfold. She wore a short skirt revealing girlish bare legs, and her long feet, in mules, splayed outward giving her a curious posture. In my youthfully charitable way, I imagined she led a suburban white-bread existence, had a cranky brother named Earl who smoked Pall Malls while he overhauled transmissions in his backyard, and had lost her virginity several years ago in the backseat of a Firebird with some testosterone jockey her parents had told her to stay away from. My eyes saw alleged imperfections, but every synapse firing in my brain, every corpuscle pumping through my veins insisted that she was, after all, perfect.
Someone was in my face, shouting over the music. I was forced to engage in several forms of handshake marking a conspicuous display of macho camaraderie. It took me a moment to place him. Tim, the dude who bought Dave's bass last year. He tried to sell us some tweak at a party a few months later. He noticed my distraction, and I pointed out the girl. He managed a lewd comment, but obviously didn't share my enthusiasm. I wasn't sharing his enthusiasm for our grand reunion, and after a grave parting of the ways, I returned to my reverie.
It was bewildering. Sure, I liked to look at beautiful girls. No news flash there. I certainly wasn't alone. Who hasn't turned on a TV, read a magazine, gone to a movie, or walked through a mall without some fascinating creature willing them to buy something they don't need, or seducing them to stick with that vapid bit of doubtful entertainment long after their intelligence has been insulted? The show isn't limited to pulp and plastic. Beauty has become Western Civilization's prime commodity. Still, I hadn't fallen for a girl since that little redhead in seventh grade. I've never been struck down like the night I saw Vera.
I told myself that "love at first sight" is for preening airheads who exchange astrological signs with "Achy Breaky Heart" playing in the background. I didn't know anything about this girl. Was her heart cold? Was her mind dull? Was her soul empty? I forced myself to glance away periodically so I didn't look like Ted Bundy at a sorority party. But, as I watched her, something about the way she smiled unselfconsciously, or the way she studied her companions' chatter with amused intent, or the way they listened to her restrained verbosity with apparent affection and respect, gave me a very good feeling.
I had to meet her. It wasn't to be. I couldn’t dream up a scenario in which I could interrupt her conversation without looking like a tube steak. I began to wander, bumping into other clusters of wholesome 90's youth, some trying hard to convey the impression that they were not enjoying themselves, others, with the aid of proscribed pharmaceuticals, bouncing off the walls maniacally. Minutes later, I looked for her. She had gone. Something, somewhere, between pretty and plain, I would never forget her face.
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November 5, 2001 9:32 PM
It had just dawned on me that we were a sad posse of dorks. I'm sitting alone, in a lonely apartment, having just spent the evening with six other lonely souls calling ourselves the "Rocky Mountain Digital Photography Guild", also known cleverly as RMDPG. Rolls off the tongue, yes? I'd sat watching for thirty minutes as Tony set up equipment that a blind tree sloth could have had up and running in twenty-eight. I'd dozed for another hour while Engineer Jeff read from a legal pad that painstakingly itemized every cryptic function of some new piece of software he assured us we would all need if we wanted to be viable candidates for Geek of the Week. Linda showed a video that chronicled her trip to the Fort Collins Toy Train Museum, all captured through the magic of digital technology. Sadly, the eleven RMDPG members who didn't show up will never know what they missed. As I sit like the living dead in my dark little room, my sour puss illuminated only by a computer screen, the evening's excitement drains from me like a soft mushy fart.
I'd only owned the computer for about six months. I'd been dragged kvetching into the digital age by my photography peers after almost six years of managing with a standard 35mm SLR and traditional darkroom techniques. I've sold thousands of photos to publishing houses and started teaching last year at the Community College. To be honest, I've quickly learned to love the opportunities the technology affords me. The freedom from film, and the correction and creativity possible once the image enters the realm of the computer pumps new excitement into the job, dare I say art. Last week, Bill Hermanson got me hooked up to the Internet. Yesterday, I discovered search engines. Tonight, I go to Google in my browser. Do I need kleenex for that? I type eight letters in the "Search" box using my patented "hunt-stab-miss-backspace-peck-sigh" technique.
S P A N K I N G
I stare at the word wondering if the yahoo fairies somehow keep a record of everything you type. In my mind, I hear a jarring knock on the door, and it's the FBI tracking down net-pervs.
Actually, the word is a bit unnerving, but that's probably just me. I've felt that way as far back as I can remember. An incident long ago surfaces; I haven't thought of it in many years, but then memories of my childhood are pretty fuzzy. I’m eleven. Mrs. Sommer, babysitter and part-time Godzilla, has stopped by with her two daughters. She's seated, talking to my mom from across the kitchen table. She's a large woman, but it's her mouth that's too big for any space she occupies. Her oldest daughter, let's call her Anna (I don't remember her name, but she looks like an Anna) is cute as hell. She’s about my age, and looks like a little blonde princess. The other daughter is a few years younger. Mrs. Sommer, for some odd reason, loves talking about spanking. It's spanking this, and spanking that. As we kids stand there, ill at ease, she explains to my mom how Anna sassed her the other day, had her pants taken down, and got a spanking with a wooden ruler. I'm aware that Anna is now more than just uncomfortable. I'm too embarrassed to look at her.
In that acutely awkward moment I had experienced an odd mixture of feelings and not for the first time. I didn't know or understand their origin, but they were powerful and came from a place very early in my life. As a teenager, I can't remember how many times I tried to imagine what a spanking like Anna's may have looked like, how it may have sounded.
As the word stares back at me from my computer screen, I wonder what a search will bring. I'm aware that Spanking is a widely recognized fetish. I know several companies make spanking videos; I even own a few. But how prevalent is it? I figure probably about as much as underwater rugby. I press Enter. The screen blinks at me, and it takes a few moments for me to focus on what it reveals--a list that is, apparently, over five million items long.
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November 6, 2001 2:40 AM
I know me fat heads achin' and the clock, she is a tickin'. But though me bleary eyes be wat'rin, the finger keeps a clickin'.
Apparently, the mind also be a goin'. I've been following links for over 5 hours. At the rate I'm going, I figure just another 25,000 hours to the end of the list. Seriously, a lot of the links were duplicated, useless, or worse, but I am awed by the seemingly massive interest in the subject. How is it that a culture keeps something this big in the closet? What is it about the Internet that lures everybody out of it? The stigma of sexually related practices that don't follow narrowly defined patterns as mandated by an uptight puritan heritage? The safety of relative anonymity in an environment that affords an easy opportunity for personal expression? Hmmm...?
I'm about to call it a night, but spot a link promising me that bad girls get spanked. Okay, just one more...I swear.
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BadGirlsGetSpanked.com
Welcome to the world of BadGirlsGetSpanked.com. Here you'll find real bad girls getting real good spankings. If you've been looking for a site that delivers completely original content showing how misbehaving girls get their bare bottoms blistered then click on the Join button now.
The girls who come to us have behavior problems. They are not actresses. We are not actors. They are here to be punished. If you want to see them punished then click on the Join button now.
Tired of sites that promise real spankings but don't deliver? Tired of sites that promise real videos but only deliver short clips that leave you wondering? Then click on the Join button now.
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Stop...with the Join button. I'm not ready to join anything. I scroll and see the faces of four girls pictured at the bottom of the page--The BadGirls "models"--18 and over, of course.
HOLY SHIT!
Four girls, but my eye drawn to only one of them. Cue the theme from Twilight Zone. It's the girl from The Casualty Club. It's been over seven years, but I know it's her. The same face, perhaps unremarkable, but not to me. My heart's in my throat. It's a more mature face now, still young, but not quite as fresh. She hasn't changed her simply beautiful hairstyle. She looks like an angel who hasn't been singing in the church choir. I click on her cute, high-arched upper lip. It takes me to a page with a close-up of a girl's bared bottom. It's a really nice bottom, girlish, tight and round, skin like a baby's. Apparently, it belongs to Julie. It tells me that Julie is a girl who hangs out in pool halls, parties too hard, and often gets in trouble. It says that if I click on the Join button now, I can see how "Uncle Bob" straightens her out with a wooden paddle.
I click on the Join button now.
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November 6, 2001 3:48 AM
Tonight I've gotten a real eye opener. Hundreds of images have popped up on my computer screen, each freezing the drama of spanking in an instant of pain or pleasure; embarrassment or exhibitionism; submission or play; punishment or reward. After downloading some plug-in, I was shown tiny videos depicting the actual sight and sound of naughty bottoms getting their just desserts. Now, though, I'm not thinking about spanking. I'm about to see Julie.
I just copied the numbers off my credit card and made BadGirlsGetSpanked.com thirty-nine dollars and ninety-nine cents richer. I entered my name and password, and wasting no time, clicked my way to "Julie Meets Uncle Bob". I was advised to download the movie, estimated download time 40 minutes. I went and made some coffee realizing that it might be my breakfast. Finally, I start the movie and figure out how to make it twice the size on screen. It's a bit blocky, the audio is noisy, the color isn't quite right, but Julie's face looks good. More than good. In my mind, I've looked into those big blue-gray eyes, and kissed that expressive and generous mouth a thousand times. The emotion she portrays in the close-up fluctuates from pensive to detached, but we know she's waiting for something. The sound of heels on a hardwood floor and a door opening. The camera pulls back instantly to a wide view of the room from a high angle, and a tall brunette dressed in a business suit enters. Julie sits in front of a large office desk. The woman walks toward the camera, around the desk, and sits facing her with her back to the camera. The mystery woman shuffles some papers around before speaking in a methodical monotone.
"On the morning of June second, 4:24 A.M., you, Julie Smith, were cited for disturbing the peace and criminal mischief. It has been determined that you are guilty as charged. Your punishment shall be a spanking with the paddle. Remove your pants, shirt, and shoes. Uncle Bob will be with you shortly."
The woman gets up and leaves the room, but we can hope that she will move us again with another poignant performance. I have no idea what, if any, real-world scenario this is supposed to be related to, but I don't really care. It's official sounding, and Julie is in trouble. A quick close-up shows her direful expression. Her nervousness is apparent. I remind myself that she is a willing subject. A side camera view shows her rise and she begins to undress. She kicks off clogs, leaving white feet bare. The removal of her shirt reveals a lacy tight-fitting camisole that hugs her slender torso just above her bellybutton. Its thin straps are held up by delicate small-boned shoulders, and its bodice holds ample breasts that nevertheless conform to a girlish figure. Julie slips fingers into the waistband of her loose-fitting pants, pushes downward, and allows gravity to deposit them in a pile at her feet. She steps out of them, bends, picks, folds, and places. The judges give her a ten. A lacy white thong panty matches her top, the translucent material forming a V where it barely conceals the mound of her womanhood. Her pale skin is marred only by a tattoo just inside her right hip.
I’m aware that I’m still wearing the jeans I came home in last night, and they’re getting a little tight. Mr. Happy is a bit too happy. I didn't realize Julie had such a sexy body, but it confirms what I already know. She is more a woman now, but I recognize the posture created by the slight misalignment of her lower leg bones and long flat feet.
A sound startles Julie; her head twists to look toward its source. A man bursts into view, grabs her arm, and propels her in a direction away from the camera. We have no time to take in his countenance; he is simply a brute force that has abruptly robbed Julie of all control over her own destiny--like a windstorm picks up a leaf to deposit it according to its own design. As he moves away from us, we see a solid bulky figure in white shirt and gray slacks, thinning hair, gray at the edges. He angers me. Julie is being treated like a sack of potatoes, practically picked up and carried by her slender left arm. Although she is almost his height, she is walking on her toes, and her feet actually leave the floor as she tries to keep pace, or resist, I'm not sure which. Against my nature, I want to punch this "Uncle Bob", but then reconsider. I think Julie may want it this way.
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November 6, 2001 4:10 AM
I am both excited and relieved. The little movie just ended and it was both more and less than I'd expected. Julie did get a real spanking, but on a line that measures punishment, it turned out to fall reasonably shy of brutality. Yet, I was still struck by its crude drama. It was not merely a bit of bizarre entertainment thrown together to sell a video, but rather an uncompromising view of a fetish born from a need for punishment and a particularly humbling form of it. I try to imagine how "Julie Meets Uncle Bob" would be perceived by someone outside of the spanking scene. I can't.
The spanking took place in a room somewhere--just a couple blank white walls. Maybe the set designer called in sick that day. Seated on a sturdy wooden stool, "Uncle Bob" maintained a strict no-nonsense attitude. He had the rugged looks of a character actor--the jowly-faced police captain who hasn't chased a crook since back in the old days when his beer belly was only in its first trimester. He had Julie stand in front of him while he scolded her harshly. Her head bowed, hands wringing, she already looked desperately contrite. Soon, she was dangling over his knee looking completely helpless and vulnerable. She's not a particularly short girl, but Bob was sitting too high for her to reach the floor with hands or feet. The paddle was one of those little toys you can buy in the grocery store, the kind that comes with a ball and rubber band attached. It looked fairly flimsy, especially in ol' Bob's meaty paw, but the way he smacked her with it she got stung pretty good. The thong panties covered nothing in back, so she got it bare. I can still hear the high brittle sound of the wood meeting skin.
Julie made little attempt to remain stoic. I sensed the spanking was some kind of real catharsis for her. There was no holding back a flood of emotions that manifested themselves as an all-out kick & howl fest. Uncle Bob refused to be impressed by her sincerity. Regardless, though, of how much she may have overreacted, before it was through, she had one cherry-red bottom. The ritual ended with Julie standing in the corner, bad girl in disgrace.
By the time the little drama was over, I had to let Mr. Happy out for a ride. Watching Julie get spanked is one of the most exciting things I've ever seen. That’s a mystery I haven’t quite solved--enjoying someone else's pain--hurting someone you love. Somehow, I knew it was good for her, and that made it okay.
There's a short bio page for each "BadGirl" that is fairly useless but for an email link that allows members to send a message. It occurs to me that the forty bucks I just spent may be the best investment I've ever made.
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November 6, 2001 3:20 PM
Hate to sound melodramatic, but I'm in shock. Today, I got an email reply. Rather than explain, it would be simpler just to let you read it:
Date: Wed, 6 Nov 2001 7:12:46 -0700
To: darrenmayfellow@yahoo.com
Subject: Re: A blast from the past
From: vesommer@denverlink.net.Hi Darren! It's Vera Sommer! from Aurora. It's a bigger blast from the past than you think. Maybe you don't remember me because we were awfully young. My mom used to take care of you and your brother in Littleton when your parents were on vacation. This is creepy, but it is still nice to hear from you. Your email was very sweet. I think you might have subconsciously recognized me at the club. Funny, it was the only time I ever went to that place. It was horrible. : ) You're right, I don't think I saw you. I think I would have recognized you, but maybe not.
Mom died almost 5 years ago. A heart attack, she had a lot of health problems the last few years. Dani got married last year and moved to South Carolina with her husband Will. You might remember my dad left us when I was little. I still live in Aurora just around the block from our old house. Nobody here left but me. I work in a small office. Cross country towing. YUCK! : )
Some of the best times I remember were when mom was sick that time, and Dani and I stayed with your family. Your mom was so nice, and smart. Your dad and brother were real funny. You were always so serious. Remember we went to the Denver Zoo. I had a crush on you, and I think you had one on me. : ) We heard about the accident. I was so relieved when I heard you'd gotten out of the hospital. I was really bummed when our moms had that falling out and my mom wouldn't allow us to come see any of you again. I didn't understand it at the time, but now I think I know what your mom must have said to cause it.
I wish you could have found me under different circumstances. I have a lot of mixed feelings about my face being on the net, such as it is. I like doing it and it helps pay the bills. I guess maybe you might understand the origins of my kink a little too well. I'm not ashamed of it, but it's so personal. It's kind of uncomfortable. I get emails from people I don't know and that's fun. It's different when you know the person. I must admit that it's interesting you have the kink too.
I'm emailing from my real account. If you want to reply, I would like that. I'd love to know how you and your family are doing.
Love,
VeraI clicked Reply. I'd found Vera, and this time I wasn't going to let her get away without giving myself a chance.