What Tears Were Made For

12 Strokes of the Tawse from Please Not My Hands

My dryer broke today. I spent hours trying to figure out what was wrong with it, because I rent my house and do not want to have to call my landlady. That would require cleaning the house first, and I'd rather just replace the belt or motor in the dryer if possible. First I cleaned behind the dryer, removing dust bunnies so large I could have named them. Then I spent forever trying to open the top to check the belt. The belt was fine. (Can I just say how sad it makes me that I am writing about my dryer belt and not my husband's belt across my bottom? This is very sad news.) The only thing left to check is the motor, which most likely needs to be replaced. Problem being: I need to get into the back of the dryer to check the motor.

The washer and dryer are wedged into a tight space between two walls. I realized today that the reason the washer, which is newer than the dryer, is dented in the middle is because it was forced into place. That means that the dryer is not coming out. No way, no how. Nor is the washer. They are going to be set between those two walls until the end of time.

Some of you would have very much enjoyed the positions I got into to attempt to move these large appliances. I had just exercised, after which I realized the dryer had broken, as I was trying to multi-task. So I was still in workout gear - snug-fitting running pants and black tank, hair in a pony-tail and cheeks flush with oxygen - when I got down on the floor, braced myself in any number of ways, and attempted to pull the dryer even inches farther than the wall. I'm not beneath hopping behind it to find a fix. I may not be the most physically fit girl in the world, but when I'm determined, I'll do what it takes to get the thing done.

Nothing worked. That thing is so wedged in there that I exhausted every muscle in my body to no avail. Sitting on the floor, right foot braced on one wall, left foot braced on the other, I just began to cry. I've had a ridiculous week in terms of my day job, and all I wanted to do today was work on my new story, work on moving my blog, and work on visiting my friends' blogs. Trying to fix a dryer, or cleaning my entire house so the landlady can get the dryer fixed, was not on the menu. So I wept full sobs of angst. And then I realized that there were better things to cry for.

I came over to the computer and pulled up my old film, "Please Not My Hands." I've been fantasizing a lot about the tawse lately, and had already intended to write a post today entailing my most recent fantasy, which quite literally made me collapse into orgasm earlier, before the dryer debacle. I'd been on my knees at the edge of the bed, as I like to be, and I actually fell forward onto the mattress. Anyhow, the fantasy used then most definitely needs to be written about here, but for now, as it was easier to render a clip and write about appliances, here is a full dozen strokes of the tawse. In this part, I am already openly crying because I've received the tawse on my hands as well as 24 strokes across my bottom. Just when I think it's over, Mr. W decides I need 12 more, and wants to make me count them. There is much sobbing, many exclamations of "ow," and yes, my softly pliant (i.e. a bit fleshy, but do we really care? no, no we don't) backside whipped quite well.

I'm posting this as much to remind myself that there are good things to cry about and stupid things to cry about as I am posting it for your viewing pleasure. There is much weeping. But you've probably already watched it and didn't bother with my diatribe about my dryer. If you did, thanks for listening! I'm still panicking, but I do always feel better about the world when I share my naked bum with it.