Resolution, Part 2

The conversation was civil but it wasn’t pleasant. I started by letting her know how I felt during Tuesday morning’s incident. I tried to explain that it wasn’t about her needs versus my needs on weekday mornings, but about her being aggressive when it wasn’t called for, treating me as the enemy. I pointed out that it was exactly the behavior I wrote about in my letter: a pre-emptive attack in lieu of simply stating her needs. I told her I’d been beating myself up all week over my not stepping up the way I’d promised to in my letter. That I felt as if I’d failed my duty to both of us by lapsing into our established pattern, defending myself instead of letting her know right away how out of line she was.

She told me how she’d been feeling at the time. That she felt I was just riding right over her (uncommunicated) needs, that the “new regime” (her words) meant that I could do whatever I wanted and she had no say in it. My taking charge—although as yet hardly acted upon—made her feel defensive, leading to her aggressiveness. This was good information for me, and I talked with her about it until it was clear to me that she knew her feeling wasn’t based on fact. I repeated that I viewed my leadership as a serious responsibility that meant making an effort to meet her needs whenever they didn’t clash with mine, which I view as equal in importance, not greater. I understood her feelings, but they didn’t excuse her approach.

When I thought we’d understood each other’s positions, I asked her if she remembered what I said I’d do if she disrespected me the way she used to. “No,” she said. “I said I’m going to punish you,” I said, gently.

“So what does that mean?” she asked, her face hardened.

“I’m going to spank you today. I’m not going to punish you hard, because I should have handled this earlier…”

“What do you mean, you’re not going to punish me hard?” Her voice was challenging.

I was confused by the question. “I’m not going to punish you hard,” I repeated.

“What do you mean, not hard?”

“I mean I’m not going to punish you as hard as I might in another circumstance.”

“But what do you mean by hard?” It was her voice that was hard. I felt interrogated, but I didn’t feel threatened. I tried to explain in another way.

“Well, I’m not going to make you cry…”

“You’re telling me that you would actually try to make me cry?” said Anne, shocked and offended.

It’s a story for another time, but I had spanked her once before, almost two years ago. Just three slaps, exceedingly light. All the same, she had sobbed uncontrollably and told me several times in succeeding months how I’d spanked her hard. Because I literally could hardly spank her any more lightly, I had a good indication that tears were likely to be a part of any future spankings.

“Yes,” I said evenly.

To my surprise, she didn’t follow up on that with a lecture on the innate cruelty of my character. She changed the subject, and the next ten minutes ran the gamut of protests and hard questions. What about the humiliation factor? Did I think she was a child and I was her father? Spanking is for kids. Exactly why did I think that spanking could ever be a good thing in an adult marriage? Didn’t I see how arcane, how weird, how off-the-wall it was? Didn’t it turn me on sexually, and wasn’t that icky?

To say I had good answers for all of these questions would be a lie. Many of them were good questions, and Anne was utterly convincing in her outrage. I had two advantages: I was calm, and I was resolved. I listened to everything she had to say, and gave her the respect she deserved.

“If you can look me in the eyes,” I said to Anne, “and tell me that this isn’t fair, I won’t punish you today.” She looked at me, but she didn’t say anything.

When she’d spent her arguments, I told her that being equal and without a plan for the first ten years of our marriage had not worked out for us. And while she had great talents in business and in many other areas, between the two of us, she was not the most qualified to run the relationship. She didn’t read books about marriage and love, as I did, and when I asked her to read them, she had no comment on them. She wasn’t patient or interested with research on effective communication, either: it was just so much pop psychology to her. By contrast (I told her), I spent quite a few hours a day thinking about how to make our marriage better. I couldn’t keep living the way we’d been living, and I wanted—needed—to give this radical change a try.

“So you’re saying it’s this, or…” Anne said. She meant I wasn’t giving her a choice, that it was DD or end the marriage.

I thought. “How do I put this? If we don’t try this, Anne, I don’t know what will happen. We need a change, and I have no Plan B.”

I could see her think. She had no more questions to ask, no more charges to level, and I was still resolved. Her face changed. It was not a happy face, but she’d made a decision. “All right,” she said. “I have no Plan B, either.” And she was done talking.

I stepped away a few feet and pulled a straight-backed chair from the dining room. She went over my lap on her own. I don’t know how it felt to her, but for me, it was a strangely comfortable feeling, as if she’d always been intended to be there. She was wearing elastic cotton tights over panties. I ran my hand over her bottom and slapped her very lightly, on the left and on the right.

She wasn’t sobbing, but she was weeping softly. She didn’t struggle. I gave her ten, about two seconds apart. I increased the force slightly. The last slap was still short of the force I use when applauding at a concert. “Okay,” I murmured. “We’re done.”

She stood up and buried her face in her hands, crying. I put my arms around her and told her I was proud of her, that she was a strong, adult woman. I held her for a little while, but she didn’t relax into me. I let her go and watched her. I put my hand on her back. “I can stay here with you. Would you rather I go away?” She nodded, still turned away from me, not speaking. “Okay. I’ll be here if you need me.” I went into the kitchen and started doing dishes.

In about ten minutes she came in and silently started working beside me, setting out the ingredients for the meal she’d planned—chicken breasts stuffed with feta cheese and kalamata olives. A few minutes after that, she started conversation, just as naturally as ever. Dinner included not only the chicken, but a great salad with homemade chili-lime vinaigrette, something we hadn’t had before. It was delicious and I made sure she knew it. She seemed happy and easy. We had a normal evening. As we went to sleep, she took my hand. “Good night, sweetie.” Content.