I had a best friend in elementary school called Kerry Smith. She was an only child, her parents were older than mine and they lived in a beautiful house in a more affluent neighbourhood.
I was one of five siblings and my parents could be described as somewhat abusive. My parents would hit us when we were annoying, but not really as consistent discipline, although we were actually more neglected than abused.
It was the early 1980s, and I would spend a lot of time with Kerry. I was probably about six or seven years old when this incident happened.
Kerry and I were in her basement, colouring with the magic markers that smelled like fruit. At some point I grabbed one, smelled it and said: “This one smells like fucking shit!”
About a minute later, Kerry’s father came downstairs and asked me: “What did you say, young lady?” I just looked at him and froze. Mr Smith told me to go upstairs to Kerry’s bedroom and wait for him there. Without a word I did as I was told.
After I’d been in the room for about 15 minutes, Mr Smith walked into the room and closed the door behind him. Very calmly, he scolded me about the language I had used. He told me: “I know that you are a good girl, but you used some very naughty words. Good girls don’t use those words.
“You are pretty much part of our family, Amanda, so you will be treated like Kerry would be in the same circumstances. That means I’m going to have to spank you to teach you a lesson.”
I think it was the first time I had heard the word ‘spank’. I flinched slightly as Mr Smith gently took my arm and pulled me towards where he was sitting on Kerry’s bed. Firmly, he put me across his knee. him. Then I felt him begin slapping my clothed bottom with his open hand.
At first I wasn’t too concerned. I remember thinking: “This is nothing – I can handle this.”. But then Mr Smith paused the spanking, and I felt my corduroy overalls being unclipped and pulled down, along with my panties. Mr Smith repeated in that same calm voice: “Good girls don’t use words like that, and you are a good girl.”
He then continued spanking me, and of course the smart was much keener across my now bare buttocks. I remember crying – but strangely not so much because of the smart, but because I felt so bad that Mr Smith was disappointed in me. He carried on disciplining me for what felt like 10 minutes, although it was probably much less.
After the last slap, Mr Smith helped me to my feet, put his arms around me and told me: “You’re my good girl again.” He never once called me a name, he didn’t injure me, there were no marks on my bottom apart from a temporary rosy glow.
As Mr Smith hugged me, I had honestly never felt more loved than at any other time of my life. I wanted to be his good girl. I wanted him to be proud of me. He told me that it was all over, and that I could go back to colouring with Kerry again.
When Kerry and I were in third grade, Mr Smith took a job closer to the city and the family moved away. I was destroyed when they left – I never felt that sense of safety and security anywhere else in my childhood.
He did spank me one other time (along with Kerry this time). On another few occasions I acted up because I wanted his attention, although not necessarily another spanking. For the most part, I just wanted to be his ‘good girl’.