In the small universe of my particular fetishes, spanking is both commonplace and eagerly anticipated. It is, therefore, only natural that I should occasionally find myself thinking about it.

This is somewhat ironic, for I possess a certain aversion to English. The Anglo tongue has always struck me as somewhat lacking in class—rather like poorly carved furniture placed in rooms that aspire to elegance.

And yet, I must concede: spanking is your word.

And it is precisely this word that occupies my thoughts today. It is curious how certain terms—even when born from a rather inelegant language—manage to carry within themselves a small moral universe.

This one in particular expresses something my on poor palmadas or surras never quite manage to convey: a peculiar ambiguity. (Excuse my beautiful Portuguese, you failed me today.)

For when I begin to reflect upon the nature of my own erotic inclinations—and I inevitably end up reflecting on them—I notice, with a certain amused resignation, just how moral their foundations truly are.

Do not cling too tightly to the obvious cliché.

Yes, I grew up in a Catholic household. But it was never a household particularly obsessed with discipline or repression. There were no dramatic penances, no fiery sermons echoing down the corridors.

And yet certain images were always present.

And images, as we know, educate the eye in silence.

Sebastian.

Paul.

Peter.

And of course Christ himself.

Always so very lightly clothed.

Any historian—a curse upon them all —could produce an entire treatise explaining how these images do not merely venerate sacrifice, but also celebrate the body that bears it. Sanctified suffering rarely dispenses with a certain aesthetic attention.

One need only look at Saint Sebastian. That young man pierced by arrows, suspended in a posture of almost theatrical elegance, suffering with a dignity that borders suspiciously on delight. His eyes seem perpetually on the verge of rolling upward in something that might almost be mistaken for pleasure.

It is hardly surprising that painters returned to him with such enthusiasm. But let us abandon these elevated interpretations.

I retreat from them with the same ease with which I return to my customary vulgarity—the place where, after all, I tend to think most clearly.

And then a rather simple thought occurs to me.

If, according to their logic, these men were punished precisely because they were absolutely correct… might punishment, in such a case, be considered a kind of moral reward?

Sebastian himself appears almost to relish the penetration of those arrows. But I doubt I would follow that line of reasoning very far.

Punishment as reward has always seemed a concept somewhat too refined for my tastes.

I prefer something… corrective.

Perhaps the seed of my taste for pain was planted there—among those half-naked men watching silently over the afternoons of my grandmother’s house.

But I suspect it only truly blossomed when it encountered something I possessed in abundance: a rather rigid sense of morality.

You see, like any respectable libertine, I am a moralist to the bone.

Right and wrong are very clearly defined categories for me—of that God himself is surely aware. It is merely unfortunate that I spend my life repeating my mistakes with something approaching professional dedication. And so, inevitably, we return to your word.

To spanking.

I must ask: what pleasure could there possibly be in casual slaps upon the face of someone who delights in being marked?

What brilliance lies in welts across a thigh that secretly begged for the whip?

None at all, I say.

Good punishment must be deserved.

Good punishment must be seasoned with fear.

There is something profoundly disappointing about punishment that arrives too early—like praise given at the wrong moment.

True punishment requires guilt. It requires a shy face retreating into its own blush.

It requires the instinctive withdrawal of the hips, the closing of the eyes, the desperate hope for the moment to end. And perhaps—under a certain murky light—there lies the paradox that amuses me.

Perhaps I truly do hate being struck.

Perhaps I despise the very idea of deserving the blow.

And yet it is precisely for that reason that I feel such pleasure when it arrives.

I carry many sins. I commit many errors.

And in the mirror I always find the same small heretic staring back at me. Perhaps that is why certain marks upon my body possess such a particular glow.

Not the vulgar shine of excited flesh. But the other kind.

The discreet and almost elegant glow of a fault properly acknowledged