The living room where all this unfolded was a classic 1970s time capsule. The carpet was a deep, burnt orange shag, thick enough to lose a toy car in. A heavy, floral-patterned sofa sat against one wall, its cushions sagging from years of use, and a matching armchair faced a chunky wooden coffee table covered in old magazines and a glass ashtray. The walls were paneled in dark faux wood, and a brass floor lamp with a fringed shade cast a warm, yellowish glow over everything. Macramé plant hangers dangled from the ceiling, and a faded landscape painting hung above the TV—a bulky set with fake wood trim and dials that clicked loudly when turned. The air always smelled faintly of dust and furniture polish, and the whole room felt both cozy and a little claustrophobic, like a place where time moved slower and secrets lingered in the corners.
I can’t even remember exactly what I said or did, but at one point, Erica suddenly grabbed my arm, dragged me down the hallway, and locked me in my room.
She threw me onto the bed, my heart pounding in my chest, and before I could even process what was happening, Erica’s palm landed sharply on my bottom. The first smack was a jolt—loud, sudden, and stinging. The sound echoed in the small room, a sharp crack that seemed to bounce off the walls.
Each time her hand came down, the sting grew hotter, spreading across my skin in waves. I gasped, my body tensing with every blow, the heat building until my eyes watered. The rhythm was relentless—smack after smack, each one landing with a force that left me breathless and shocked. I could feel the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, my face pressed into the blanket as I tried not to cry out. My legs kicked instinctively, but Erica held me firmly, her grip unyielding. The room filled with the sound of her palm meeting my skin, and all I could do was endure it, stunned and humiliated.
Then, just as suddenly as it began, she got up and left the room, leaving me lying there, my bottom throbbing and my mind reeling from the shock of it all. But that wasn’t the end of it.
That night, I got spanked at least three more times. The only other one I remember clearly was when Erica, with her thick makeup and desperate attempts to look younger—like a grown-up trying to pass for a teenager—pulled me over her knee and used one of my mother’s slippers. (pause) I remember the moment in vivid detail—my heart hammering in my chest as she marched back into the room, her eyes cold and determined, clutching the slipper like it was some kind of weapon.
But before she pulled me over her knee, Erica paused in the doorway, her silhouette framed by the hallway light. She fixed me with a hard, unblinking stare, her lips pressed into a thin line. Raising the slipper, she pointed it at me and said, her voice low and sharp, “If you don’t start behaving, I’m going to smack your bottom so hard you won’t forget it.” Her tone was icy, every word clipped and deliberate, and she tapped the slipper against her palm for emphasis. I remember the way her eyes narrowed, the way she stood with one hand on her hip, the slipper dangling like a threat. In that moment, I felt a cold wave of dread wash over me—my stomach dropped, my mouth went dry, and my whole body tensed. The warning hung in the air, heavy and inescapable, and I felt utterly powerless, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop what was coming. The fear and humiliation were almost as bad as the pain itself, and I could barely breathe as she stepped closer, her shadow stretching across the floor.
Before she used it, I couldn’t help but stare at the slipper in her hand. It was my mother’s favorite—a faded pink, with a soft terry cloth upper that had grown thin and threadbare from years of use. The sole was flexible but dense, the rubber worn smooth and shiny at the heel, and the inside still faintly carried the scent of my mother’s perfume mixed with the musty warmth of old fabric. The edges were frayed, and there was a tiny stain near the toe from a long-forgotten spill. Seeing it in Erica’s grip, something so familiar and comforting suddenly felt alien and threatening, transformed into an instrument of punishment.
My bedroom, where all this happened, was the quintessential 1970s boy’s room—a place that felt like my own little world, even when it became a place of dread that night. The walls were covered in bold, geometric wallpaper—orange, brown, and yellow shapes that looked like they belonged on a lava lamp. A battered wooden dresser stood against one wall, its drawers stuffed with T-shirts and socks, and a small desk cluttered with colored pencils, comic books, and a half-finished model airplane glued to a piece of cardboard. My bed was a twin, with a Star Wars comforter and matching pillowcase, the fabric faded from too many washes. Posters of Evel Knievel and the Six Million Dollar Man were taped up crookedly, their corners curling. On the shelves above my bed, plastic dinosaurs and Hot Wheels cars were lined up in neat rows, and a battered lunchbox with superheroes on the side sat next to a stack of Hardy Boys mysteries. The carpet was a scratchy, olive-green shag, and in the corner, a lava lamp glowed softly, casting weird, shifting shadows on the walls. The air always smelled faintly of crayons, bubblegum, and the plastic of new toys. It was a room meant for daydreams and secret forts, a place where I felt safe—until that night, when it became the stage for one of my most vivid childhood memories.
She sat down on the edge of the bed and, without a word, yanked me over her lap. The humiliation was overwhelming; I felt so small, so powerless, dangling there with my face pressed into the blanket and my legs kicking helplessly in the air. (pause) The slipper felt different from her hand—harder, colder, and somehow even more personal because it belonged to my mother. The first smack landed with a sharp, biting sting that made me gasp out loud. It was a different kind of pain, deeper and more intense, and it sent a shockwave through my whole body. Each strike seemed to echo in my ears, the sound of rubber against skin mixing with my own muffled sobs. I felt my cheeks burning with embarrassment, tears streaming down my face—not just from the pain, but from the shame of being punished like a little kid, completely at her mercy. I wanted to disappear, to melt into the bed and escape the awful, helpless feeling of being so exposed and vulnerable. The sting of the slipper built with every blow, until my bottom felt like it was on fire and my whole body shook with silent, desperate crying. In that moment, I felt utterly alone, trapped in a world of pain and humiliation, wishing for it all to end.
The sting of that slipper is something I’ll never forget. Each time, Erica seemed to find a new reason to punish me, and I spent most of the night either dreading her footsteps or nursing my sore backside.
By the time my parents came home, I was exhausted and shaken. I never told them exactly what happened that night, but I never forgot how it felt to be at the mercy of someone who seemed to think everything I did was wrong.
That night with Erica—her scary presence, thick makeup, and her desperate, almost comical attempts to look much younger than she was—taught me a lot about fear, power, and the importance of being understood. It’s a memory that’s stuck with me ever since.
