Our normal routine has been thrown off this week. Due to the holiday, we're having to meet on Wednesday instead of Tuesday. In fact, in just about two hours I'll be leaving my house to meet the Englishman. I'm sure most men's routine consist of a shower and a clean shirt. For me, it's a drawn out ritual I have begun to cherish.
Three days before- I start cutting out all carbs. This didn't happen this week due to the plethora of barbeques I attended. I'm not sure when Memorial Day became about burgers and beer, but that pretty much sums up my weekend.
Two days before- I cut out any carbonated drinks. No explanation needed... just trying to avoid a spankee's nightmare.
One day before- I carefully pick out my outfit, from panties to shoes. I actually think about it all week, but what I actually wear is usually dictated by my mood and the weather.
Day of- I wake up with a big smile on my face, knowing the morning will be a busy one. I make my coffee and sip it throughout this overly lengthy process. I shower, shave, exfoliate, rinse and repeat. I carefully wrap my hair in a towel so it can dry. While my skin retains the moisture from the shower, I slather myself from head to toe in lotion, softening my skin for his touch even more. I brush my teeth like someone with OCD washes their hands...each time thinking I've had my last sip of coffee. But my nervous energy keeps me reaching for my mug, which won't help with those butterflies that tremble at my fingertips. After my hair is dried, I curl it, creating those large, loose waves he is so fond of. My make up routine is fairly simple- just a little powder. Things always get too hot...the sweat, the hair, our breath meeting in the close space between us creating its own atmosphere. Having to worry about my make up smearing is not what I want to be thinking about. I apply the lightest touch of perfume, just enough to make me delectable. I get dressed and pace around, making sure I have everything.
Finally, by 10:30, I am out the door, on my way to meet the man who will make me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world as I lay across his lap. And none of the above has anything to do with that.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Penitence Beneath the Cane
It's difficult to believe how differently the day progressed from how I expected it to unfold. I was convinced that I could never shake off that all-consuming feeling of shame and the idea of coming out of this thing whole seemed unlikely. I refused to believe that any sort of punishment would relieve the internal pain that I was inflicting upon myself. Instead, I found the experience to be quite powerful and profound.
On Tuesday mornings I usually count down the minutes in anticipation of seeing him. Instead, I sat and watched the minutes tick by with utter dread. I was first to arrive. The room was appropriately unlit, matching the dark mood of its lone occupant. I nervously paced around, trying to settle myself. I sat down and took off my shoes. He enters the door and I quickly turn away. Eye contact is an impossible task. Without a single word he moves the chair to the middle of the floor. I want so badly for him to hug me, yet the sight of him makes me want to cry. Instead of offering his hand to me, he takes me by my wrist and leads me to the chair. He orders me to go across his knee in a low whisper. It seems so cold and foreign, yet I'm grateful to hear his voice. While over his lap I could sense his own week long anticipation finally coming to fruition. A groan left his lips as he lifted my white dress to find my naughty bottom wrapped in white panties- my own strategy to stack the deck in my favor. Yet, he showed his self-restraint by showing me no mercy.
I found myself having to refuse the pleasure of being over his lap. I thought deeply about my sins, understanding there would be no pleasure in this. When he had me bend over, hands on the seat of the chair, I had focus myself to reroute the pleasure from being belted towards a lesson learned. But it was the caning that really brought it home for me- there was no thinking as I counted out my strokes, asking for more. It was as if with each strike I could feel the shame leave my body along with my tears. I counted out twelve strokes before he allowed me to look in the mirror. He asked if I felt like I had enough. I stared down at the floor, shaking my head, no. He had me assume the position over the horse and had me continue counting out my strokes. This time, with each stroke, I swore it would never happen again. After the twentieth stroke, he announced I was done. I followed him into the other room. After he sat down on the couch, he finally extended his hand out to me, which I graciously accepted.
He held me across his lap and in his arms. He told me how much he cared for me and that he would never allow anyone to talk poorly of me, including myself...it was that sort of thing that was corrosive to the soul, and he wouldn't have me damage all the wonder and beauty inside me. The caning hurt, but it was his words that unlocked a flood of tears. He continued to hold me, stroking my hair and trying to lift my chin. I refused and dug my forehead deeper into his shoulder. All I needed was a minute before I felt the weight being lifted off my chest which physically gave me enough room to sit up and look at him for the first time. He kissed the tears that had run down my face until he reached my lips. With that single kiss I felt my energy shift from being the girl who needed to be caned to becoming the good girl once again in his arms.
I came out of this experience feeling closer and more connected to him than ever. The marks on my bottom are a bit more scary looking than I would care for. I suspect that I'm not relishing in their glory because every time I see them, every time a sit down and feel the pain, I'm reminded of how I earned those strokes and a little twinge of embarrassment runs through my body. At the same time, I'm reminded that all is forgiven and balance in my life has one again been achieved.
On Tuesday mornings I usually count down the minutes in anticipation of seeing him. Instead, I sat and watched the minutes tick by with utter dread. I was first to arrive. The room was appropriately unlit, matching the dark mood of its lone occupant. I nervously paced around, trying to settle myself. I sat down and took off my shoes. He enters the door and I quickly turn away. Eye contact is an impossible task. Without a single word he moves the chair to the middle of the floor. I want so badly for him to hug me, yet the sight of him makes me want to cry. Instead of offering his hand to me, he takes me by my wrist and leads me to the chair. He orders me to go across his knee in a low whisper. It seems so cold and foreign, yet I'm grateful to hear his voice. While over his lap I could sense his own week long anticipation finally coming to fruition. A groan left his lips as he lifted my white dress to find my naughty bottom wrapped in white panties- my own strategy to stack the deck in my favor. Yet, he showed his self-restraint by showing me no mercy.
I found myself having to refuse the pleasure of being over his lap. I thought deeply about my sins, understanding there would be no pleasure in this. When he had me bend over, hands on the seat of the chair, I had focus myself to reroute the pleasure from being belted towards a lesson learned. But it was the caning that really brought it home for me- there was no thinking as I counted out my strokes, asking for more. It was as if with each strike I could feel the shame leave my body along with my tears. I counted out twelve strokes before he allowed me to look in the mirror. He asked if I felt like I had enough. I stared down at the floor, shaking my head, no. He had me assume the position over the horse and had me continue counting out my strokes. This time, with each stroke, I swore it would never happen again. After the twentieth stroke, he announced I was done. I followed him into the other room. After he sat down on the couch, he finally extended his hand out to me, which I graciously accepted.
He held me across his lap and in his arms. He told me how much he cared for me and that he would never allow anyone to talk poorly of me, including myself...it was that sort of thing that was corrosive to the soul, and he wouldn't have me damage all the wonder and beauty inside me. The caning hurt, but it was his words that unlocked a flood of tears. He continued to hold me, stroking my hair and trying to lift my chin. I refused and dug my forehead deeper into his shoulder. All I needed was a minute before I felt the weight being lifted off my chest which physically gave me enough room to sit up and look at him for the first time. He kissed the tears that had run down my face until he reached my lips. With that single kiss I felt my energy shift from being the girl who needed to be caned to becoming the good girl once again in his arms.
I came out of this experience feeling closer and more connected to him than ever. The marks on my bottom are a bit more scary looking than I would care for. I suspect that I'm not relishing in their glory because every time I see them, every time a sit down and feel the pain, I'm reminded of how I earned those strokes and a little twinge of embarrassment runs through my body. At the same time, I'm reminded that all is forgiven and balance in my life has one again been achieved.
Sunday, May 20, 2012
Shame
It is too early to be awake, let alone blog, and yet my body punishes itself for my actions of the previous night by refusing to enjoy a restful slumber. The amount of shame I feel borders on being too personal to share, and yet I have the distinct need to let it out. The idea of trying to contain it seems too big for me to handle in this lonesome moment. I don't even want to refer to him by his usual moniker, as I feel completely unworthy. Never have I wished so much for a discipline spanking.
As I try to get out of bed I am reminded of the night before when I feel the stinging sensation upon my knees. The fuzzy memories flood back, forcing me to relive the nightmare I was hoping would fade as the sun rose. But instead I have to face the reality of my actions as well as its possible consequences. And it's those consequences I so greatly fear.
To most people, what I did would be dismissed and simply excused- not a big deal, really. I've done much worse in my life, and yet there are few things I can remember feeling that literal hands-in-your-face shame. It's a sensation that took some time to define.
Like a band-aid, I'll tear through the night's events, making it as painless for me as possible (though an argument could be made that I deserve a little pain at this point, but I'll leave it up to him to dole that out, that is, if he's willing).
It all started off with a drink. An email was sent, then an exodus to the bar down the street, and then more wine was poured. Another email was sent. I'm well aware he's working and yet I selfishly take up his time spank grubbing. My glass of pinot noir gets refilled time and time again. He finally agrees to meet me. I try my best to leave the bar, but it's packed and service is slow. My friends are distracted by celebrity sightings. I feign interest, snap some pictures for them and my mind is trying its hardest to focus on my single goal. We walk back to our cars. On the way back I break a heel, tumble into the street, onto my knees. Completely embarrassed, I get myself together and scurry as fast as I can.
He had waited 20 minutes and I missed him by 10.
I closed my eyes and rested my head, disappointed. I send an email but clearly the moment has passed. I dozed off for a little bit. I abruptly woke up in horror as to what just happened, my childish behavior, the things I wrote, the missed appointment. Immediately I send yet another email, this one apologizing for my actions. I wished I wrote it with more clarity-perhaps after a night's rest. But I didn't, and what is done is done.
Spanking is such a pleasurable sensation for me, and yet I woke up today wanting for Tuesday to bring me none of that. I had this urge and longing for him to punish me, reform me, forgive me. I can't imagine a pain greater than this feeling of disappointing him and clearly providing the evidence that I'm broken and unworthy of his attention, something I've been well aware of for some time now.
TL;DR: When drinking, hide your phone.
As I try to get out of bed I am reminded of the night before when I feel the stinging sensation upon my knees. The fuzzy memories flood back, forcing me to relive the nightmare I was hoping would fade as the sun rose. But instead I have to face the reality of my actions as well as its possible consequences. And it's those consequences I so greatly fear.
To most people, what I did would be dismissed and simply excused- not a big deal, really. I've done much worse in my life, and yet there are few things I can remember feeling that literal hands-in-your-face shame. It's a sensation that took some time to define.
Like a band-aid, I'll tear through the night's events, making it as painless for me as possible (though an argument could be made that I deserve a little pain at this point, but I'll leave it up to him to dole that out, that is, if he's willing).
It all started off with a drink. An email was sent, then an exodus to the bar down the street, and then more wine was poured. Another email was sent. I'm well aware he's working and yet I selfishly take up his time spank grubbing. My glass of pinot noir gets refilled time and time again. He finally agrees to meet me. I try my best to leave the bar, but it's packed and service is slow. My friends are distracted by celebrity sightings. I feign interest, snap some pictures for them and my mind is trying its hardest to focus on my single goal. We walk back to our cars. On the way back I break a heel, tumble into the street, onto my knees. Completely embarrassed, I get myself together and scurry as fast as I can.
He had waited 20 minutes and I missed him by 10.
I closed my eyes and rested my head, disappointed. I send an email but clearly the moment has passed. I dozed off for a little bit. I abruptly woke up in horror as to what just happened, my childish behavior, the things I wrote, the missed appointment. Immediately I send yet another email, this one apologizing for my actions. I wished I wrote it with more clarity-perhaps after a night's rest. But I didn't, and what is done is done.
Spanking is such a pleasurable sensation for me, and yet I woke up today wanting for Tuesday to bring me none of that. I had this urge and longing for him to punish me, reform me, forgive me. I can't imagine a pain greater than this feeling of disappointing him and clearly providing the evidence that I'm broken and unworthy of his attention, something I've been well aware of for some time now.
TL;DR: When drinking, hide your phone.
Thursday, May 17, 2012
Caned and Able
Caning. I cringed the first time I heard it associated with spanking. To this day I remember Michael Fay, the American teenager who was sentenced to a caning in Singapore for vandalism (though I mistakenly thought it was for chewing gum). No part of me tingled with excitement when that story came out... I only felt bad for the kid seeing how it seemed like it would hurt like hell. And here I am, 18 years after that incident, requesting my own, personal, caning.
My interest was first piqued when the Englishman first mentioned that he had been mentored by a famous Parisian domme in the art of caning. This, of course, led me to exhaustive research on the subject. I would go back and forth on how I felt about the subject: I adored and envied the gorgeous stripes left behind by a caning, but was left horrified at some of the bottoms that were bloodied and raw. I'm willing to try anything once, so I asked the Englishman if he would be willing to cane me. I didn't have to ask twice.
It seemed that all the canes in our little playroom were broken, so it became my duty to pick one up at the local bondage shop. He certainly got a kick out of the fact that this would be the ultimate fetching of the cane. With the cane in hand, I was ready for Tuesday, which has quickly become my favorite day of the week.
Like many sessions, everything felt right as soon as I found myself across his lap. He took his time warming me up, knowing what it would all lead up to. We floated between the couch and the chair, where he offered me a lovely view of my bottom being paddled. We spent a short time at the bar where I received a wicked spanking standing up. As he lowered my arms he surprised me by tying my wrists together with a silk tie. He led me to the other room, where there stood a spanking horse, waiting to be mounted. He instructed me to bend over it. I hung draped across the horse, bent at the waist, wondering if it would be wise to looking into the mirror. Swish... He slices the cane through the air, giving me goosebumps as well as the answer to my question. I look away from the mirror, still wondering what to expect. I notice my breath is quickening as I wait for the cane to meet my bottom. I slow my breath down as I feel him place the cool cane against my warm bottom. I wonder how accurate his aim is and it's only a split second later I discover that it's right on the nose. The lightning certainly came after thunder in this case- I felt the first wave of pain strike my bottom, a dull, throbbing pain. Seconds later I felt the sharp coolness come to the surface of my skin. The corner of my lip curls up into a smile as I allow a whisper of a voice to escape, "Thank you, sir." In the same tone he responds with, "That's my good girl" and it only makes me want more.
I receive six strokes before I'm allowed to look in the mirror. I can't see much in the dim light. He sees the disappointment that paints my face and offers six more if I would like them. I push my body into his and lets him know that nothing would make me happier. He waits for my bottom to cool a bit before leading me back. This time I watch as he skillfully places the cane on my bottom before he quickly pulls it away. The image and sensation don't sync up, but I simply do not care. I receive my strokes, each accompanied by a "Thank you, sir". By the end of the session, I had thanked him eighteen times.
Once my hands were untied, they quickly found themselves reading the welts on my bottom. My eyes grew big as I felt how swollen my bottom was. I checked the mirror and surprisingly enough, my bottom looked nothing like it felt. He pulled me across his lap and rubbed arnica into my freshly caned bottom. I laid my head over my folded arms, satisfied, and felt as if I could take a long nap.
The next morning I rushed to the mirror as if it were Christmas morning and there were presents waiting for me to unwrap them. I lifted up my slip and pull down my underwear. My jaw hit the floor as all I can see is one large bruise on my right cheek with three tiny stripes below it. My left cheek had two or three small bruises, similar to ones left by much less threatening implements. I can't help but take the lack of stripes personally and feel that in some way I've failed as a bottom for not being able to achieve the stripes I've earned. Below is the evidence of my shortcomings.
Session notes: I'd love some advice on how to better achieve those lovely stripes. The cane used was a 3/8" rattan cane. Also, I'd love to hear about how to avoid lightheadedness...coming off of the horse I felt it, and at one point thought I was going to faint.
My interest was first piqued when the Englishman first mentioned that he had been mentored by a famous Parisian domme in the art of caning. This, of course, led me to exhaustive research on the subject. I would go back and forth on how I felt about the subject: I adored and envied the gorgeous stripes left behind by a caning, but was left horrified at some of the bottoms that were bloodied and raw. I'm willing to try anything once, so I asked the Englishman if he would be willing to cane me. I didn't have to ask twice.
It seemed that all the canes in our little playroom were broken, so it became my duty to pick one up at the local bondage shop. He certainly got a kick out of the fact that this would be the ultimate fetching of the cane. With the cane in hand, I was ready for Tuesday, which has quickly become my favorite day of the week.
Like many sessions, everything felt right as soon as I found myself across his lap. He took his time warming me up, knowing what it would all lead up to. We floated between the couch and the chair, where he offered me a lovely view of my bottom being paddled. We spent a short time at the bar where I received a wicked spanking standing up. As he lowered my arms he surprised me by tying my wrists together with a silk tie. He led me to the other room, where there stood a spanking horse, waiting to be mounted. He instructed me to bend over it. I hung draped across the horse, bent at the waist, wondering if it would be wise to looking into the mirror. Swish... He slices the cane through the air, giving me goosebumps as well as the answer to my question. I look away from the mirror, still wondering what to expect. I notice my breath is quickening as I wait for the cane to meet my bottom. I slow my breath down as I feel him place the cool cane against my warm bottom. I wonder how accurate his aim is and it's only a split second later I discover that it's right on the nose. The lightning certainly came after thunder in this case- I felt the first wave of pain strike my bottom, a dull, throbbing pain. Seconds later I felt the sharp coolness come to the surface of my skin. The corner of my lip curls up into a smile as I allow a whisper of a voice to escape, "Thank you, sir." In the same tone he responds with, "That's my good girl" and it only makes me want more.
I receive six strokes before I'm allowed to look in the mirror. I can't see much in the dim light. He sees the disappointment that paints my face and offers six more if I would like them. I push my body into his and lets him know that nothing would make me happier. He waits for my bottom to cool a bit before leading me back. This time I watch as he skillfully places the cane on my bottom before he quickly pulls it away. The image and sensation don't sync up, but I simply do not care. I receive my strokes, each accompanied by a "Thank you, sir". By the end of the session, I had thanked him eighteen times.
Once my hands were untied, they quickly found themselves reading the welts on my bottom. My eyes grew big as I felt how swollen my bottom was. I checked the mirror and surprisingly enough, my bottom looked nothing like it felt. He pulled me across his lap and rubbed arnica into my freshly caned bottom. I laid my head over my folded arms, satisfied, and felt as if I could take a long nap.
The next morning I rushed to the mirror as if it were Christmas morning and there were presents waiting for me to unwrap them. I lifted up my slip and pull down my underwear. My jaw hit the floor as all I can see is one large bruise on my right cheek with three tiny stripes below it. My left cheek had two or three small bruises, similar to ones left by much less threatening implements. I can't help but take the lack of stripes personally and feel that in some way I've failed as a bottom for not being able to achieve the stripes I've earned. Below is the evidence of my shortcomings.
Session notes: I'd love some advice on how to better achieve those lovely stripes. The cane used was a 3/8" rattan cane. Also, I'd love to hear about how to avoid lightheadedness...coming off of the horse I felt it, and at one point thought I was going to faint.
Wednesday, May 9, 2012
Showing Restraint
After last week's session, the Englishman and I had made a wager based on the outcome of American Idol. I lost, so I left it up to him to come up with a punishment/reward (let's be honest, it was a win/win all around). After a lot of consideration, he decided he wanted the opportunity to spank me naked. Ugh. My heart sank. The idea of appearing completely naked in front of him truly was my idea of a punishment. As a woman of my word I was obliged. At this point I had three days to get comfortable with my body... It didn't help that Saturday was Cinco de Mayo and I had drunk my fair share of margaritas. Ok, so three days of running and avoiding carbs... this was do-able.
Tuesday comes and as soon as i see him I realize that none of my fears mattered... they were completely irrelevant. I always feel the most beautiful while being spanked, and that comes from within, not just from my spanker telling me so. The energy is amazing as I am being spanked while bent over a table. He stands me up and holds me from behind. Bliss... His hands move down to my belt and slowly removes it. I'm totally in the moment as he alternates between whispering in my ear and kissing the back of my neck. He fumbles with the hook of my dress and slowly unzips it down to my waist. He is so tender with his touch as he slides the straps off my shoulders. My dress falls quietly to the floor. The last article of clothing protecting my modesty is slowly stripped off of me- first the hooks and then the straps. My bra falls forward and yet I have no desire to catch it. He steps back and admires the scene before him. He slowly caresses the outside of my arms from my shoulders to my hands and raises them up above my head. I'm delighted with surprise when they're led to a bar. I curl my fingers around the bar that hangs above my head and stretch to elongate my body. I love the feeling of having my hands restrained, and I love it even more when he begins to lightly whip my bottom.
I've always kept my interests to the spanking world, but now I'm a little curious about BDSM. The two worlds seem to overlap quite a bit. How much do these two (or any other) worlds collide for you?
Session notes: LFMF: no matter how thin you want to appear, eat. Your stomach WILL grumble (not sexy) while being spanked and you WILL get lightheaded from all the breathlessness from your excitement. And seriously, your spanker couldn't care less about a pound or two when he has your bottom to spank.
Tuesday comes and as soon as i see him I realize that none of my fears mattered... they were completely irrelevant. I always feel the most beautiful while being spanked, and that comes from within, not just from my spanker telling me so. The energy is amazing as I am being spanked while bent over a table. He stands me up and holds me from behind. Bliss... His hands move down to my belt and slowly removes it. I'm totally in the moment as he alternates between whispering in my ear and kissing the back of my neck. He fumbles with the hook of my dress and slowly unzips it down to my waist. He is so tender with his touch as he slides the straps off my shoulders. My dress falls quietly to the floor. The last article of clothing protecting my modesty is slowly stripped off of me- first the hooks and then the straps. My bra falls forward and yet I have no desire to catch it. He steps back and admires the scene before him. He slowly caresses the outside of my arms from my shoulders to my hands and raises them up above my head. I'm delighted with surprise when they're led to a bar. I curl my fingers around the bar that hangs above my head and stretch to elongate my body. I love the feeling of having my hands restrained, and I love it even more when he begins to lightly whip my bottom.
I've always kept my interests to the spanking world, but now I'm a little curious about BDSM. The two worlds seem to overlap quite a bit. How much do these two (or any other) worlds collide for you?
Session notes: LFMF: no matter how thin you want to appear, eat. Your stomach WILL grumble (not sexy) while being spanked and you WILL get lightheaded from all the breathlessness from your excitement. And seriously, your spanker couldn't care less about a pound or two when he has your bottom to spank.
Monday, May 7, 2012
Spankos Anonymous
A reader (yes, apparently it's not just me), recently emailed me to let me know that non-registered users couldn't leave comments (thanks, Emen!). I've fixed that, so all you anonymous spankos out there can now feel free to comment as you wish.
Speaking of anonymous... When I first started on this journey, my plan was to keep things as anonymous as possible with my spankers- I don't need to know your name, your situation, what you do, etc. I would go as far as to say my ideal situation would have been whatever the spanking world's equivalent to glory holes is (back seat car spankings at the drive-in? Parties?). It would always surprise me when people on SpankFinder felt the need to give me a "real" sense of who they were. Really, you like to cycle? Great! Those muscular quads will provide me with ample cushioning while I'm over our lap. I think not, and I'm not impressed.
However, I'm starting to have a real change of heart on the subject. The Englishman and I have had such amazing sessions that I'm convinced we're spanking soul mates, if such a thing exists. I wonder how much of that is natural chemistry and how much of that is just developing a relationship outside of the bedroom. I wonder if I had given Glasses half a chance if things would have been different, or had I known that he was the type of guy I wouldn't want to hang out with outside of getting spanked, could I have avoided such a terrible experience?
There are pros and cons to both situations. While I'm enjoying the spanking bliss I'm in now, I fear the day when it has to come to an end. This is actually a part of the bigger problem I suffer from: I'm far too concerned about the future, and not about enjoying the present.
Reader(s), I'd love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Where do you stand on the spectrum of anonymity?
Speaking of anonymous... When I first started on this journey, my plan was to keep things as anonymous as possible with my spankers- I don't need to know your name, your situation, what you do, etc. I would go as far as to say my ideal situation would have been whatever the spanking world's equivalent to glory holes is (back seat car spankings at the drive-in? Parties?). It would always surprise me when people on SpankFinder felt the need to give me a "real" sense of who they were. Really, you like to cycle? Great! Those muscular quads will provide me with ample cushioning while I'm over our lap. I think not, and I'm not impressed.
However, I'm starting to have a real change of heart on the subject. The Englishman and I have had such amazing sessions that I'm convinced we're spanking soul mates, if such a thing exists. I wonder how much of that is natural chemistry and how much of that is just developing a relationship outside of the bedroom. I wonder if I had given Glasses half a chance if things would have been different, or had I known that he was the type of guy I wouldn't want to hang out with outside of getting spanked, could I have avoided such a terrible experience?
There are pros and cons to both situations. While I'm enjoying the spanking bliss I'm in now, I fear the day when it has to come to an end. This is actually a part of the bigger problem I suffer from: I'm far too concerned about the future, and not about enjoying the present.
Reader(s), I'd love to hear your thoughts on the subject. Where do you stand on the spectrum of anonymity?
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