When I was twelve years old, I took second place in my state's regional spelling bee. Kids who take first place in their regional spelling bee get a free trip to Washington, D.C. to compete in the National Spelling Bee. But not second place. I took second. My mom still has the photos of me in my childish blue dress; an awkward pre-pubescent nymphet perched precariously at center stage, hands clasped at my waist, feet together, blond hair tied in an indifferent ponytail, obviously still more concerned with soccer and books than boys. The little girl standing behind me in the photo is Lisa Lipscombe. Little ten-year-old Lisa Lipscombe, her pudgy face grinning absurdly behind a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. It was either me or her. One of us was going to Washington D.C., and the other was in for a long car ride home.
I stood there. My mom snapped the photo somewhere out in the audience. It was my turn. I looked over at the judge as he leaned forward into his microphone.
"Larrup," he said.
I swallowed. I stared at the people in the audience. Larrup. Never heard of it. I looked to the judge. "Can I have the definition please?"
"To defeat decisively."
Not much help there. I was about to be larruped if I couldn't spell this word.
"Can I have the language of origin please?"
"Origin unknown."
I got real nervous. "Larrup," I croaked. "L..." "A..." "R..." I don't even remember how I misspelled it. Maybe I forgot one of the R's. Maybe I used an O or an A instead of a U. I heard the horrifying 'ding' of the bell at the judges' table and the hushed audible dismay of the audience. I stared down at my feet. Little ten-year-old Lisa Lipscombe marched confidently to the front of the stage and spelled larrup. The audience cheered. She went to the National Spelling Bee. I got in the car with my mom and went home, larruped by a ten-year-old.
It wasn't until I was in my late teens that I stumbled upon my old lexicological nemesis in the Merriam-Webster and discovered that larrup has a second—and much more interesting— definition: larrup, v. to whip soundly, i.e. by flogging. I suppose I didn't think much of it at the time, but this latter definition was in the forefront of my mind fifteen years after my larruping by Lisa Lipscombe...
Whoosh, crack!
His willow switch slashed across my bare bottom. I stiffened and blurted out a surprised cry of pain. Eyes snapped open staring numbly into the blindfold. Jesus Christ, that hurt. I took a few hurried deep breaths. The sting resonated across my backside.
"Cordaites," He repeated.
The pain didn't subside. I couldn't see anything through the blindfold, but I could imagine the angry red stripe his switch must have emblazoned on my buttocks. I took a few more deep breaths.
"Cordaites." I said. "C..." Apparently there is no H, as in chord. "O..." "R..." "D..." "A..." Hesitated a little. "T..."
Whoosh, crack!
I yelped. My wrists jerked against the nylon rope that bound them to the bedpost, just a little too tightly. I buried my face in the comforter. God dammit.
"Cordaites." He repeated again.
I tried to ignore the throbbing pain amplifying on my bottom. "Cordaites," I said. "C..." "O..." "R..." "D..." "A..." "I..." "T..." "E..." "S." "Cordaites." No switch this time. But it took me three tries. Fucking cordaites, whatever they are. Maybe I'm not as good a speller as I thought.
I heard him handle a sheet of paper. His word list. I scooted my knees farther underneath me, closer to my elbows, to get more comfortable. I couldn't help but feel erotic being bent over like that, blindfolded, with my wrists bound in front of me, my naked ass exposed and vulnerable. Like I was about to be fucked doggystyle. It felt sexy. Naughty.
"Obloquy." He said.
I wouldn't have a problem with this one. Still, there was apprehension in my voice. "Obloquy." I said. "O..." "B..." "L..." "O..." "Q..." "U..." "Y." "Obloquy."
Satisfied with myself, I relaxed a little. My ass was still throbbing painfully. I thought about the two stinging switch-marks cris-crossing over my backside.
"Serrefine." He said.
I envisioned several ways of spelling this. "Serrefine," I said. "S..." "E..." "R..." I hesitated. Is it like seraph? SERAPHINE? I took a breath, repeated the first three letters in my head. S - E - R... Wincing a little, I said, "A..."
Whoosh, crack!
I gasped. Pain coursed through by body. I fought the urge to suddenly cry.
"Serrefine." He repeated.
Stunned, I began again. "S..." Breathe. "E..." "R..." I thought for a moment, trying to clear my mind. My brain was panic mode. "E..."
Whoosh, crack!
This time I practically screamed. My back arched in reaction. I caught my breath. Breaths came out more like sobs. I could feel tears welling up in the corners of my eyes, making tiny little damp spots on the inside of the blindfold.
"Serrefine." He repeated again.
"S..." I choked. "E..." Another deep breath, fighting the pain. "R..." I winced... "R..." "E..." "F..." It was so hard to concentrate. "E..."
Whoosh, crack!
The switch laced into my ass. I screamed in pain. Then the tears came.
"Serrefine."
"S..." "E..." "R..." "R..." "E..." "F..." "I..." "N..." "E." "Seraphine!"
I cried into the blindfold. Through the throbbing pain, I felt the familiar cleansing opiate of complete submission. I felt used... I felt owned.
The next word came. "Lagniappe," He said. I had no idea how to spell it. It sounded like (lan-yap). I tried my best.
