Talk about flying one's freak flag. California Assemblymember Mike Duvall recently resigned after his discussion about spanking one of his two mistresses was picked up by a hot mic in an Assembly hearing room. He went on about how this one mistress, reportedly an energy industry lobbyist, wore "eyepatch underwear" and liked being spanked because she was a "bad girl."
Well, hell, I'm a bad girl. I don't know what eyepatch underwear looks like, but if it's pretty, well, I think I'm qualified to be a lobbyist.
First, let me say that I've never quite understood how lobbyists do what they do. How do you persuade people to support something they're opposed to unless you bribe them, which is illegal? Mind you, I worked for a lobbyist once, a lobbyist who started out as an environmental lobbyist. Talk about a tough tour of duty -- your constituents -- trees, rivers, bears, etc. -- don't vote, don't have money to contribute. Hell, they don't even talk. But somehow she successfully lobbied on behalf of legislation saving some of California's rivers. Somehow I don't think she did it with eyepatch panties and getting her behind smacked.
But I digress. If all it takes nowadays to be a successful lobbyist is getting one's behind smacked and wearing pretty underwear, I'm your girl. Register me as a lobbyist. It definitely pays more than what a furloughed state worker attorney makes.
See, I've been wearing pretty underwear since I was a teenager. MATCHING pretty underwear, no less. My late mother, She Who Is Exalted (SWIE), believed that women should always wear pretty underwear and that that underwear should match. She believed this so much that she would buy all four of us girls matching, lacy Maidenform bras and panties at great expense to herself. At fourteen, I was wearing underwear prettier than what my own mother wore. And she didn't care. She didn't want her girls going out wearing ratty underwear. To this day, I am such a fanatic about this that I have embarrassed my adult nieces who wear unmatched underwear by pulling up my shirt and pulling down the top of my pants in public and saying to them, "SEE! THEY MATCH! And if a forty-something year-old woman can wear pretty, matching underwear, you have NO EXCUSE for not wearing pretty, matching underwear!" If ever something happened to one of my sisters and I had to ID one of them from the neck down, I could tell if she were my sister just by her underwear. "No, officer, that's not my sister. She wouldn't be caught dead in a bra that didn't match her panties!" I even have two sets of underwear -- pretty underwear for work and pretty underwear just for BMNB. But that's MY business.
So, the pretty underwear thing? I got that.
Now, for the behind smacking.
You see, I've had a big behind most of my life. Mind you, it's not a Janet Jackson "onion" -- Arsenio Hall defined an "onion" as a "butt so round it makes you want to cry," -- but it ain't flat either. And I've been getting it smacked or touched most of my adult life. It's been rubbed up against by strange men on the dance floor (not to my liking), smacked by a boyfriend or two, brushed up against by old men, and even smacked by an older male relative who is now dead and beyond the shooting range of my father, who would have killed him if I had said anything. BMNB won't let me discuss his personal predilection when it comes to my behind, but let's just say he appreciates it. That's HIS business. Needless to say, my behind is not a virgin when it comes to being smacked, fondled, rubbed up against, etc. I've always assumed that came with the territory, no pun intended.
So, the behind smacking thing? I got that.
If that's all it takes to be a lobbyist working in the California Assembly, well, then, sign me up. I could use the pay raise, since the state can't furlough lobbyists.
But I won't call you "daddy," though. My father's still alive, and that's just, well, creepy.