I’m far past the age I once thought I’d ever reach. Maybe back then I didn’t want to reach the plateau where I can muse on my regrets and guilt, or miss things and people too much (what’s too much?).

So, I found some old dusty scraps that foresaw this sentimental brooding. I call it, ANOTHER ON THE LINE.

I’ve ridden on so many busses that they’ve become timeless to me. They may as bell have been stagecoaches or old steamers.

I looked around the bus and thought to myself that any one of these people can be someone I talked to last night.

Funny how long that thought took in coming.

I tried to get back to the book in my lap, but the memory of last night cast a shadow on all else.

Last night was spent with my eyes closed, sitting on the edge of the tub in the bathroom, dark except for the luminous buttons on the phone. The tiles walls echoed words and breathing.

Tamara, the bad girl, could be the thin-lipped mother of two terrors pulling at teddy-bear patterned t-shirt. could this harried frau who dared me to spank her, and when I did, teased me in my ear and asked for more?

Or was it the prim little Mexican girl across from me with teh schoolbooks on her lap?

The mind reels.

I closed my eyes and played another scene in my head. Nora told me that I needed discipline, firm discipline, and that she was the one to give it. She had me back against a tree behind the stable, wrists tied around the trunk, and bared to the waist. She stood before me wearing a sneer, small tight leather jacket, riding pants, and long black boots. The black leather gleamed in the sun.

“So,,” she said, palm to my jaw, “What can we do about you?” She pushed my head back, cracking the bark.

Dazed, I closed my eyes again, and when I opened them again I saw nothing. She slipped a blindfold over my head.

In the distance, I think, I heard her laugh through the rustling leaves and felt a sharp sting on my calf.

“Don’t move.”

I froze.

Leaves crunched toward me but I remained still.

“Good.”

She unbound one wrist, had me turn, and tied me again, face to the tree. From behind me, she growled, “Good beasty, steady,” and pulled my jeans down and off. I stiffened immediately.

“Feel my nails on your skin.”

“Yes,” I breathed.

“Quiet!”

Like lightning she whipped me a half dozen times with something solid, maybe a thick branch, across my ass and thighs, hard.

“Do you need more restraints?”

She then looped a thin strap around me there and tied it up my stomach. She squeezed between my legs and spanked me hard on my stinging cheeks.

I wanted release but the strap bound me tight. I knew it was just as well. She would let me know when, and not before.

“How old are you, boy?’

“Just twenty, mistress,” I stammered.

“Then count your years, and quickly and loudly with each strike, or we begin again until you learn.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “Begin!”

A new sound breaks the scene.

“Excuse me, can I sit here?” A woman’s voice.

Before I raise my now open eyes from the shiny black boots, I say quickly and loudly, “Yes!”