May Day Dance of the Rising Dong

Dear 1950s Wife,

People in other parts of the country can expect warm weather this time of year but here in the frosty upper Midwest there's no guarantee. So I was especially pleased with blue skies and sunny temps we enjoyed for our town's May Day festival this weekend.

Among the many activities is crowning May Day Queen: a senior girl from our local high school who exhibits best mix of beauty, brains, and citizenship.

This year's queen more than met the criteria: head cheerleader; salutatorian of her class with an intended major of home economics at State University (she actually posted the highest GPA but our school board members are a traditional lot and maintain the long-standing rule that the high school valedictorian be male); and participation in several civic-minded organizations, including president of the school's Student Virgins Society and treasurer of Future Republican Women Homemakers club.

How grand the queen looked in her ankle-length gown with minimal décolletage designed by our town's popular dressmaker, Christian Couture, with tiara on top. The crowds along Main Street for the May Day parade cheered with joy as the queen passed on her float accompanied by a military escort of young men from the high school ROTC program and girls in her court: fellow cheerleaders as well as the student honored with school yearbook senior superlative of "Jolliest Fat Girl."

After the parade, the crowd gathered by the town square gazebo to hear speeches by local dignitaries followed by an excellent barbecue lunch prepared by the high school's Culinary and Future Pig Meat Producers of America clubs.

Then at night mutual dances: one for farmers and townies at the local firehall where cider flowed and polka music played and a country club gala for our community's doctors, lawyers, agribusiness executives and their wives with music provided by our town's nationally recognized barbershop quartet, "The Mellow Fellows."*

But, as exciting as Saturday's festival activities are, they still can't can't top the Sunday afternoon ceremony featuring myself and my fellow submissive wives and our husbands: the May Day Dance of the Rising Dong.

As soon as we returned from church, my husband and I changed into our workout clothes and drove to the dance site at a field just outside town where temporary bleachers were erected.

But we weren't planning to jazzercise. The workout clothes were merely for modesty's sake because once we reached the dance (an adults-only affair) we stripped down to our birthday suits.

Participation in the dance is limited to 21 sets of dominant husbands/submissive wives in the 21-to-39-year-old age bracket. As the 1950s lifestyle is quite popular in our town, selection for the dance is very competitive. A committee of town elders chooses the dancers based on such criteria as church attendance, participation in civic organizations and, of course, looks. The less attractive are certainly entitled to frolic naked in the privacy of their own homes but nobody wants to see a pigeon-chested man and his buttocks-sagging spouse in the buff in public.

The ceremony begins with us couples standing at attention before the bleachers as the crowd rises for a stirring version of The National Anthem sung a capella by The Mellow Fellows barbershop quartet. Then introductory comments by the mayor before he hands our husbands commemorative foot-long paddles with "2017 May Day Dance of the Rising Dong" written on the face of the boards.

Then, to accompaniment of a retired Marine Corp bugler provided by the local VFW Hall, the Mayor commands: "Wives assume the position."

Each husband puts a foot on the first step of the bleachers and places his wife across a bent knee.

"Husbands," the mayor shouts, "Ready. Aim. Fire!"

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

"Thank you beloved husbands," we wives cry. "May we have more?"

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

We wives repeat our refrain, though this time much sniffling goes with.

Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack! Whack!

The 21-sets-of-buns-spanking-salute is done.

We wives take a moment to dry our tears, then gambol to the middle of the field where the May Pole lies. At this point the plastic pole lies deflated behind a pair of two-foot rubber balls colored red-white-and-blue.

But as we wives gyrate before the pole accompanied by sexy songs by The Mellow Fellows the pole slowly fills with air till at last it reaches it's ten-foot red-white-and-blue glory with a drawing of our nation's chief executive covering its head.

Twenty-one sets of streamers are attached to the shaft of the pole just underneath its presidential head. Once erect, each wife grabs a streamer and skips around the shaft in the traditional "May Day Dance of the Rising Dong."

After five minutes of dancing, the mayor again shouts "Wives assume the position."

We prostrate ourselves before the pole and our husbands mount us from behind to perform vigorous doggy-style fucking. Once husband-and-wife reach orgasm, the wife rises and throws herself against the balls surrounding the shaft. Eventually enough wives press against the May pole's balls forcing air pressure causing cream inside the pole donated by the local dairy to burst through the top giving us a symbolic semen shower.

Thus the May Day Dance of the Rising Dong is done.

Our town's May Day festival was such a success this year. Though contraception is not forbidden for participants in the dance (our town's Catholic and Protestant clergy agree-to-disagree on the subject, a fine example of our community's  all-get-along attitude), many wives are hoping for a bun-in-the-oven to come from the dance.

I know I am. Counting the days till it's that-time-of-the-month for me and so hoping the red river runs dry.

I so want to be a featured attraction in our town's other big festival, The Great Baby Birthday on the first weekend of February. A little May would be fine but the child would be our first. So we're really hoping for a little Dick.

Good woman:

That sure is a freaky May Day festival. Our town's springtime parade of homes and gardens seems tame by comparison. But to each his own.

*The name "The Mellow Fellows" is used fictitiously.