Welcome to my blog! 🙂
So yesterday, as I was trundling along on the treadmill, my mind wandered as it is wont to do, and I had what I consider a brilliant brainchild.
Consider the following:
I should run for president in 2020!! Not just the first woman, but the first kinky president! Hey, if we can have a PeePee President, why not a Spanko President?
Imagine the possibilities for slogans!
Of course, John would be the First… what? We’re not married, so already, I’m breaking tradition. But so what? We’ve been together for over 20 years; that’s longer than a lot of marriages. (Just ask the upcoming Commander in Cheat.) So, I guess John could be First Switch, Top of your Bottom in Chief. And then there’s my cabinet — oh, so many boxer briefs and panties to fill. But I think I’d start with Paul Kennedy as Spanker of the House, and make Alex Reynolds Secretary of the Posterior. Perhaps Michael Masterson should head up the Lap of Justice Department.
My White House pet would be a giant white dog (she’d have to be white, so I could name her — what else? — Snowflake, and any breed would work except sheepdog). I would train my faithful companion to always hide (or bury) wooden implements. She’d never bite anyone, but she’d growl menacingly whenever she sees
someone anything orange.
One of my first acts would be to declare the non-consensual grabbing of pussies to be a capital offense. (Just to be clear, I’m talking about real non-consent, not our type of “oh, please don’t… don’t… don’t stop” consensual non-consent.) And ladies? From now on, no one will be able to get up into your business — unless you want them to, of course!
Tolerant, respectful people — of all nationalities and colors, all religions (or none), all genders (whether born or chosen), all orientations, all sizes and shapes, all ages and income levels — will be treated in turn with tolerance and respect. Those of us who choose not to follow the tried and true societal dictates will not be shamed, but welcomed. None of this bullying/prejudice/discrimination shit on my watch! This is America, not AmeriKKKa. (And yes, your leader will be spanked often for her shameless word play.)
I would redesign the Oval Office, of course. My office would need corners. All staffers would be armed with guns — squirt guns. And corporal punishment would replace capital punishment (but only for vanilla offenders, since kinky offenders would like it way too damn much).
What do you think, readers? Can you add any ideas? Would you vote for me? Come on, I couldn’t possibly be any worse than what’s coming. You’ve got nothing to lose but your inhibitions — and possibly your underwear. 😀
Actually, quite a bit, if we’re talking about choices for scene/kink monikers. What prompted this? This week, I saw two of them that were such a turn-off, I wouldn’t even bother checking out the person behind them.
I’ve said before that I keep my profiles on the various kink sites, because I never know who’s out there and it never hurts to know more locals. I have many friends with whom I share TTWD, but so many of them are far away. One of said sites will sometimes email a notice to me if their algorithm somehow concludes that a potential match is brewing. So this week, I received this:
“Hey, Erica Scott! Have you met DrSausage? He’s ready to meet you!”
spraying coffee all over the screen Dr. Sausage??? How does one get a doctorate in sausageology? Does the PhD stand for Perky Hard Dick?
When I tweeted about this, one of my friends cleverly replied, “But… he’s a doctor!” Which made me laugh. Suddenly, I was taken back over 30 years and remembering my mother, who had a dreadful habit of trying to fix me up. She’d attempted it many times, but her most egregious effort came one day when she called me and said I was going to be mad. I listened, feeling my blood pressure spike into emergency levels, while she told me about how she’d been at the beauty parlor that day and had struck up a conversation with a woman sitting next to her at the dryers. Turns out said woman had a single son. All my mother needed to hear was “single,” “Jewish,” and “doctor” — she didn’t even need a photo or any further description.
That’s right. She gave my phone number to this woman, who she’d known for about ten minutes. To give to her son, who she didn’t know at all.
I exploded. “How could you DO that?? You don’t know this woman! You don’t know her son! You don’t know anything about him — and you give my phone number to perfect strangers? And what kind of a man needs his mother to fix him up with unseen women?”
Her defense? “She seemed nice. And how bad could he be — he’s a doctor!”
Yes, the guy called me, and I met him for coffee. Turned out he was cute, charming, funny and sexy, and we dated for a few years. And if you believe that, please allow me to sell you some magic beans.
Part of me was tempted to write to DrSausage and say, “Here I am, oh meaty one! Come and do your wurst!” But I decided against it.
And then, same week, I get, “Erica Scott, someone just checked you out!” I looked to see who it was.
Just shoot me now. No, wait. Shoot HIM. Yeah, I get it. He likes older women. But there needs to be a little finesse here.
News flash, pal. I don’t usually presume to speak for all women, but I’m making an exception here. There isn’t a woman on this entire f&#%ing planet who would find it a compliment, within a sexual and/or kink realm, to be referred to as “Granny.” “Mommy,” yes. I can certainly see that, even though it’s not my thing. But “Granny”? NO. What’s she going to do, bake you cookies until you beg for mercy? Knit you some ankle restraints?
I wanted to write to GrannyLover and attach a charming picture I found of a prim and proper white-haired grandma flipping the bird. But I decided against that as well.
Just another week in the life of a spanko. Have a great weekend, y’all.
…the less I know, it seems. Specifically, about implements.
The above photo contains but a mere sampling of what’s out there to use on a spanking bottom. I’ve probably felt them all at some point or another. You’d think after 20+ years, I’d be an expert on implements and how they feel. But, aside from some general knowledge, I remain woefully in the dark. Which doesn’t help my ass any.
This post was precipitated by my getting together with an old FetLife friend for coffee last week, someone I haven’t seen in seven years. We chatted it up for a couple of hours and of course the subject of implements came up. He showed me a picture on his phone of his “punishment paddle” and I immediately said that would be a hard limit for me.
I’ve often said I don’t like wood and I prefer leather. However, “wood” is ridiculously general — it doesn’t account for the myriad types, thicknesses, etc. All wooden implements are not created equal. All woods are not created equal. I have heard many times that some are lighter, some are dense, some are quite tolerable and others are practically unbearable. But damned if I know which is which.
I do know that thick, heavy frat-style wooden paddles are a hard limit. When I said nay to my friend’s photo, he asked why. I said it’s just pure pain to me, no pleasure whatsoever, and the pain is BAD. I can’t absorb the impact; it thuds me down to the bone. “Even if it’s lower on the butt? Maybe people are hitting you too high with it,” he suggested. Nope. Even if it’s on the fleshiest part of my sit spots, I feel this horrible, heavy thud deep within my sit bones, and it’s wretched. I’m a tad more willing about other wood, like lighter paddles, hairbrushes and spoons, but even those are hard for me to take. I will take them on video a lot more willingly than in a private scene that’s for mutual pleasure, because they really don’t pleasure me.
So, generally, one would think leather is the ticket for me, right? Not necessarily. Because all leather implements aren’t created equal either, damn them. Thickness comes into play again, as well as wear. A buttery soft, well worn flexible strap feels entirely different from a stiff brand new one. Straps can run the gamut from a sensual snap to sheer agony. And I can’t tell just from looking at them which it’s going to be. I have made godawful mistakes in choosing implements at parties before: sometimes the most innocent looking items can be utter torture. Conversely, sometime the items that look the meanest can be fairly innocuous.
I like leather implements in general. But one of the worst things I ever felt was a double razor strap. Yeah, it was flexible. It was also thick, very heavy and very thuddy. I have made many people laugh by saying it felt like being hit with a side of beef.
And speaking of flexibility — if the give of leather feels so much more acceptable to me, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that other materials with give would also work?
Again, not necessarily.
I recall a scene at a party, many years ago, when I was playing with a top I knew well, and I knew the feel of his implements. He had a strap I loved to hate, and he wielded it with precision and evil intent. After I’d played a prank on him, he put a blindfold on me and then proceeded to strap the bejesus out of me. From the start, it hurt like hell, like nothing I remembered. I screamed and squawked and fussed, and he laughed at me. “What’s wrong?” he taunted. “It’s just my strap! You’ve felt it before! What’s the matter, are you losing your tolerance?” I gritted my teeth and bore it, took all he gave, even though my mind was screaming, “What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I take this? Why is this hurting so much?? Aaaaaaaagh!” Perhaps I was having an off night? A really off night?
It wasn’t until the next day that I found out from his girlfriend that the strap was NOT leather — it was rubber. Hence the blindfold, so I couldn’t see it. Grrrrr. I was marked like crazy, too. Deep bruises.
So now rubber is pretty much a hard limit as well. Although I guess Delrin is a sort of rubber, or similar? I will take a Delrin cane, although they hurt like a bitch.
Even canes don’t all feel the same. If I say in a general statement that canes are OK to use on me, what am I letting myself in for? I’ve never experienced a Singapore-style cane, nor do I want to. But a proper rattan caning, with a thin whippy one, in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing? Intense, but in the right head space, amazing.
I have felt everything, I think. From canes to belts to brushes to carpet beaters to tawses to crops to paddles to whips. I used to pride myself on what I could take. Nowadays, I find my desires changing. I still like to play hard… but only, ONLY if it’s someone whom I know is going to be measured, even, and careful. I no longer have any tolerance for stray shots–too high, too low, wrapping to the sides. I don’t like unevenness in cheekage. These days, I appreciate accurate and skilled players more than ever. The types I can trust with anything in their hands, no matter what it is, and know I’ll be safe and given just the right amount of pain. It’s a rarity, I’m afraid. Tops can be wonderful and kind and sensitive and skillful and many wonderful things, but still not adept with all the toys.
Perhaps now that I’m older, now that I’ve been doing this for a while, I don’t feel like I have to prove myself? (And to whom… to the scene, or to my own self?) I no longer have to show the world that I can get my ass beat all to hell with everything but the weed whacker. Or maybe I just don’t want that much pain and damage anymore? I really don’t know. But it does make me wish I understood the makings, the physics of implements better, so I could make the best choices for my play. Because, like everything else, I want quality over quantity.
But of course, there’s always hands. 🙂
Speaking of everything but the weed whacker — remember this?
Anyone else find they have been fooled by implements before? Or that something they used to like is no longer acceptable? Vice versa? Has anyone’s tolerance levels changed?
Greetings — I trust everyone had a safe and happy New Year.
Last week, I got a private message on Twitter from a friend/follower, who attached a picture with the question, “This is you, isn’t it?” I took a look, and even though I knew it wasn’t, it still took me aback.
Similar body type, and that’s a classic Erica face. I’ve been pulling that open-mouthed expression since my very first video, as is evidenced by this photo with Keith:
“It’s not me — you know how you can tell?” I told my friend. “I never bottom to women.” Also, I am not a big fan of naked spanking on video — I’ve only done it once in seventeen years — so that’s another giveaway.
So the question remains — anyone know who this is and where it’s from? I’ll bet Chross would know.
In case anyone was wondering what became of the Chiropractor Chronicles, since I haven’t mentioned him in a while, he’s still very much in the picture. Still says things that give me pause. In November, I had an appointment with on the very same day I had learned about the death of our friend, and I was already a basket case over you-know-what, so I was a wretched mess by the time I dragged myself into his office. After the opening chit-chat and finding out how I was, he said, “OK, belly down, and forget about everything except for the discomfort I’m about to inflict on you.”
If every bit of liquid in my body hadn’t already flowed out my eyes, I may very well have dampened myself over that one.
As he worked me over, he chatted up a storm, trying to get me to engage a bit. Daylight Savings had just switched over, so he commented, “Don’t you hate it when it gets dark at 5:00?” Yes, I know I’m the only one on the planet who feels this way — I answered, “No, I love it. I wish it would last longer.”
“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “You’re not a vampire!” “No, but I’m a very dark person,” I snapped back.
He scoffed. “You’re not dark. You’re very bright, you’re witty, and you can light up a room when you choose to. You’re just kind of a pain in the ass right now.”
(he should only know just how much of a pain in the ass I am)
I couldn’t see his face, as I was face down, but I could hear the gentle affection in the blunt words, and felt the brief accompanying pat on my shoulder. Funny how I can fully accept that sort of thing from someone when I know there’s no malice in it.
Back to work with me — busy busy busy. Have a great weekend, y’all.
Greetings, readers. As this will be my last post of 2016, I thought I’d present a hodgepodge of treats for you. So grab a beverage of your choice, whack off a chunk of that stale fruitcake with a hacksaw, and settle in.
First up, a few CHoS entries:
I swear this sounds lile so fucking fun and a turn on
Lolol love it when a women love other thing beside sex
You do have a sexy ass that should always be SMACK!! Good when that se,y booty is out
Uh… what? I’m sorry, I’m not bilingual; I don’t speak Moronese.
hi cutie, my name is Xxx and we have the same sexual interests.. I enjoy passionate kissing, foreplay, oral sex, anal sex, FWB, LTR, BDSM, role playing and doing anything to please you. I would love to explore every inch of your body with my hands and tongue. I like hard and fast sex, but prefer marathon all night sex.. I may be older than what you are looking for, but age is just a number and PLEASURE, weather it comes from yourself, someone younger, or older, is still PLEASURE. I am always horny and available. If this is what you are looking for, check my profile to see if we match and message me back
I don’t know whose profile you were reading, but it wasn’t mine, since mine said I wasn’t seeking sex. Yes, age is just a number, and so is IQ. Yours, apparently, is in the double digits.
You may have seen this comment before, since it was left right here on this blog. I thought it deserves its own special message. What a shame this person thinks they’re so clever.
I bet you only get spanked on the left side of your ass
Wrong again, Breitbart Breath, as is evidenced by this recent photo:
And finally, to my special hater out there: Really? You think my last blog was all about little ol’ you? Tsk… now who’s vain, hmmm? My upbringing in the “entertainment world” had nothing to do with my political views — I am a well-educated woman and I have a mind of my own — so you may can the condescending claptrap. But hey, thanks for saying I have a pretty face. I do believe that’s the first time in all these years that you’ve ever said anything nice about me. 🙂
Interesting side note: Someone very close to me — who is a conservative and voted for Trump — read my last blog. He could have been pissy about it, but all he had to say about it was that it’s a funny and satirical piece, and some of the best writing he’s seen from me. How about that. I thanked him for his civility, and he said, “I’m the norm. The people who act like a-holes are the exception.” I’m afraid I disagree with that; I think it’s the other way around. But we’ll see.
Moving on — did you guys miss my annual sniping about fruitcake? Then this is for you. Our ever-trendy coffeehouse, Starbucks, unveiled a Christmas treat this year, available for one week only: the Fruitcake Frappuccino. It was described as a blended iced coffee drink with hazelnut and cinnamon, topped by whipped cream, caramel and matcha (whatever the @#$% that is). What’s fruitcake-y about this, you might ask? Well, also blended into the beverage are bits of dried fruit. That’s right, so you can eat your Frappuccino as well as drink it. It’s creamy! It’s chunky! It’s chewy! It’s disgusting!
And if you’re not already sick, here is a real view of it:
I’m sorry, but this doesn’t resemble anything drinkable to me. It looks like the inside of a Times Square toilet on New Year’s Eve.
Did everyone have a nice holiday? Mine had some pleasant moments, although I was struggling a bit. Earlier this month, Alex and Paul had a lovely little party, and I did my best to get into the spirit, dressing myself up, complete with black stockings that had red bows at the top, red pumps, and a black shirt that had “Naughty” on the front and “Nice” on the back. Last week, Alex, SC and I had a long-overdue girls’ night out, where we chatted for hours and exchanged presents. I got some nice things, including a beautiful, soft and plush robe from Alex, and SC gave me a Lego set… to build the Yellow Submarine! I haven’t played with Legos since I was a kid; this should be fun. But I think my favorite gift was one that came as a surprise in the mail: it was from Lily Starr, and when I opened it, I smiled, then giggled, then guffawed. It was a crystal pendant… of a snowflake.
I think this might have been the beginning of a turnaround for me. I felt my humor, long dormant, kick back in a bit. And my feistiness. Damn right I’m a snowflake, and I’ll accept that term, meant to be insulting, with pride. In fact, Lily’s gift inspired me to shoot this little video. 🙂 Screw with me, and I’m screwing right back. I may go down in a nuclear holocaust in the coming year or so, but I’m going down laughing.
* * *
Now, if I can be serious for a moment. This has been a brutal year. No, not just because of the obvious, but for so many other miseries befalling people I care about. Job losses, illnesses, broken relationships, getting outed. Deaths… so many deaths. John lost his own closest friend last month, and we are still reeling from that. And this was a terrible year for our beloved icons, with an unbelievable count of losses. Actors. Musicians. Authors. Sports figures. Astronauts. Just this week, we lost Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, one day apart. Reportedly, Ms. Reynolds’ last words were “I want to be with Carrie” before she had a massive stroke. I guess it is possible to die of a broken heart. My own heart breaks for Todd Fisher, who lost both his sister and mother within 24 hours, and for Billie Lourd, who lost her mother and grandmother. Sometimes life is very cruel.
If you have never seen Singin’ In The Rain, I am telling you to do so. Even if you say you don’t like musicals, see it anyway. It is so much more than song and dance, although those numbers are dazzling, and it’s impressive to watch a 19-year-old Debbie Reynolds, who’d never danced professionally before, holding her own with two of the best dancers of the 20th century. It’s funny, clever, energetic, romantic, and if it doesn’t put a smile on your face and lift your spirits, you might want to check for a pulse.
What’s my point? Life is short. Hold your loved ones close. Hang in there, and do the best you can. I say this as much to myself as I do to my friends. I’m going to put on my rain gear and boots, and plow bravely forward into the crapstorm that 2017 is looking to be, determined to have fun and experience love and joy where I can. May you all do the same.
Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥
My regular readers know that, at this time of year, I like to write a naughty Christmas carol parody. However, due to the grim circumstances of 2016, I’m not in the mood to do so. For those who would like to revisit last year’s parody, I present “Elves Gone Bad,” here. In the meantime, my gift to you, in lieu of a parody, is a sweet (well, sweet for me) holiday fairy tale.
Once upon a time, there was a forlorn crybaby named Erica. She was unhappy all the time, now that her country had been taken over by a large orange fascist blowhard named The Trump, and she no longer felt safe or assured of her future. Despite the fact that his opponent got nearly three million more votes than he did, he still won, due to an antiquated electoral college and most likely Russian some outside influences. He was filling his cabinet with elitist millionaires, and everyone but the richest of the rich and the whitest of the white was basically as fucked as Ivanka in her daddy’s fantasies.
To add insult to injury, some* of his supporters were especially hateful people, members of a white supremacist movement called the Alt-Reich, gloating and sneering and name-calling. They were the ones who had labeled her a crybaby, among other nasty names such as “libtard” and “snowflake.” This last one especially puzzled Erica. She lived in the grand blue state of California, on the west side of the DSA (Divided States of America). She’d gaze out her window at the perpetually sunny sky and wonder, “What’s a snowflake?”
Another thing the Alt-Reich people were fond of saying was, “Suck it up.” “Suck it up, whiner!” “Suck it up, buttercup!” Suck what up? Erica couldn’t quite figure out what “it” was. She combed the Internet, seeking answers, but as was often the case, there were too many answers and not enough real information. At one point, she saw this picture of Mitt Romney groveling like a pussy eating dinner with Trump…
…and was horrified. After all, everyone knew what Romney had to choke down for dessert at that meeting. “Oh, no,” she thought. “Surely they don’t mean suck that up? Ugh!”
So what was she supposed to suck up? After much thought (in between bouts of weeping), it dawned on her: California had just legalized marijuana. Erica was not a big fan of mind-altering substances, but in this new order, she figured reality was intolerable, so perhaps an alternate reality would be a pleasant escape for a while.
She then consulted her younger, hipper friends, whom she knew would be able to steer her in the right direction to the good stuff, and procured a huge blunt of the best weed she could afford. Settling herself at home into her favorite chair, ensuring she had plenty of peanut butter Oreos and Hershey’s Nuggets for later, she lit up and took a deep, deep suck inward, drawing the sweet, pungent smoke into her lungs.
Ahhh. Suck THIS.
As Erica grew dreamily stoned, she watched lazily as the smoke curled from the joint, drifting across the room and gathering into a cloud over the couch. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them, and blinked rapidly. “What’s in this stuff?” she muttered. For she could swear the sweetly scented puffs were coalescing and morphing into a shape, slowly but surely. She rubbed her eyes and looked again; to her shock, the amorphous cloud had settled into the form of a man, sprawled on the couch. As he came into focus, Erica could see he was in faded jeans, barefoot and shirtless, with long dark hair. His eyes were heavy lidded and slightly bleary, and in one hand he clutched a can of Pringles. His other hand came up into a lethargic wave.
“Who are you?” Erica spluttered.
“Just call me Gene,” the stranger said, stretching his legs out, then tipping the Pringles can to his mouth. As he crunched, she stared. “What’s your last name?” she asked.
He swallowed and yawned, then gave her a languid smile. “Everstone.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Erica groaned. “Everstone. Initial E. Gene E. I get it. What are you doing here?”
“You’re always crying,” he drawled. “It’s bad for your eyes. So I’m here to cheer you up with four holiday wishes.”
Erica shook her head. I’m really wasted, she thought. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed. “And isn’t it supposed to be three wishes?”
“What, you’re complaining ‘cause it’s more?” He shrugged. “Four is the standard these days. Inflation, I guess. So come on. What do you want? A few million dollars? Eternal youth? And please don’t bother me with that ‘world peace’ crap. Everyone knows that’s completely impossible.”
Erica took another hit, savoring it as she thought about her options. She sat up, curling her legs under her. “No,” she mused. “I want some things that will help restore the country to sanity.”
Gene munched a few more Pringles. “Go for it,” he mumbled around his mouthful.
“Wish Number One,” Erica began, her eyes lighting up. “The Trump resigns. He’s like, ‘Hey, I just wanted to win the presidency; I didn’t actually want to be president! This job is yuuuuge! It takes too much time away from my own self-serving interests! And people are mean to me!’ He then gathers up his entire family, including these two ghoulish greaseballs…
…and of course, his eldest daughter, whom he has lusted after since her adolescence adores…
…and moves them all to Russia, where he spends the rest of his days with his nose firmly embedded in Vladimir Putin’s ass.”
Gene snickered. “You sure it’s just his nose?”
“Ewwwww!” Erica moaned. “Please! Don’t go there; you’ll make me throw up. I’m high and I might aspirate.”
“OK, OK. Anything you wanna add to that one?”
Erica thought for a moment. “Yeah. The Trump has to wear electrically wired underwear at all times. Every time he tries to tweet, he gets a big jolt of juice to his junk.”
“You really should get stoned more often,” Gene laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “It gives you a wicked imagination.” He waved his hand. “OK, it’s done. But honey, now your people are stuck with Mike Pence, Mr. Funerals-For-Fetuses.”
“Ah, that’s Wish Number Two,” Erica grinned, extending her hand for a chip. “I have special plans for Mike Pence.”
“Do tell.” Gene stretched back, reached into a smoke ring and pulled out a bottle of microbrew. He cocked one finger and the top snapped off.
“Mike Pence finds himself trapped in a large room that’s locked from the outside. On one side, he’s flanked with a mob of angry LGBTQ folks who didn’t appreciate his views on how they should be forcefully converted; and on the other side is a group of very angry rape victims who were denied abortions, because, you know, Jesus.”
“And what happens then?” Gene smirked.
“Mmmmmmm,” Erica said, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t wanna know. Let’s just say that after they’re through, er, expressing themselves, ol’ Mike isn’t fit to lead a Boy Scout troop, let alone the country.”
“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. OK,” Gene said, placing the Pringles can between his legs and waving his hand once again. “Consider it done. So now what? What about Speaker Ryan? What about The Trump’s clown car of idiocracy?”
“Wish Number Three,” Erica smiled. “In which Paul Ryan, Steve Bannon, Jeff Sessions, Ben Carson, Kellyanne Conway, Rudy Giuliani, Newt Gingrich, Michael Flynn, Rex Tillerson, Corey What’s-His-Face, and all the others in The Trump’s elitist parade are shipped to a newly discovered planet, an angry little red orb called Ignoranus.** Oh, and we throw in Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin too, because Coulter is Conway’s long-lost twin and Palin is… Palin. Here, they will govern over the planet’s citizens—snow white, sheep-like creatures—and spend their days in activities such as flag waving, burning books written by women and minorities, and target practice. Oh, and we build a giant wall in the sky so they can’t return to Earth, and so that all their hot air and noxious gases don’t infiltrate our atmosphere.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Gene chuckled. “OK, done. But what about those alt-Reich fuckers? Don’t you want to do something with them for your fourth wish?”
Erica pondered for a while, taking the last hit off her blunt and closing her eyes. Opening them again, she said, “Hmmm. If I were a deplorable like Mike Pence, I’d say they should all be put in conversion camps and given shock therapy until they see the light and realize they’re in the Alt-Wrong. But this is still a free country, so I say leave them be, let them go on with their miserable little lives.” She paused. “Well, sort of.” She gave Gene her best beguiling smile. “Can I have five wishes?”
“Wha—?” Gene said, with as much indignation as a stoned hippie genie could muster. “Now you want another one? What for?”
“Well, it’s sort of a two-parter. Please-please-please?” Erica wheedled.
“Geezus,” he grumbled, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re kinda spoiled, you know that?”
“So they tell me,” Erica murmured, blushing slightly. “But hear me out. Can you make it so the alt-Reichers wake up a different race? Doesn’t matter which, it can be random, as long as it’s not Caucasian. Pretty hard to be a white supremacist if you’re not white. Let them experience what it is to be persecuted, profiled and hated and see how they like it.”
“Very fitting,” Gene agreed, his soporific nature back in place. “Where does the fifth wish come in, then?”
“Well, they’re going to be mighty pissed off, and we can’t take away their guns and all their other macho toys, because who wants to listen to them whining about the Second Amendment for all eternity? Personally, I’d choose to let them all have muskets, which were the only arms in use when their precious fucking Second Amendment came to be, but that would be silly, I guess. So for those of us who just want to live in peace and equality, make us bulletproof, and make all our homes, offices, venues, etc. fire- and bomb-proof. Does that work?”
Gene sat up, put his beer bottle on the coffee table and did a slow golf clap. “Works for me,” he said approvingly. “That way they can still have their weapons, but no longer harm innocent people with them.” He snapped his fingers, twice. “Well done, Erica. Have a good life.” And as Erica watched incredulously, he faded into a haze of smoke. The Pringles can and beer bottle remained; otherwise, she would have thought it had been a dream.
After indulging in copious quantities of chocolate (because this was a fantasy, so there were no calories), Erica cleared up and went to bed, thinking that had been a nice high and she’d deal with reality in the morning. That night, she had her first nightmare-less sleep in months, and when she woke, it was to the realization that her wishes had indeed come true. Gene, the Stoner Genie, hadn’t been a figment of her weed-infused imagination after all. When she turned on the television, the first thing she saw was the newly elected President Kamala Harris. Ms. Harris had chosen Elizabeth Warren for Vice President, and for Speaker of the House, she had picked George Takei, who everyone knew was the wisest man in the land.
And so, that was how Crybaby Erica sucked it up and saved the country. She lived happily ever after, and she no longer cried. Her mojo was restored and she was able to engage in kinky adventures once again. And they were even better, because all men were now respectful of women and safe words were no longer necessary.
You’re welcome, America.
* Notice I said some, not all. Of course I don’t think all Trump voters are ignorant white supremacists. That would be generalizing on my part, and heaven forbid I do such a thing. I almost feel sorry for the swing voters who just wanted a change and thought they were doing the right thing, as they’re going to be screwed along with the rest of us, but they brought it on themselves. Voting for a man who publicly mocks the disabled; is personally endorsed by the KKK; who is so fucking stupid that he spells “unprecedented” “unpresidented,” and who brags about how he can get away with sexually assaulting women “because he’s a star” is never a good idea.
** Ignoranus: One who is both stupid AND an asshole.
Just a few notes, because after this, I am going to do my best to avoid politics on here altogether: No doubt I’ve pissed some of you off with my flagrant disrespect for the office of the president. You’re right; I’m a very bad girl. Tell you what: I’ll give your CheetoFace NaziPants Donald Trump respect, just like you respected President Barack Obama, mmmkay? Remember all those memes, likening the Obamas to monkeys? Remember Michelle Obama being called an “ape in a dress,” or an “ape in heels”? Remember the picture of the White House lawn, with watermelons Photoshopped all over it? I sure as hell do.
And all your snarking about how Trump is payback for how you “put up with” Obama for eight years? I’m calling bullshit on that too. Obama restored the country after your idiot frat boy George W. Bush took us down the dumper for two excruciating terms.
So for those who don’t like this post, to them, I give back their own words: Too bad. Suck it up. You’re more than welcome to read something more up your alley, like Breitbart News. Oh, and this too…
(Of course, I mean that in the figurative sense, not literally. Because I wouldn’t actually let any of you anywhere near my ass.)
To my friends and faithful readers, I promise I will be back when my kinky mojo returns and I feel like posting on topic again. In the meantime, Merry Christmas HAPPY HOLIDAYS, y’all. 😛