Welcome to my blog! 🙂
This is a week of emotional overload for me. On the happy side, yesterday was the 25th anniversary of the day I met John. He sent me a bouquet of 25 roses. I posted a joyous picture of us on Twitter and got over 100 likes. But on the flip side, I am feeling deep sadness about the Shadow Lodge party at the end of this week, the one we will be missing. John and I decided to celebrate our anniversary this coming weekend, in hopes that it will distract me from thinking about the party and our friends.
But today, on what was his birthday, I’m thinking of my big brother, who passed away in 1972.
For those who have lost someone, you know this: You never forget. Time softens, dulls the pain, settles the anguish into a quiet background sadness that never quite goes away, like a scar.
Some deaths, like the passing of parents, are a rite of passage. You know they’re coming, and they still suck, but they are expected. But the sudden death of a 22-year-old is not. My life was forever changed that day. I saw my parents gutted with grief. They had lost their firstborn, their happy, curious, talented boy with so much promise. And here I was, left to pick up the slack alone. To deal with things I was way too damn young to deal with. I mean, Jesus Christ… for several years after his death, my mother would give me a present on Mother’s Day. She’d always say the same thing: “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be a mother.” Yeah, that wasn’t heart-wrenching at all.
Memories of Ken are fragmented, blurred over many years. He was a popular kid in high school; his friends were always coming over. Every year on his birthday, he had a massive party. The house exploded with teenagers and music. My mother once cooked beef stroganoff for 65 kids. The living room was packed with bodies, and some of them spilled out the front door and out on the lawn, into the street. But mine wasn’t one of them. I was never allowed in the room. Teenagers don’t want a pesky little girl among them.
I could watch from the staircase. But I couldn’t enter. Which broke my heart, every year. Except the year of his 18th birthday, his last year at home, his final party. At long last, I was allowed to join. I sat quietly off to the side, sipping a soda, in awe of everything going on around me, watching my brother’s band play, my head bursting with noise and sensations. His friends mostly ignored me, but a few of them were nice, commenting about how I got to “hang out with the big kids” tonight.
Never forgot that… I felt included. I felt a part of, that night. And of course, I never had parties like his. I was an isolated loner with eating disorders in my teens.
I remember he gave me the first record album I ever got. What was it? Of course. “Something New” by the Beatles.
I remember him trying to gross me out, telling me that chocolate mousse was actually made from the pancreas of a moose.
I remember hearing him sing “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?” and I asked him, “Do what?” He didn’t answer me.
I am an atheist. I don’t believe in heaven or any afterlife — when you die, you’re gone. But… sometimes I wish I could believe that our loved ones are on another plane, reuniting. I have images of my dad, mom and brother together again, a tight unit like they were in the years before I was born, before divorce broke us apart. My dad is clowning with my brother, singing him his song parodies (for example, he’d sing “My Boy Ken” to the tune of “My Boy Bill,” a song from the musical Carousel). Probably telling him dirty jokes too, and yanking my mother’s chain. (“Mommy makes her meatballs, taste like people’s feet balls.”) Yes, he really said that; he had a whole little song about it. And Mom would be saying to Ken, “For God’s sake, get those wings trimmed already.”
Even after all these years, I wonder about what could have been. What kind of man Ken would have turned out to be. Would we have been close? Would I have been an aunt? Would we have talked; would he have given me perspective on our parents? And… every time I hear Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Look At Little Sister,” I think of Ken. What would he have thought of his little sister, and who she grew up to be? Would I have ever shared Erica Scott with him?
So many questions, unanswered.
Tomorrow, I’ll put these memories away, back on their shelf. But for today, they surround me.
Like I said, a week of many feels.
Thanks for reading.
The music world had two tough losses this past week: Don Everly (last remaining Everly Brother) and Charlie Watts, drummer for the Rolling Stones since 1964.
One of the million reasons why I love the Beatles is their gorgeous two- and three-part harmonies. But before John, Paul and George, we had Phil and Don. Everly — two brothers with voices of velvet. They influenced the Beatles and others; listen to “If I Fell” and you will hear John and Paul channeling Phil and Don with their sublime harmonizing.
My favorite song by the Everlys is “All I Have to Do is Dream,” a sad song about a man whose lover only appears in his dreams. Many years ago, after I became a spanko, I thought the song would work well for a parody. I mean, if you could have a dream lover, how about a dream spanker? So I wrote what I think (?) is the first spanking parody I ever did. Not sure; back in those days, I didn’t have a blog. I don’t know if I posted this anywhere; I might have in the long-defunct Spanked Wives and Girlfriends message board on MSN, but only those readers who go waaaaaayyyy back with me would have seen it there.
First, for those who don’t know the song, here is the original. It’s short, I promise. You won’t regret spending a couple of minutes listening to this — it’s beautiful.
And now, my spanko version. By the way — the line “paddle me with wood” is purely artistic license to create a rhyme. It is not to be taken as a directive!
Dreeeeam, dream dream dream
Dreeeeam, dream dream dream
When I behave,
With no regard,
And I need you,
To spank me hard,
Whenever I’m naughty,
All I have to do, is dreeeeam, dream dream dream
You come to me,
In my bed,
And then you spank,
My bottom red,
When I am a bad girl,
All I have to do, is dreaaammmmm
I just can’t be good,
Paddle me with wood,
OTK, night or day,
But I’m in a jam,
I have to be sleeping to play!
I need your hand,
On my behind,
I need you so,
I’ll learn to mind,
Whatever my crime is,
All I have to do, is dreeaaammmm
Pull my panties down,
Scold me with a frown,
As I drowse peacefully
Only trouble is,
The daytime is empty for me!
Oh please come back,
To set me straight,
To be my fate?
When craving a spanking,
All I have to do, is dreeeaaaaam, dream dream dream
Dreeeeeaaam, dream dream dream…
Not bad for a first effort, huh? Oh, and just to show that I’m not neglecting the Stones, some of you may remember this — a parody I wrote in 2012 of “Mother’s Little Helper.” Apologies to anyone who’s already seen these. I figure there are always people who are newer to my blog and haven’t seen some of the old stuff, and these parodies seemed apropos to repost this week.
Rest well, Don and Charlie. Thanks for all the memorable music.
And in other news… meh. Never mind. Other news sucks. Have a good weekend, y’all. Be safe. ♥
Got the Delta blues? Worried about the planet frying to a crisp? Fed up with politics? Up to here with ignorance, selfishness, flakiness, irresponsibility? Tired of the endless stream of negativity in the news? Pissed off about the new Jeopardy! host? Are you unpopular? Do you poop out at parties? Do you suffer from the heartbreak of psoriasis??
Are you just fucking sick to death of everything??
Well, get your ass beat and forget about it for a little while. I did.
Yes, I had a visit from Mr. Woodland again last night. And was damn grateful for it, especially after worrying about how it might fall through. He was running late with work, and then mid-afternoon, my AC decided to spring a leak and start dripping all over my carpet. Auggh! I was afraid I’d have to turn it off, and it was nearly 100 degrees outside — no way could we play with no AC. However, my manager dropped over, took a look, said there was a clog that was causing backup and told me the AC people would come the next day — and meanwhile, I could keep running it (he put a bucket under the leak). Whew!!
Mr. W arrived about 6:30-ish — I was ready with chilled water and cookies and we sat and talked for a little while, catching up. I shared about what’s been going on with me, the frustration and anger and powerlessness of it all, and he announced that he was going to spank all that stress right out of me. Well, okay then, have at it, please!
As you might remember from our last scene, we had to cut it short because I was marking so heavily. I’m happy to report that this time, that wasn’t an issue. Early on, the conversation went something like this:
Him: “Hmm… looks like you’ll have a mark right here.”
Me: “I can live with that.”
Him: “Looks like you’re gonna have to.”
Me: “Oooh… yes, SIR.”
Him: “Good girl!”
Me: “Oh, fuck off. Don’t you know sarcasm when you hear it?”
And we were off.
The whole scene is one big blur of fun for me. I remember a lot of laughter — both mine and his. (I love making tops laugh!) We did a good long hand warm-up on my couch, with plenty of banter, and then he had me move to the ottoman. Aaaand then s**t got real, as the kids say. He broke out the heavy artillery from his toy bag — he knows my preference is leather and he had quite the assortment of goodies, including a brand-new strap. He gleefully announced that he’d been thinking about me when he bought it… oh, joy. :-Þ
Before I knew it, the best part happened — the transition. When I start to go into my zone, stop talking, stop sassing, and just sink into the feelings. It’s around that time that animal sounds start coming out of me. I could kinda sorta hear his voice floating above me, saying things like, “Yeah.” “That’s it.” “There it is.” “Wow.” “Ah, it’s just like music.”
Toward the end, he leaned over me, smoothed my hair with his hand and murmured, “How’re you doing, killer?” Harrumph! I beg your pardon? Who are you calling “killer”? Then he teasingly asked me, “Still like leather?” Somehow, I managed to pant, “Yes… I’m just not sure I still like you.”
He had me come back to the couch over his lap to finish me off. By then I was so far gone that everything felt like a caress. After that, I tucked into the circle of his arm and we talked a while longer, winding down. He took off a bit after 9:00, both of us agreeing that this had been a wonderful time. The energy was amazing.
And of course, once again I forgot all about pictures. (He did say next time he’ll be sure to take some.) So I went old school again and set up my camera with the timer. I was already faded a bit by now, but you can still see what a good job he did.
Today, I’m sleepy, spacey, and wishing for the quazillionth time that I could bottle post-spanking euphoria.
Thank you once again, Mr. W. And now, reality intervenes too soon — just got some work emailed to me, so back I go. Hope everyone is staying safe and well. ♥
I swear, these guys are more relentless than Covid. No, they won’t kill anyone, but some of them sure do make me sick.
This first one isn’t the usual CHoS entry, but I figured it was worth a mention. A while back, I got a message on FetLife from a local man, saying he hoped we could connect. I didn’t like his FL name — I won’t post it, because I’ve always sworn I wouldn’t identify these people and I won’t start now, but suffice it to say it sounded like he thinks women exist to be receptacles for his bodily emissions. Anyway, I went to take a peek at his profile.
He specializes in humiliation, degradation, objectification, “squirtology” and “bimbofication.” He “provides asshole stretching upon request.” PAWGs automatically go to the front of the line. (Do you need to Google it? Don’t bother. Phat Ass White Girls.) And he belongs to a long list of awful sounding groups; here are just some of the Cs:
CPT (Clit and Pussy Torture) — The female version of CBT
And don’t even get me started on his pictures. Yeah, I don’t think so. I didn’t reply to him. And normally, that would be the end of it. Except last week, I got this:
i am still hoping to connect with you
I didn’t want to hear from him yet again, so I sent back three words:
No, thank you
Nothing wrong with that, right? Clear and to the point. Polite.
And then I got this:
oh dear did i just crash and burn on take-off?
thanks for letting me know.
i’ll just wait for the fire crew to get here
Really? Really?? Am I seriously getting butt-hurt, passive-aggressive indignation from this clown with his House O’ Filth profile? Hey, buddy… maybe you should stretch your own asshole. Then you could pull your head out of it.
Iwould love to enjoy spanking you, but with no sex at all I dont see why I would
Um… okay. And you bothered writing this to me because?
Will u be my little anal slut 😉
You are write hun. OTK is the best. One ca play with all of a woman parts and drive her nuts and have her pussy dripping wet when it’s checked here and there. I like to do that every time to a woman. you can finger her every now and then teasing her. This is what I do.
Do you have a point, hun? No? Then I’m going to add you to my CHoS and delete your ass. This is what I do.
My idea of playing with you would be to get you very wet, keeping you soaked and even during a spanking sliding a few fingers or tongue down to flick the bean and make you cum
Flick the bean? Is that anything like flick the Bic? And for the quazillionth time — what part of “I’m not seeking sex” was unclear?
And finally… get your Advil ready for this one. I redacted the personal information.
hello i am a 62 year old Dominant Master/man from [city/state] i am a sex addict and love to spend hours with a warm and horny woman just making each other feel good i live alone in a older home in a small city i work 6 days a week for about another five years i love the outdoors i have a large yard i am also a smoker and not just tobacco my email is [whocares] ido have hangouts i do seek a ltr and would love to see if you could be it now i must add this to save time i wont send money dont waste your time if that is what you are after sorry i can send a plane ticket to me if we click
(clutching head) Is a side effect of too much weed making a person forget how to use punctuation? Let me get this straight: I’m supposed to get on a plane to Bumfuck, Egypt in order to meet a semi-literate stoner sex addict? No, pal, I don’t want your money. I want spanking. Which you didn’t mention even once. So I ask yet again… did you read my damn profile??
(sigh) I need to get back to work now and see if I can regenerate all the brain cells that died reading this crap. Have a great weekend, y’all. Please be safe. ♥
It’s been quite a week. I have been at the heights of joy, in the pits of sadness, and boiling over with frustration and anger. Because everything has felt so random and crazy, I think I’ll just list things in no particular order. That way, people can read, pick and choose what they relate to, and ignore the rest.
I watched a special on ABC last night: “Eyewitness to the Death of John Lennon.” It was first aired in December 2020, marking the 40-year anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. Jeezus, forty years. And just like that, all the feels and the tears came rushing back. Guns and crazy people then; guns and crazy people now. What’s changed? What’s gotten better? Broke my heart all over again.
Here in Southern CA, Orange County specifically, there is an Italian restaurant who — yes, you are reading correctly — will not allow people to wear masks inside and who demands proof of NON-vaccination before you’re allowed to dine there. (How the hell do you show proof of that, anyway?) The owner is self-righteous and smug and militant about his stance; I watched part of an interview with him and he was so belligerent that the newscaster cut it short and said, on the air, “You sound like an idiot.” Last Tuesday night, I saw a tweet about an article that stated the owner was getting a huge kick out of the anger over this and he’d said he was “enjoying watching people’s head explode.”
So, Miss Mouth here tweeted: “What an asshole. I hope HIS head explodes when his restaurant is shut down due to massive Covid infection.”
Y’all know I didn’t mean that literally, right? You know it’s a figure of speech? Of course you do. Well, apparently Twitter didn’t. They locked down my account for a week. Said I violated their policy about “abuse and harassment.” Seriously?? Unbelievable. I saw many tweets that were a great deal worse than what I’d said; Twitter is so damn arbitrary. Oh well. I do have an alternate account for these instances, so I’ve kept up. Oh, and just for grins, I went and checked out the restaurant’s Yelp page. The place was bombarded with so many one-star angry reviews that Yelp temporarily disabled all the reviews and comments. Good. Fuck that guy. It’s too bad, though. It would have been fun to post a review along the lines of “Be sure to try the special: Roast Leg of Lambda with a side of Covidini. Better yet, stay the hell away from this Petri dish.”
On the good news front: Guess who is coming back to CA to visit me? C from Oregon! I can’t believe he is making that long trip again, and just for one day this time, but I’m thrilled that he wants to. I am seeing him two weeks from Monday and I can’t wait. Also, I heard from Mr. Woodland and he wants to play again soon too. Ah, this makes me happy.
And it helps make up for the fact that the man I played with a week ago Tuesday has seemingly dropped off the planet. Never heard another word from him — no email, no text, nothing. No feedback on our play. No check-in. Radio silence. I thought he enjoyed himself — I guess I was mistaken. Fortunately, I had no emotional investment this time.
Covid is on the rise again, escalating rapidly, with the Delta variant taking over. Breakthrough cases in people who are fully vaxxed are increasing. First they said the cases were 99% unvaxxed people; the latest I read is that the new cases are 86% unvaxxed. The numbers are going in the wrong direction. And guess where the latest really bad red zone is? Yup. Las Vegas.
Where we’re supposed to be headed in a month.
Our tickets are purchased, our hotel room is booked. I am craving this party with all my heart and soul. Not just because of the play — that’s actually secondary. I want to see our friends. I want hugs, lots and lots and lots of hugs. Jay, my sweet, wonderful Sister In Spirit is coming — this is her first SL. And it would be our first time meeting in person. We have been online friends for seven years, shared a million emails and texts, exchanged many presents… but I’ve never gotten to look her in the face, throw my arms around her.
But I have to face reality. It might not be safe to go. Yes, everyone at the party will be vaxxed. But we’ll be all over the hotel. Hallways, restaurants, elevators. Constant exposure. Tons of people — it’s a holiday weekend. And even vaxxed people can carry and transmit the Delta variant. Yes, the vaccine helps. Yes, even if we got Covid, it would most likely be a mild case. I’m not concerned about myself.
But John is another story. He is high-risk. He is compromised.
I’m seeing the writing on the wall. He’s already saying things like “Well, we’ll have to spend more time in our room, take more breaks,” “We can bring more snacks and eat in our room more,” “We’ll have to keep our masks on even in the party rooms,” “Maybe we can just stay for a couple of days instead of all four,” and so on. It sounds like if we go, we’re going to be uptight and preoccupied about the specter of Covid every damn minute. And what fun is that? People are coming from all over, bringing who knows what. And, as mentioned, Vegas is a hot spot now.
I suppose I could go by myself, take John out of possible harm’s way. But the thought of that is nearly as unbearable as not going at all. I’ve never gone to a party without John, not once in 25 years. I can’t imagine being there without him. Yeah, I’d have lots of people to hang with. But I’d feel like I was missing a limb.
So. There isn’t a blessed thing I can do at this point. All I can do is watch and wait, and hope. Maybe things will improve in Vegas over the next month.
Or maybe things will get so bad that we’ll all get locked down again. Who knows. It’s unthinkable. But then again, having this pandemic go on and on like it has is unthinkable as well.
Here is where I could go on a long, expletive-filled rant about what I think of anti-vaxxers and Covid deniers. But I won’t. Y’all know me. You can well imagine what I’m thinking and feeling right now about these people with their willful ignorance and utter selfishness.
Perhaps this says it all.
So yeah. I’m all over the place. Oh, and did I mention that John’s and my 25th anniversary is at the end of August? SL was going to be our celebration getaway. Hopefully it still will be. Only time will tell.
How are you doing? Come talk to me. Stay safe, everyone. ♥