Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.


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Welcome to my blog! 🙂

Okay, okay, here’s the real parody


You didn’t think I was going to skip the annual carol parody, did you? The one from last week was simply a bonus, because… well, because I felt like it. But ’tis an Erica Scott tradition to create a spanko parody of a Christmas carol every year, and I wasn’t about to slack off on it. Besides, work is slow this week, I have a wretched cold, so I have plenty of time on my hands and could use the distraction.

I’ve done several of these already (like this one from last year, for example), but as we all know, there is no shortage of carols to work with. The one from last year was complex with multiple verses, but this year, with my brain muddled with mucus, I needed to keep it simple. And what’s more simple and classic than “A Christmas Song”? Besides, to this day, I can’t think about that song without remembering my dad warbling “Jack Frost roasting on an open fire…”

So, with all apologies to Mel Tormé (co-writer) and Nat King Cole, here you go:

Bottoms roasting under open palms
Teardrops dripping off their nose
Misbehavior being handled by doms
And brats dressed up like Santa’s hos

Everybody knows a paddle and a strap or two
Help to keep the backsides bright
Whiny imps and the miscreants too
Will find it hard to sit tonight

They know a spanking’s on its way
They’ve got it coming and there’s nothing they can say
And all the good girls are gonna spy
To see what happens when you scheme and lie

And so the tops are rolling back their cuffs
To give the little brats their due
All Grinches out there, say goodbye to your duffs
Many spankings to you!

And yes, before anyone comments on it, it doesn’t escape me that I’m the biggest Grinch out there and should be the recipient of this holiday fare. To that I say, “Yes, please, bring it!” My mojo is definitely still very much alive. Yesterday, while in the throes of fever and boredom, I engaged in a brat war on Twitter — two other women and me against one male top. It was immature, it was silly… and it was so damn much fun. I haven’t done anything like that in years. And I’ve still got it, if I do say so myself. The top involved actually admitted, “Wow, you’re good. You’re really good.” 😀 So… once I get rid of this damn cold and get past the annual ho-ho shit, I will try to get back into the game and redouble my efforts to find a local play partner. Because I need this.

A final note… despite the heartache and disappointment and other bullshit that life tosses in our direction on a daily basis, I get by with a little help from my friends. For the special friend who had my back this week, thank you. ♥

Have a great weekend, y’all.

A Special Christmas Parody

Those of you who have been with me for years (and thank you) know I like to write a spanko parody of a Christmas carol at this time of year. And I still might — the month is young. But for now, I have something extra.

When I restarted this blog a year and a half ago, I said that I wouldn’t be talking about politics, that they really had no business on a spanking blog. I still feel that way, so don’t worry, I’m not going in that direction. However, despite the efforts of this clusterfuck of an administration, we haven’t completely devolved into Gilead just yet, and it’s still a woman’s prerogative to change her mind. So, I present this holiday treat to you, to the tune of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”


Donald the Orange Menace

Donald the Orange Menace,
Had a very slimy past,
Now thanks to the impeachment,
It’s gonna bite him in the ass!

All of his crooks and cronies
Used to laugh and call folks names
They always joined The Dotard
As he played his lying games!

Then one happy Judgment Day,
Nancy came to say,
“Donald, you’re a hopeless blight,
Please resign and leave tonight!”

All of the “snowflakes” loathed him
And they shouted out with glee
“Donald the Orange Menace,
You’ll go down in flames, you’ll see!”

As my readers know, in general, I encourage civil discourse and welcome people to disagree with me if they do so respectfully. But on this topic? Nuh uh. You don’t like this parody? Don’t like what I say about Trump? As your Führer likes to tweet, Too Bad! (He probably likes that phrase because it’s two words he can actually spell correctly.) Please feel free to go read something else, and leave me the hell alone. There is more than enough right-wing swill for you to wallow in out there.

Oh, and for those who will gloat that impeachment is a worthless joke, that nothing’s going to get him out — yeah, we may be stuck with him for another year, but the damage is done. He’s been shown for what he is: a complete disgrace, and the laughing stock of the entire freaking world.

Well, except for Russia….


I love anagrams, don’t you?

Anyway, MERRY CHRISTMAS — ah, screw that…


Sometimes, life’s timing is perverse

Thanks to everyone who dropped in to say hello during LOL Days. I know this event isn’t as well attended as it used to be, but it’s still fun to see the people who stop by.

So, about last week. I need to back up a bit to last Tuesday.

You know how you can know in your gut that something bad is coming, but in your head and heart, you still hang on to a bit of hope that it won’t? Therefore, when the inevitable happens, even though you knew it was coming, it still knocks you sideways and hurts like hell? Yeah, that was my last Tuesday. I really don’t want to go into any more detail than that. It doesn’t matter.

I bawled, on and off, all day long and into the evening. I felt like hell, my eyes swelled nearly shut, my face burned from the constant tears. But I had to keep going, keep working. First, I had a lot of work to do and several things committed. And second, the next day, I’d be on my way up north for another visit with B. So I quite literally didn’t have time for pain or emotional fallout.

I finally finished the work I’d promised before taking off Wednesday/Thursday, and went to bed. I didn’t sleep well. When I woke up Wednesday morning, I wondered how I was going to switch gears. I looked awful. And while I was no longer sobbing, my eyes still kept dripping like a broken faucet. In the car on the way to the airport. At the airport. In the plane. In the Uber. Blech. When I arrived at our meeting place, I had an hour before B got off work, so I went into the bathroom and put on some makeup. Time to put all this crap on hold and be in the moment. I was here to have some fun. It was a brief escape and distraction. I could continue to hurt after I got home. But for now, I was going to shelve it and enjoy myself — and be a guest who was a pleasure, not a drag.

After B came to get me and we went back to his place, he put on some music and we chatted a bit. Despite the mood I’d been in for the past day and a half, I felt my spirits perk up and knew my emotions were under control. Whew. I can do this. I can forget about all this crap for a while and be present.

A couple of weeks ago, B had emailed me and asked if we could speak on the phone later, regarding our plans for my visit. As it happened, I was on a deadline that night and I was all stressed out about it, and so I asked if this could be handled by email. You guys know I have a thing about the phone; email and voicemail and texts are my friend. About the only person I talk to on the phone these days is John. So I truly wasn’t trying to be offensive… but I guess I should have been more flexible and agreed to a brief call. We did settle things by email — he wanted to know my choice between November 6 and November 13. I chose November 13 and all was well; he booked it for me and sent me the confirmation. And then told me I was going to be punished for not taking his phone call. Oh, dear.

Soooooo… not long after I arrived, it was time to address that. Upstairs we went. The scene that followed had a lighter tone; B was a bit more playful, and he used his belt for the first time, which I loved. There was the requisite cane, but just twelve this time. And then he did something new; he put a small digital clock (one that counts off seconds) in front of my face on the bed and said he was going to use the tawse very quickly in flurries all over for three minutes. Which sounded like a lot, but I was actually a bit disappointed when it was over — I liked it!

“Was that like I said it would be?” he asked. “Very fast and spread out over a large area?”

“Hey,” I blurted. “Watch it with that ‘large area’ business!”

“Excuse me?”

Oh, crap. “I mean, uh, please refrain from saying ‘large area’ when you’re talking to a woman’s butt… sir!” I think he just replied with “ExCUSE me??” again, so I just broke down and started giggling hysterically, and buried my face in the spread, preparing for an onslaught. But he let it pass. 🙂

“I think you need two more minutes.” Well, okay then. I think two minutes turned into another three and then some more after that — I lost track.

“You enjoyed that too much,” he observed. Guilty.


This scene left me pleasantly warm and stinging, and relaxed. We then meandered back downstairs and he prepared an omelet for dinner, which was delicious. And then, more music, plus a selection of artisan truffles and Moet Chandon. It’s not all pain and strictness, y’all. B is the consummate host. 🙂


The picture doesn’t do them justice — his champagne flutes are gorgeous. Can you see the gold rim at the top? And the chocolates were insanely good. The silver ones were my favorite.

It was a cool evening, so we went out to his building’s courtyard and he lit the gas fireplace there, and we sat outside talking for a while. I told him stories about some of my shoots and the people I worked with — he thought Sierra Salem was lovely, and I had spent lots of time with her. I also mentioned about how Keith Jones had nicknamed me “Bionic Bottom” way back when. It’s fun to reminisce; I really have had some amazing times.

Back inside, somehow we got on the subject of the Marx Brothers (!?), and B actually had the temerity to say that “the one who didn’t talk was useless.” Sacrilege! Harpo was brilliant! But what does he know — he’d never even heard of Zeppo, the fourth brother! So one minute we were bickering about this, and the next minute I was OTK, feeling this nasty little strap he has. It’s leather, but it’s very stiff and narrow and it has rivets on both sides, so it really bites.

“Bragging about your video exploits?” he huffed.

“You enjoyed that!” I protested.

“And your, what… your bipolar butt?”

I damn near lost it, laughing so hard. (Yes, it is possible to laugh hysterically and shriek in pain at the same time.) “Bionic! Not bipolar!”

On that note, it was near midnight, so we said good night and I went to the guest suite. By the time I showered, caught up on my phone and settled down, it was about 12:30. I think I was somewhere past exhausted. Nearly three glasses of champagne had taken its effects as well.

And so, 6:45 a.m. arrived swiftly and rudely. I dragged myself out of bed, dressed, sent the requisite “Hi sweetie, I’m okay” text to John, and wandered downstairs, where B was in the kitchen making coffee. He gave me a shot of espresso first, then made a beautiful latte with the swirls on top and everything. And he had multi-grain toast with black cherry jam. It’s the little things in life — give me some caffeine, some carbs and a bit of sugar, and I’m a happy woman.

I was already packed up, and we had about an hour before we had to leave. After he cleaned up, he came and took my hand, saying it was time to go upstairs once more. Okay, I thought, I know the drill — we always play once in the morning. But once there, instead of having me immediately assume the position over the foot of the bed, he kept me standing and looked into my eyes.

“You’ve been very self-reflective lately,” he said without preamble.

Oh, crap. He knew. I’m not sure how; perhaps he read that damned “Catch and Release” post from a couple of weeks ago (one I probably should have taken down). Or perhaps he saw my tweet on Wednesday, talking about the perverse dichotomy of crying all day one day and then flying up north to play the next.

I said yes, I have. And he added, “You’re falling into yourself.”

Never heard it put quite that way, but it works. I often refer to depression as the abyss. Perhaps the abyss is me. I nodded, feeling my throat start to close. He said I needed some therapy; well, that’s for damn sure, so I agreed.

“What do you think would be the proper therapy?” he asked. I looked away. “Pain?” I replied.

“Strapping. To tears,” he answered. My heart started to pound. “You look nervous; are you nervous?” I said yes, I am. “Why?” he asked. “You’ve been spanked by lots of men before.”

Strange question. Kind of a non-sequitur, really. I mean, the nerves and anticipation beforehand are all part of it. If I didn’t feel any butterflies, wouldn’t that mean I’d become jaded and blasé about all this? And what fun would that be? I answered something lame about how toppy he is.

I settled into the bed, and he told me he’d be using two tawses, twelve with a lighter one and then twelve with a heavy one, and we’d go from there. No warm-up, I was already sore from the night before, so I was really going to feel this. Of that I had no doubt.

It didn’t take long. He’d already gotten into my head before giving me a single stroke. The first twelve with the lighter tawse felt like hell. During the next twelve with the heavier one, I broke. After a pause, he gave me six more. The fucking dam cracked yet again; the walls I’d put up the day before crumbled.

He let me cry, gave me a hug. Said he wanted me to be a good girl, to get outside of myself. Yeah. I want that too.

I lay back down and he sat in front of me, and we talked a few minutes. He asked how I was feeling. I said, quite honestly, that I wanted to sleep for a week. Shortly after that, it was time to pull myself together and get ready to go.

I asked him how he’d known what I needed. He declined to answer.


He drove me to the train station, and we said goodbye once again. “Thank you” seemed inadequate, but it was all I had.

I was so tired, I damn near felt delirious. Just physically and emotionally wiped out. I made my first train, no problem. But then at BART, trying to catch the shuttle to the airport, I hit a snag. First ticket machine I came to had a long line, and when I finally got to the front, two women were struggling with it. I tried to help them, and then we gave up and went to the guy in the booth. “Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, “that machine is malfunctioning and will only take Clipper cards.” [whatever the fuck those are] “Walk to your right, take the elevator up one floor and there are more ticket dispensers there.”

So we went to an antique elevator that looked like it had been in operation since 1922, that took forever to open and then forever again to go up one freaking floor. Once there, I dashed out, saw the nearest ticket machine — and the “out of order” sign. Arrrggh! I ran around and found another — but directly in front of it were two security guards in some sort of altercation with a guy who was arguing with them, and they wouldn’t move. So I rushed over to a third machine, finally got my damn ticket… and by then I’d missed the train. However, I got the next one in a half hour, made it to SFO and got checked in with a half hour to spare. All was well. All I wanted now was to go home and collapse, and I finally arrived at around 2:30. Sent a few “I made it home” texts, unpacked, and went straight to bed for a 2 1/2-hour nap.

No rest for the wicked; I had a huge deadline for the next day and I didn’t have time to think, let alone blog or reminisce or talk to friends about my visit. I just swung right into work mode and hit it hard. When I finally sent the finished document to my client at 5:00 Friday, I was so relieved and so pleased with myself, I was beaming. And now it really was time to relax. Time to head for John’s, have a quiet weekend, catch up with sleep, come back to earth. Between work, emotional insanity and the brief whirlwind of travel and adventure, I was toast.

Strange how we get what we need, no matter how fucked up things can feel. Thank you, B. I hope you know how much I appreciate your care.

Just a word to people who have expressed that they’re concerned about me — here’s the deal. Yeah, I’m depressed. This has been a crap year for many reasons and I’m looking forward to kissing it goodbye. There have been losses, hurts, uncomfortable transitions and painful things to accept. Plus for several months I had shoulder impingement syndrome, so I had physical pain thrown into the mix. (Fortunately, that has mostly resolved.) But, to paraphrase the old Kinks’ song “Destroyer,” I’m not going crazy, I’m just a little sad. I don’t need to be avoided or treated with kid gloves. Support means the world to me. Disappearances break my heart. I need little, as I’m a loner by nature. I don’t need constant reassurance. But knowing people are out there caring makes a huge difference and brings bright spots to the darkest days. So for those who are still with me, thank you. ♥

Okay, time for me to adult and get work done. And get back to working out after taking most of last week off. Hopefully, I will be too busy to overthink things. I really didn’t have the time to be writing this blog, but you know, sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. Now I can work with a clear head. (Well… as clear as my head gets, which isn’t ever that clear, but you get my drift. Later, kids)

Love Our Lurkers 2019


It’s that time of year again — where we in the spanko blogosphere pay tribute to our readers, and in particular, the ones who are too shy to comment, but still read faithfully. We appreciate you guys so much, truly. I mean, without readers and commenters, blogging would basically be talking to ourselves. It’s good to know you’re out there, and on November 14 and 15, we are encouraging you to come out, come out, wherever you are, and say hello. 🙂

I am a bit slammed with work and life lately, but there was no way I was missing this. I’ll be checking for comments both days, and I will reply to all, I promise.

Thanks to Hermione for spearheading this (and thanks to Bonnie before her), and thanks to Enzo for the cute LOL19 picture he created for us.

So, while y’all decide what to write, I will play you some background music. I normally don’t expect people to share my bizarre passion for surf guitar instrumentals, but this one is particularly apropos: it’s by Los Straitjackets, and it’s called “Lurking in the Shadows.” 😀  Happy LOL Day(s), everyone. Please join in!

How to ruin a compliment

I guess this could be sort of a mini-Correspondence Hall of Shame; it’s just one entry. It started out nice, though. Last week on Curious Cat, an anonymous poster, instead of posing a question as per usual, wrote a comment to me along the lines of how I talk about my age a lot, but I look great. That they watched Naughty Secretaries 2 — I was hot then, and hot now. (That was shot twenty years ago, BTW.) I was pleased with this and thanked them sincerely.

Until another anonymous person chimed in with this:

Erica’s bottom is tempting, in spite of her age.

Really? Really?? 😛

This could have been nice too. They could have changed “in spite of” to “no matter what,” and I would have thanked them sincerely as well.

Or they could have simply posted the first four words and left the rest off. But nooooo.

Therefore, instead of a thank you, that poster gets this:


Yeah, you tell ’em, Tony. Many thanks to my dear buddy Dave Wolfe  for sending me this picture, along with a note about how I “might find it handy.” How well he knows me.

I feel like I should say something here, since some people are asking me. Regarding all the fires burning in California right now, both Northern and Southern, I am safe. I do not live in a fire area, for which I am grateful every minute. The air quality is crappy and the sky is hazy-ish, but I am not in any danger. John, however, does live in a fire-prone canyon area. And with a freaking fire erupting every damn day, I am terrified his area will be next. Talk about feeling powerless.

And it’s exceptionally maddening, knowing that if my state were to completely burn to ashes and fall off the map, the only thing the Day-Glo orange dumbass dotard in chief would say about it is, “Too bad! They should have raked their forests more!” I’d like to rake his forest.

So, between bouts of anxiety and bouts of tears, it has not been a good week. I’m so tired.

Tired of bad news all the fucking time with no end in sight.

Tired of let-downs and disappointments.

Tired of crying.

Despite my desire to stay holed up in my apartment, I am going to pack up my things and head for John’s as per usual, in hopes of a relaxing and distracting weekend. I’d say we’re both due for a weekend where things go smoothly, after last weekend. Because if one more unexpected bad thing happens, I think I’m going to go stark raving slobbering mad.

But hey, I’m still grateful for my apartment. And grateful for work. I’ll end on that.

Have a good weekend, y’all. Don’t forget to set your clocks back if it applies to you.

Catch and release

I’m in a reflective place, thinking back on certain encounters in my life. Warning: this is really long. And probably boring. You may want your beverage to be alcoholic for this one.

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I was a late bloomer in every way, including with men. I didn’t date in high school. I had a couple of crushes, but nothing came of them. I went through most of college in a haze of depression and eating disorders and had no social life to speak of. I never learned how to relate to boys, and I found myself as an adult completely in the dark on how to relate to men. I was naive, took people at their word, and took any attention I got far too seriously. In my early 20s, I was still a virgin, didn’t know anything about orgasm, and had barely kissed a man. I knew I was supposed to be feeling something, but I was damned if I knew what it was or how I was supposed to go about it. And of course, the spanking fantasies were well closeted and wouldn’t come out for years.

When I was 22, just before my last year of college, I was in school full time and working part time at the hardware store where I’d been for several years. Mostly boys/men worked there and there had been plenty of banter and flirting over my time there… again, nothing came of any of it. But then there was Barry. Tall, dark and handsome, 19, had a girlfriend. And flirted like crazy with me. I remember coming in one day and overhearing him say to another coworker, “Is Erica here?” When they said yes, he blurted, “All right!!” My stomach jolted. I became aware that I had been looking forward to seeing him, too.

I ended up quitting the job at the beginning of summer. My friends there suggested we all go out for drinks and dinner as a goodbye thing. Several of the guys went, including Barry. He did not bring his girlfriend. Instead, he sat next to me at dinner, drinking daiquiris and flirting blatantly with me. At one point, in front of everyone, he picked up my hand and started sucking on my fingers.

Four of us went back to my apartment after dinner, played some music, talked. When it was time to go, I walked the three of them down to the front gate. Two of them hugged me goodbye and left, but Barry hung back. So I turned to him and started to say, “Well, I guess this is—”

I didn’t get to finish that sentence, because he grabbed me and kissed me so hard, I damn near saw stars. Kissing me all the way, he walked me back to my apartment and back inside.

No, I didn’t lose my virginity to him. But we made out until 3:30 in the morning. He took my phone number. He told me how long he’d had a crush on me and how hot I was. When he finally left, I shut the door and leaned against it. A minute later, there was a knock. I opened it, and there he still was. “I didn’t hear you lock the door. Lock it.”

I was in love.

For the next week, I floated on Cloud Nine. I had hickeys all over my neck and chest. I couldn’t wait until next Friday, when I was going to go back to the hardware store to visit my friends, and see Barry again. He hadn’t called that week, but that was okay. Figured he was busy and knew I’d be coming in.

Friday came. I dressed up, went in to the store, greeted my old supervisor and everyone else on shift. No Barry. I went looking for him, and found him.

And he looked right through me. There was no warmth or recognition or attraction on his face. He was clearly uncomfortable. And my stomach dropped into the soles of my feet.

He felt guilty about his girlfriend. Said he was sorry that had happened.

Remember, I was naive. My brain and heart could not accept that he’d been so attentive, so passionate, so INTO me, and within a week it was completely shut off. I figured he must have feelings for me and was just denying them. And I’m horribly embarrassed to admit I spent the rest of the summer pining over him, going into the hardware store ostensibly to visit friends, scoping him out, trying to talk to him. I finally went as low as I could go when I invited him over one weekday, saying I wanted to talk to him, and then when he cautiously but graciously showed up, I did everything I could to seduce him. It almost worked. We were actually in my bed together, I was down to underwear, and that was just about to come off… and then he stopped. Said he shouldn’t be doing this, that he couldn’t do this, that he was with me and thinking of his girlfriend, and he couldn’t do this with me, ever.

Somehow, I got over that. I’m not sure how, as I had no coping mechanisms, no experience to help me make sense of it.

But I didn’t lose my virginity until four years later.

Then when I was 33, it happened again. The sexy waiter at my favorite restaurant, the one where my girlfriends and I would hang out for hours talking. The one who flirted with me, who wrote provocative notes to me on napkins, and who ultimately left me his phone number on a napkin. The one who became my lover, showered me with attention, told me I was “special.” Until I wasn’t. Until about six weeks later, when he drifted away and eventually disappeared.

Again, besides being devastated, I was baffled. How? How could he be that into me and then just shut it off? Where did all those feelings go? That lust? That attraction? That interest? I’ll never forget telling an older guy pal about some of this, and after hugging me hard, he said, “Oh, honey. You fell for the ‘you’re special’ line? Everyone uses that line. I’VE used that line.”

Stupid, naive me.

At 37, I befriended a coworker. When he had a birthday dinner he invited me, and I met his roommate, who was 11 years my junior. Who lavished attention on me, sweetly and adorably. Called me. Sent flowers to me at work (unbeknownst to him, that was the first time I’d ever gotten flowers from a man). Invited me over to watch his favorite movie, and then thoroughly seduced me.

It was hot and heavy and sweet and fun and so damn delicious. Until, two months into it, I made the grave mistake of saying “I love you.” We were in bed. He didn’t answer, just hugged me. And everything went downhill after that, until he broke things off a couple of months later.

By now, I’d gotten a clear message: For whatever reason, men only like me until I like them back.

Until John, of course. The man who stayed. The man who got to know me better than anyone else, who not only saw sexy and funny me but sick me, sad me, cranky me, insecure me… and stayed. Why did he stay? I still don’t know. But I’m glad he did.

But of course, all the aforementioned experiences happened before I came out as a spanko. And then, over the years while I met and experienced various play partners, I discovered the “catch and release” phenomenon doesn’t just happen with lovers; it happens with play partners too.

I know a lot of people don’t get what I have with John and how I compartmentalize play partners. It’s a sort of poly thing, but it isn’t. I made up the term “polyspankerous,” which works as well as anything. The love I have for John is in its own space, untouchable. No one is a threat to him, and he knows it. The test of time has proven that. But do I love my play partners? I have, yes. Not like I love John. But when you have that degree of vulnerability, of closeness, of trust with someone, you can’t help developing feelings. In my case, they have varied. Sometimes, it was deep friendship, like with Danny. Sometimes, it was flat-out lust. Many times, it was a mix of the two and more. Play partnerships are complex. Each one is different.

Why don’t I play with John? I certainly used to. That too is complicated. But I discovered a long time ago that, once we became a serious couple, I felt differently about playing with him. For whatever the reason, he seemed to get it, and so we’ve spent most of our years playing with other people — me with male tops, him with fem-dommes. Until his health issues arose, and he had open heart surgery. He has not played in years. But my desire to play is as strong as ever.

It’s a lot more challenging now. I’m older. I’m not involved in the public scene anymore. I’m in decent shape, but there’s no denying that I’ve aged. And, sadly for me, I am not drawn to most men my own age (John being the one exception). So I play with younger men. Which can be lovely, but it also sets me up for insecurity and self-consciousness.

And then there is that ethereal quality of play partnership. It’s a nether region — it’s not quite a relationship; it should be a friendship but many times it isn’t quite that either. It’s intense, but also easily discarded, it seems. It’s a “until something else comes along” relationship, a lot of the time. I’ve never understood why. I’m able to compartmentalize; why can’t others? A brief memory from about 15 years ago; a play partner with whom I had fabulous chemistry, but who abruptly cut off all communications when he got a girlfriend who was insanely jealous of me. That really, really hurt — I mean, again, I wondered where all those feelings went, how they could simply turn off like a faucet. Interestingly, when that relationship imploded, he contacted me and blithely suggested we “take up where we left off.” I told him I couldn’t.

And now… it seems the “catch and release” has happened again.

When we first got in contact, the messages flowed. He asked a gazillion questions. We met for coffee, sparks flew, and he sent a lovely follow-up message. When we played for the first time, that same night he sent a beautiful email, asking about how I felt and expressing his own feelings about our play.

When we met, he was very busy. He had two jobs and almost no free time. But when I said I didn’t see how we could play with his hectic schedule, he said he didn’t think there would be any problem making time for play; we were local to one another, and there would be a way. I continued to get emails and texts, unprovoked. Compliments. So many sweet compliments. Being 13 years older than he, I had my usual qualms about that, but his messages made me feel sexy and desirable.

And then they slowly dwindled. They got shorter. And then they stopped, unless I initiated contact first. He said he was slammed with work.

We played two more times. As with the first time, the chemistry and attraction were off the charts. I was able to be vulnerable with him very quickly. I wept in his arms. I trusted and I let go.

But after the play, nothing. Always a polite response when I would write, but if I didn’t write, weeks went by with nothing. Again, slammed with work.

I didn’t want to bother him. I didn’t want to be that needy, annoying person. I would wait it out. I would… oh, fuck it. I wrote and said I missed him.

The note I got back was sweet and kind, but impersonal. He enjoys playing with me. But he’s just too busy. Work. Life. Balance. Etc.

I get that. I do. But… he was busy before. It’s not like when I met him, he didn’t have two jobs; he did. And yet he had plenty of time to communicate then. When I was a mystery. When I was still interesting and attractive and compelling. Before he got close and then backed off. Before I got into him.

Catch and release. Yeah, it would be easy for me to say it’s a guy thing, that men are capable of turning feelings and attractions on and off at the drop of pair of panties and it’s just the way they are, it isn’t personal, it isn’t me. But it sure as fuck feels like me. Because it keeps happening. And every time it does, I feel a little older. A little less attractive. A little less confident. And a lot more sad.

From afar, I am intriguing and attractive, it seems. Up close is another story.

Do I want too much? I don’t think I do. I don’t need reassurance every damn minute of every damn day, truly I don’t. I don’t need to hear from someone constantly. I just need to know they’re still there. If they can’t see me, if life is interfering, I get it. I just like knowing that they want to see me. And that eventually, they will. When I have that confidence in a friendship, relationship, play partnership, what have you, my needy side recedes into the background. But this business of lavishing attention on me and then fading out is fucking wrecking me from the inside out.

Especially when I know, no matter how many people say “It’s not you, Erica,” that somehow, it has to be me.

Anyway. I don’t know where I’m going with this, only that I had to get it out. We are as sick as our secrets, as they say. I have prided myself on my honesty over the years, and I’m not going to stop now. I wish I had answers, but I don’t. And I just have to deal with this pain and emptiness, as I have on and off throughout my life. Because the only way out is through, and all those other fucking clichés. Because no matter what, I function. Because responsibilities don’t stop. Because life goes on, even when it doesn’t feel like much more than an existence.

Because no matter how much I want to be lovingly beaten into subspace and then crawl into a strong pair of arms and just disappear and be taken care of for a while, that is not an option right now.

For those who are still reading, thank you. ♥

P.S. — This blog is coming at the tail end of a really intense work week and then a weekend that was fraught with stress over a flat tire and worries about John, who had a violent reaction to a shingles vaccine. So I’m a bit raw, an exposed nerve. Still haven’t decided whether or not I’m going to leave this up. But thanks for bearing with me.

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