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.

Welcome

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Welcome to my blog! 🙂

Quiet…

…and probably will be for a while. Dealing with Stuff.

But the Shadow Lane party is at the end of the month. I am hoping to get back on track with that.

In the meantime, have a good weekend, y’all.

Things that make me see red, in a bad way

This jackass.

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Who might this jackass be, you ask? He is Dwayne A. Stamper, Sr., of Muncie, Indiana. And according to this article (please read; it will infuriate you), he offers up his “services” to parents of misbehaving children. But, he’s quick to add, none over the age of 13, because “they might whoop him.”

I see a Band-Aid on his forehead. I’m fantasizing that one of those older kids snatched that paddle away from him and clobbered him.

I don’t know what horrifies me more: that this is absolutely real, that this cretin is the father of five, or that a lot of people find this funny. It’s bad enough that people spank children. But this guy seems to gleefully revel in it, publicly admitting he does it and actually offering to do it to other people’s kids as well. Who the hell does he think he is??

Seriously, fuck this guy sideways with a 2 x 4.

Apparently, Mr. Stamper believes that “kids should fear their parents a little.” Oh, sure. That’s the way to parent successfully — don’t manage your kids reasonably, just terrorize them with the fear of pain. They’ll be good little children, they’ll toe the line… until they grow up, leave your house of horrors, and act out with all the suppressed rage they’ve accumulated over the years.

Adults engage in spanking consensually. If one grown person hits and hurts another grown person without consent, it’s called assault. And yet a grown person can hit a little person and it’s called “discipline” and “parenting.” Screw that. Stop. Hitting. Children. End of subject. There are ways to avoid raising spoiled monsters without resorting to physical pain.

Yeah, I hear the parents out there. “You don’t have kids! You don’t know!” True, I do not. But I was a child. I know the fear and rage and utter helplessness a child feels when an adult hits them. I know the feelings of betrayal.

Hey, Mr. Stamper? I’d like to stamp on your tiny little man parts. And then take the non-business end of that ginormous paddle you’re wielding and shove it where your Indiana sun don’t shine. Right out there on your street, in front of everyone. See how you like being hurt and humiliated.

Arggggh. Deep breaths. Thank goodness for blogging. I can blow off steam here without finding this POS’s Facebook page and starting World War III with him there, which would change absolutely nothing and just raise my blood pressure to explosive highs.

*rant over* Have a great weekend, y’all.

You’ve heard of PDA…

…which stands for Public Displays of Affection. In that vein, there should be something known as PDS as well. Three guesses what the S stands for??

As open as I am about my spanking fetish, I’ve always felt a little skeevy about public displays of it in vanilla settings. At a spanking party? Bring it. But on the street, in a store, etc.? I get embarrassed, I admit it. Which delights John to no end. I can’t tell you how many times he’s given me a smack or two in a public place, to which I hiss, “Don’t! There are PEOPLE!” He doesn’t seem to care about that. We’ve gotten snickers, whistles, and even “I saw that!” a couple of times.

This past weekend, we went to the grocery store to pick up a few items; three, to be exact. Because of that, John gleefully exclaimed, “Hey, self checkout!” And I groaned. I hate using the self checkout. Not because I’m lazy, but because it’s temperamental and glitchy. If you don’t do everything exactly right, very carefully, it freezes up and you get a “Checker has been notified” message. Well, crap, if you have to notify a checker, why use the damn thing in the first place? I can usually manage okay on my own, but John tends to rush in impatiently.

So we managed to get all three items scanned. I had put our grocery bag on the floor (if you put the bag in the “bagging area” before you scan any items, it screws up the system, because it thinks the bag is a grocery item you haven’t scanned yet), so I bent over to pick it up so I could put our stuff in it. And of course, you guessed it, John let fly with a loud smack to my butt. I jerked up to standing… just in time to hear the checker standing off to the side (watching for people who screw up the system, of course) call out, “Do it again!”

Oh, my freaking God. I sputtered and spluttered at John, while he stood there laughing his fool face off. Finally we got the transaction done and I started to hustle him out of there, but we had to walk by the oh-so-amused checker, who then grinned at us and asked, “Are you two newlyweds?”

!!!!!

“No!” I blurted, making a wry face and walking by… and then John fist-bumped him. He actually fist-bumped the guy.

I swear, I can’t take that man anywhere.

Ladies and gentlemen, my play partner

OK, so enough of this depression crap for a while. Time for fun.

Back in September 2016, in my Shadow Lane party write-up, I spoke of playing with Ulf Sayer for the first time. I had met him at a previous party and felt an immediate connection, but we didn’t have the chance to play at that time. This first scene was intense and fun; he enjoys clever bratting and I started in right away, calling him a hockey puck (he is Canadian).

Oh, and I assed his hand. 🙂

He was doing videos and so forth and I thought perhaps we’d be seeing a lot more of him, but then he left the scene for a while.

Cut to last March, when I heard from him via Twitter Direct Message. He was now living in L.A. and would love to touch base. We met for coffee and talked for hours. Started texting. Then he came over for coffee… and asked if I’d like to be play partners. Oh, yes, I would. He wasn’t ready to ease his way back into the scene proper just yet, so I promised I would not mention him by name anywhere. I would just post pictures of play results.

But now he is fully returned — back on FetLife, back on Twitter, shooting again, attending parties, and I have the green light to talk about him all I want.

So what does one say about Ulf? By his own admission, he is a very silly man. Very playful, loves spanking banter. Smart and thoughtful, he’s someone I can talk with for hours (and have). He is caring and kind. Oh, and it’s way too damn easy to get into protracted nonsensical battles with him online.

For example, a while back on FetLife, he noticed that several bottoms (myself included) feel that they have earned chocolate, ice cream or other treats after a spanking. He then decreed that “brats don’t deserve treats, they deserve a spanking and nothing else” and that treats were forever banned.

Yeah, you can imagine how well that went over with the bottoms on FetLife. This quickly escalated into an epic battle known as the #WarOnTreats, #TreatsForAll, and several other hashtags. Pictures and posts ensued. Everyone talked about the various treats they had purchased and were consuming, and Ulf would scold and natter about how we should learn to like vegetables and how all the treat monsters were going to be punished.

Here he is chastising me because I bought two bags of Hershey’s dark chocolate almond nuggets. Hey, I had a two-for-one coupon. I thought I was being industrious with savings.

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One of my responses to this insanity was to encourage all the women involved on FetLife to take a selfie eating a treat and flipping the bird. I started the ball rolling with this one (that’s a Lindt truffle, BTW):

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I wish I could post all the other pictures this inspired — they were marvelous. The sisterhood is still alive and well!

Of course, I had to pay the price for encouraging all this anarchy; he had to make an example of me, in the hardest scene we’ve done to date. Ouch.

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By the way, my left butt cheek isn’t dented. That’s an illusion of the lamp light. I got lotion and cuddles afterward; he bought me lunch, too.

And I’m still assing his hand.

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Perhaps he needs to toughen his hand more instead of having so damn many implements.

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I did not make this face of my own volition, incidentally. I believe his words were, “Come on, let’s see that tongue, brat.”

So this is my play partner. I don’t call him my top, even though I am a bottom and he tops me. He’s my friend and we play. I saw a term on another blog that I kinda liked: SSO (Spanking Significant Other). I think this needs to be a Thing.

Here are a few random facts about Ulf:

  • He can’t spell “fascist.”
  • He has forbidden treats for bottoms, but he indulges in them himself. I have pictorial evidence of this pinnacle of Top Hypocrisy.
  • If you follow him on Twitter, be forewarned that his tweeting persona is often irreverent, blasphemous, and off-color. Then again, so is mine.
  • Some of his nicknames are Olaf, Snowman, Your Plaidness (the Canada thing), and Ulfiekins. I came up with that last one.
  • Oh, and he’s cute AF, but don’t tell him I said that.

So everyone welcome him back to the kinky family. He was missed greatly. ♥

So far, so good, I think?

My welcome back to the blogosphere has been gratifying. I’ve gotten some lovely comments and also some very sweet PMs. It does feel good to have this special place that’s all my own. Social media sites are fun, but the fun can be fleeting. Your posts on FetLife are popular for a day or two and then quickly forgotten. It’s nothing personal and it’s no one’s fault; it’s just a sign of the times, the way things are now in the age of digital distraction. People at any given moment can be carrying on fifteen conversations at once via texts and so forth and concentration is a lost art. Same thing with Twitter. Getting focus on there is a crap shoot, a matter of timing. Some days you can tweet something completely silly and it explodes into myriad conversations. Other days, you could post, “Hey, that hemorrhoid turned out to be Stage 4 cancer and I have six days to live,” and get crickets.

It seems my post about depression resonated with many. I suppose that could be a direction for me in the future — relating to spankos with depression and how to cope. Because depression is the antithesis of spanking fun, you know. When I’m in play mode, I feel sexy and happy and alive, filled with energy, clever, creative, on top of my game. Depression sucks all that away and leaves a shell that looks somewhat like me. And the damnable contradiction is that when I need attention the most, I feel the least attractive. My outsides are saying “Go away” while my insides cry “Please don’t go away.”

So I look at pictures, old and recent, and remember, “Hey! You are capable of this. Look at that smile. Look at that thrust-out confident butt. That woman is still in there.”

I remember that no matter how unlovable I feel, I must be doing something right. Yesterday, John said to me: “I would take you on your worst day over anyone else on their best day.” Somehow, I brought that to myself. Always there, John is. No matter who else comes and goes. ♥

Don’t watch the news when you’re down. And for God’s sake, don’t listen to music. You never notice how many depressing songs there are until you’re depressed yourself.

Sing it, John.

Or how about, “She aches, just like a woman, but she breaks just like a little girl.”

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Yeah, I chose this picture on purpose. It captures my mood… but it also reminds me that I’m still a damn desirable woman, no matter what my screwy head tells me.

Anyway, y’all, I’ve got work to do, and a body to work out. Happy Monday.

When life kicks your ass

I don’t know about you guys, but having my ass kicked is not my kink. I’d much rather have it spanked. But life usually doesn’t let us choose.

And sometimes, it really sucks.

Someone dear to me recently said (I’m paraphrasing, but this is the gist) that they’ve had it with people who say all you have to do is think positive and everything will be sunshine and unicorns and you’ll shoot rainbows out your ass. Life is hard. Yeah, it is. And I think it’s OK to acknowledge it. I’m not talking about wallowing in self-pity and “poor me,” and being a passive victim. But being real and saying “Right now, things suck” is allowed. In fact, I encourage it.

Last night, I was talking to another dear friend, one who suffers with a chronic, auto-immune skin disorder that flares and causes painful, scarring damage. She was dealing with a new flare-up and infection, had had a nasty procedure to excise it, and was in pain and feeling down. And yet, she was saying things like “It is what it is” and “I’m grateful I have such a good doctor” and “It could be much worse.” And I could hear her voice breaking.

“Fuck that,” I blurted. “You know what? Yeah, it will heal. Yeah, you’re going to feel better and it’s going to pass. But right now, you’re hurting and you’ve got a big infectious hole in you and it sucks. It’s OK to say that at this moment in time, you feel like crap and you feel like life dealt you a shitty hand. No one would blame you. Give yourself permission to just be pissed off about it. Everyone else out there is an expert on denying and invalidating your feelings — don’t do it to yourself.”

Every one of us deals with something or another. Some with many somethings. And yet we’re told to think positive, to count our blessings, to be grateful. That’s fine. That’s a good practice. But sometimes, you just can’t. And that’s nothing to be ashamed of.

I don’t have a chronic physical condition. I have depression and anxiety, which fucks with my mind instead of my body. People who don’t get it trot out the platitude of gratitude du jour and say we can be happy if we simply decide to be. Screw them.

Any of you familiar with that eczema commercial? A woman stands in front of the mirror, surveying her raw, red, weeping skin. So she cancels social plans, she wears long sleeves, she wears a jacket outside in the summer. And anytime she’s asked about it, all she parrots over and over is, “It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine.”

Depression is internal eczema. I can pretend I’m fine, and I may even look fine on the outside, if you don’t look too closely at my face. But I’m raw, red and weeping on the inside.

“Normal” people don’t get it. They have their challenges, but their own mind isn’t one of them. If they want to participate in a marathon, they train for it and they do it. For us, a “marathon” can be getting out of bed and dressed.

“Normal” people have no idea what the difference is between active and passive suicide ideation. Or even what suicide ideation is. Depressives know.

Why am I blathering on and on about this? Because I think it’s crucial that we give ourselves a break. Break free of the judgment and the false positivity and just give ourselves permission to feel bad. To mourn our losses, our limitations. The sooner we get off our own backs, maybe, just maybe, life won’t feel like such a heavy burden.

Last night, I was on the phone with John, bawling my guts out. He didn’t deny my feelings, he didn’t beat me up over them, and he didn’t try to fix me. At one point, he said, “I’m so sorry, bunny. Sometimes it really sucks to be you, doesn’t it. It hurts.”

(Yes, he calls me “bunny.” Shut up.)

Just hearing that lightened me up, a wee bit. Because yeah, in that moment, it sucked to be me. It would pass. I knew it, and he knew it. But it was all right to be flawed and fallible and weakened. Tomorrow, or the next day, I’d be stronger. I’d rise back up.

So, kids, remember this. When life kicks your ass, don’t add insult to injury and try to deny your perfectly understandable feelings. Be kind to yourself. Be gentle. And of course, if the PC world tries to tell you to “SMILE!” and “Put on a happy face!” and so on and so forth, there’s always Erica Scott’s tried and true method for dealing with that.

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(Now you really know I’m back, don’t you. Only took me two posts to flip the bird.)

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

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