Welcome to my blog! 🙂
You might want to settle in with your refreshing beverage of choice for this one, as it’s really freaking long.
Recently, someone I’m very fond of, and who is quite prominent in the spanking scene, wrote a piece about the scene and where he feels he stands in it, in particular the large national parties. Lest people accuse me of name-dropping (“oooh, she’s friends with him“), I won’t say who it is. But his post was honest and brave, and it gave me the courage and impetus to do some reflecting of my own.
I have stated, time and again, that throughout life, I have felt like this photo:
The piece that doesn’t fit. The square peg in a round world. Or, as I once heard in a 12-step meeting: “I feel like I’m trespassing on the planet.” Different. Weird. Etc. Throw kinkiness into the mix and you really get the stench of otherness.
I’ve also often said that navigating the scene is like dancing on a double-edged sword. On one side, you have infinite potential for belonging, for acceptance, for connecting with others. For personal fulfillment. For expressing your truest self. But misstep, and that sword can hurt you. Sometimes it’s little cuts that bleed, and leave tiny scars that no one sees but you. And other times, it can outright disembowel you.
The scene is loving. The scene is fickle. It is kind. It is brutal. The scene gives. The scene takes away.
I’ve seen so much in my scene years. Some of it has happened to me, and some things have happened to others. I’ve been loved, hated, accepted, misunderstood, put up on a pedestal, knocked back off it, immortalized on film and in cartoons, stalked, cat-fished, supported, betrayed, judged, defended. I’ve hit the highest highs and the lowest lows, and everything in between.
Just a few random things I’ve borne witness to over the years, that touched me deeply:
When a long-time party-goer had a massive heart attack and nearly died, he ended up in an extended hospital stay, unable to pay his mortgage and his bills. A GoFundMe was set up for him — contributions came pouring in. I believe they ended up with $15-20,000. He survived.
When a young woman mentioned on FetLife that she had a birthday party and no one showed up, a surprise party was arranged for her at one of the national gatherings. When she walked into the room and everyone cheered, she actually turned around, looking for who was being greeted. Then realization dawned, and she burst into tears.
When a woman had devastating losses from a fire, a GoFundMe was set up for her as well. Many came through for her.
A long-time host of room parties, who had been absent for years due to illness, came to his first party in years with his wife. They were given a tribute, complete with speakers (I was one of them) and an award. It was a beautiful recognition of a great scene contributor. Not too long after that, he passed away from cancer.
When a young woman came to her first party, not knowing anyone and having only connected online with a few people on FetLife, the enormity of it all, the noise, the crush of bodies overwhelmed her. The first night, she left the party room in tears. The party might have ended for her there, had it not been for a dear friend of mine intercepting her in the hallway. He pulled her into his room, let her cry, gave her a pep talk. She calmed down and regained her composure, took a break, then went back to the party. Later that weekend, I saw the same woman happily, joyously playing, right in the midst of the main party room.
When a beloved scene member nearly died giving birth to twins and then one of them tragically didn’t make it, a beautiful soul took up a collection to buy the shell-shocked couple a ton of essentials — everything from diapers to formula to clothes — plus a cleaning service and a subscription to Netflix for distraction.
Countless displays of welcome, of support, of love. The more I think about this, the more incidents I come up with. But of course, there is the other side.
I’ve seen relationships form, then crash and burn. I’ve seen countless emotional meltdowns at parties, including several of my own. I’ve seen friendships dissolve, jealousies flare, hurts inflicted. People who put out their time, money and efforts to open their hotel suites to everyone at parties get criticized and picked apart by those who consider themselves entitled to everything they want at someone else’s expense. I read an account of someone who welcomed everyone in their suite for several days/nights at a national party — and then was thoroughly reamed for having the audacity to restrict their suite to friends only on the final night. That’s just one story of many. I have witnessed people being systemically and cruelly shunned from groups. This one hates that one; so-and-so violated so-and-so; stay away from that guy; don’t talk to this woman. Battle lines are drawn; gossip runs rampant. Granted, if someone is a genuine hot mess, a violator, a predator, etc., with accounts from many to back up the concerns, that’s one thing; friends should be warned and safety should be paramount. But sometimes, good people who cross the wrong individuals can find they become pariahs in short order.
The scene can foster closeness and special relationships, but it also provides a sort of pseudo-intimacy. We are in close proximity, we bare our body parts before we even learn each other’s real names, we engage in intimate activity. We are emotionally invested and vulnerable. We open fully and trust quickly. But sometimes, it simply isn’t real. And when reality does hit, it hurts worse. Because we’ve invested so much of ourselves. Not just our bodies, but our hearts and souls.
I have watched people rally and rise above bad times to eventually prevail. And I have seen people disappear, burned out or driven away. The trouble with being too close to the scene is it’s like a personal house of cards. The loss of a key card can cause the whole thing to come down for you. And although you know logically that there are other components of life, at the moment of that crash, it can feel like your entire world is crashing. Your source of support. Your place of belonging.
There have been many ups and downs for me over the years, navigating this scene. Luckily, I was spared the tumult of multiple relationships, of breakups, of having to see exes at gatherings, because I have been with John the entire time. A couple of times, I came very close to dropping out. When I thought I was done shooting because one company didn’t want me, I felt like a has-been and like my time was done. It was the first time I became aware of the fickleness of the scene, how much is about the newest hot young thing. However, I was able to work through that, with the help of a much beloved friend (thank you again, Danny)… and went on to shoot with several other companies for another ten years. I beat the odds, over and over.
Well-placed gossip can destroy someone in this scene. Roughly fifteen years ago, a woman accused me of trying to sabotage her relationship and steal her boyfriend. Ridiculous, since I had John. The man in question had been my play partner, she had been my friend, but when she began dating him, suddenly I became the enemy. Not only was he not to play with me anymore, he wasn’t to communicate with me at all. I don’t know where this jealousy and paranoia came from. I consider myself the least threatening woman on earth, hardly a femme fatale. I was older than her, and not nearly as striking.
Seems like this sort of thing is no big deal, right? Unfortunately, she happened to be a well loved icon of videos — definitely a case of “boys want to meet her, girls want to be her.” And she was telling anyone who would listen to her that I was a relationship wrecker. I lost friends. I was put in the awful state of wondering who was saying what about me and to whom. Or, even worse, having damning words come directly back to me, like the time a friend told me she’d been admonished in no uncertain terms by another that she should “sever all ties with Erica.”
I was devastated and thought I was done. But somehow, with support, I made it through that too. She sabotaged her own relationship, it ended without any of my involvement, and she eventually disappeared. Friends who had believed her ended up apologizing to me (including the “sever all ties” person). It was an ugly and painful time, and I think that came the closest to driving me out. (Please, no guesses. And no, it was not Samantha Woodley.)
But I was younger then. I had time on my side. I could ride it out, even though it seemed impossible at the time. Because there was a greater good. There was something to fight for, to persevere for.
Humans are resilient beings. We have to be. There is so much in life that is devastating and inevitable. Death. Illness. Crushing losses. And then there is the suffering that shouldn’t be inevitable, but it is: the pain from the careless cruelty and indifference of fellow humans.
We are able to move past and survive a whole lot of grief and loss, recover from disappointments, rise above life’s meanness. But I think everyone has a breaking point. Everyone has that one last straw, the one where they realize something has to change. Something has to give… or something has to go.
I am reminded of a woman I knew in the scene many years ago. She, along with her play partner and friend, hosted many room parties at Shadow Lane and was one of the organizers of a spanking group in her hometown. She was someone who had been through her share of pain in life; prolonged illness and death of her first husband with no support from his family, raising two children alone, addiction. But now her kids were older, she’d fallen in love and married again, and it seemed that life was finally going to turn around.
Until she was hit with not one, but two unspeakable betrayals from people she trusted. I will not elaborate on what happened or who was involved, only that the incidents were scene-related. They were her final straw. She withdrew from the groups, disappeared from the online boards. I stopped hearing from her; she lived in another state, so it wasn’t like I could go for coffee or lunch and hang out with her.
She died from acute liver failure at age 50, drinking herself to death.
No, I’m not going to drink myself to death. Or anything myself to death. But I think I’ve experienced my last straw as well. And I don’t think I’m going to get past this one. Unlike with the others, time is not on my side. I know I harp about my age a lot, but this statement has never been more true: I really am too old for this shit. I’m already dealing with a lot of insecurity about the changes in my body, my face. And now that I feel like my confidence, sense of kinship, and trust have disappeared, that’s simply too much to cope with. I can’t put the face on anymore. I don’t want to be seen. When I look in the mirror, the face that gazes back at me looks pale and lifeless.
50 Freaks was this past weekend. This is the first time since this party was conceived that we’ve missed one. The decision was painful and I’ve shed copious tears over it. I hope Joe will understand and forgive me; it had absolutely nothing to do with him. But I simply couldn’t do it. And interwoven with all the sadness and regret was a feeling of relief. All the prep of getting there felt overwhelming and exhausting. I’ve never liked that part; I’ve always found it stressful. But I also always knew there was great joy and welcoming and fun and play and escape on the other side. Now… that has been tainted.
It snowed in Vegas, a rare occurrence. Several flights were canceled. I told myself, meh, it would have been a hassle driving in it (I read about road closures and other traffic nightmares), it would have been freezing, I’d have to bring a ton of heavy clothes, and who feels sexy and spanky when they’re bundled up like an Eskimo? But of course, I knew that was ridiculous. We’d be in a hotel, not in a freaking tent. In our room, we could turn on the heat. In the party room, all the bodies would keep things plenty warm. So that was just a rationale.
God damn, I miss play. So much. Part of me is yearning, fully, bodily, emotionally, to lose myself in the pain, to be spanked to tears, to feel those incomparable endorphins cleanse me. But I don’t know where that is to be found right now. I don’t know who I can trust with it. In case you’re wondering whatever happened to Mr. Woodland — he is not gone. He is great and I would unquestionably scene with him. However, he is very busy dealing with Life at this time and not available.
And more than play, I miss the connection. I miss the bubble of parties, the complete immersion into an altered state for a while. A few days of respite from reality. The hugs. The laughs. I miss the me I was at these events. I don’t know if she’ll ever come back.
I am and will always be a spanko. I just don’t know what my outlets will be now. And like I said, it doesn’t seem like time is on my side. I feel a profound emptiness, a sense of loss. I suppose, like everything else, I just have to let it be there and wait to see what’s ahead.
By the way, the absurdity of this post doesn’t escape me. I can hear people out there thinking, “Oh, boo-hoo, you little snowflake victim. First World Problems. Get over yourself.” One friend I know is dealing with her mother’s terminal cancer. Another lost both her parents within seven weeks at the end of last year. Others are dealing with physical ailments, money worries, dying pets, relationship issues, and life’s other assorted crises and grievous situations.
Right now, John’s health is stable. I am working. I love my quiet, safe apartment. I am lucky enough to live in a strong, progressive and enlightened state during these terrifying times. I don’t wish to minimize any of the good things I’m grateful for. However, this is one of the worst and most long-lasting depressions I’ve had in years. And it is about more than just parties and playing. It’s about feeling like I’m losing a piece of myself. John says I am going through an existential crisis. He’s not one given to exaggeration, although I think this phrase sounds melodramatic. But perhaps I am. I’m questioning everything and everyone, including myself.
They say depression is anger turned inward. I am angry. More than anything, I am angry at myself. I allowed my power to be taken from me, let harsh words break me. I should be stronger than that. But I guess it’s that last straw thing again. Sometimes our well of strength runs dry. I don’t have it in me to go through another episode of wondering who’s saying what to whom. It’s soul-sucking.
I was told, among other things, that I use my depression like a shield, so people will feel sorry for me and not hold me accountable for my actions. That is the lowest of the low blows, cruel, and untrue. I hold myself accountable for my actions. When I fuck up, I say so. No one is harder on me than I am. But if one person believes this of me, then surely others do too. There are flawed humans, as we all are, and then there are those who cross the line and are fatally flawed. I’m not sure which side of the line I’m on… or am considered to be.
I stayed off social media this past weekend. John did his best to keep me distracted, taking me to see a movie, joking and being silly. It was a strange, surreal feeling all weekend, knowing what was going on and not being there. Wondering how everyone was doing. Who made it, and who got held up by the inclement weather. Who played with whom. Two of my favorite people there recently married; I hope they got lots of attention. What dramas occurred, because they always do. Would they have been mine, or someone else’s?
Since our going missing from the party, John has received one text, and I’ve received two messages, asking if we’re okay… and that’s it. Ouch. Humbling indeed. 😦 “It’s not personal,” John said. “People just have short attention spans.” I like his kinder, gentler take on it, rather than mine — that my reputation has been damaged, and people are staying away. Or, even worse, that no one cared all that much to begin with. Out of sight, out of mind. We’re all just faces in the crowd. (Or asses, in this case.)
So no party report, I’m afraid. May not be much of anything from me, at least for a while. I will always love the spanking scene, sharp edges and all, and love some very special people in it. I’ll always be grateful for what it gave to me. I just don’t know if I can be part of it anymore. Or if it even wants me to be.
John has done all he can to assure me that I am indeed lovable, that I matter. He told me that I make his life worth living, every single day. The same goes for you, my beloved fellow misfit. I love you with all my heart.
Carry on, kids.
She seems to have disappeared.
Only her beloved knows where she is these days. He’s the only person who can enter her abyss.
She hadn’t played in months. She wants to, very much. But hasn’t been able to ask for what she needs. Not since voicing her needs and revealing her vulnerability ended up gutting her.
She does her work. She works out. She functions. Always, she functions. But she’s frozen from within.
Can anyone find her? Perhaps this will help.
She used to look like this…
But now, she mostly looks like this…
If you find her, perhaps you can help her find her confidence. Her self-esteem. Her strength and bravery. Her belief in other people.
Perhaps you can tell her who she can trust.
Yet another bit of time-wasting nonsense on Twitter is a program called Curious Cat. You can set it up so your followers can ask you questions, anonymously. Also, the program generates a Question of the Day. Usually, it’s something fairly generic and insipid, like what book changed your life, what’s your biggest fear, would you be a kid again if you could, blah blah blah. The other day, CC asked: “What do you want your legacy to be?”
I had to think about that. Who has legacies, anyway? People who accomplish great things? People who lead, who contribute, who create, who entertain. Who paint, build, compose music. Who invent things we can’t imagine living without once we have them, even though we did before. Who cure diseases. These are but a select few. Most of us shuffle into this life in obscurity and shuffle off the same way. As my father put it, life is but an entrance, an exit, and a lot of bullshit in between.
Legacies are often in families — those who have children, who pass their names and their experiences on to future generations. Not a possibility with me, as I did not have children. Perhaps legacies, then, for childless people, are how others remember them. If they made an impression — good, bad or otherwise.
It seems you don’t really get to find out what others think of you until you die. And then, unfortunately… well, you’re dead. You don’t get to know. So you live your life the best you can, and hope that overall, you’ve had a good impact. If you have an impact at all. If you mattered.
This is where I find myself separating Erica Scott and Erica [real name], which is silly, because they are one and the same. But I can’t help thinking that Erica Scott has made much more of an impression. Erica Scott put herself out there, exposed herself physically and emotionally. Erica Scott is on film and in writing. Erica [real name], on the other hand, has lived a very quiet and reserved life. No marriage, no kids, no grand career, no accomplishments to speak of (with the exception of a successful relationship). If you Google her, you don’t find anything.
So what indeed would be my legacy? How would I be remembered? So many possibilities.
A segue at this point: One more stupid trend circulating the interwebs lately is the Ten Year Photo Challenge. People are posting two pictures of themselves, side by side, the pictures being ten years apart. Yeah, this is fun… if you’re like 15 to 25. Or 25-35. Or even a youthful 35-45. Anything past that is just a public, pictorial announcement: “Hey! Look how I’ve aged!” Fucking depressing.
So the other day on Facebook, I casually commented that I wouldn’t be doing this challenge, because I didn’t need another reason to feel bad about myself. Then, someone who I suppose thought this was helpful, commented to me, launching into a lengthy, rambling lecture about how we need to embrace the various stages of life, that we have to choose to be happy. (Excuse me, but if one more person says that latter thing to me, I’m going to explode into a million pieces.) That I should find another avenues, like volunteering. And she ended it with “Your [sic] worth more than some tacky films.”
Um… excuse me?
Yeah, I know. Spanking videos are hardly classic film. They ain’t Shakespeare. And I’m not naive — I know they’re mostly used for wank fodder.
But to me, they represented freedom. They represented my expressing a part of myself that I kept stifled for years and years. They were some of the best times of my life. Despite the fact that I was performing, I was often my most real, authentic and joyous self doing those tacky films.
I have had women write to me over the years, telling me I inspired them to explore their own kinks. I think they saw me and thought, “Hey, look at her. She’s not twenty. She’s not conventionally pretty. But she’s doing this. She’s got the guts to be who she is.” In this way, I touched lives, perhaps more than any other way. If that’s tacky, then so be it.
So, back to the legacy thing. I guess we all end up being remembered, within our own circles, by a hodgepodge of things. I think the following captures my own little personal hodgepodge concisely and with my signature sardonic humor:
Here lies Erica [real name], AKA Erica Scott.
Tongue was often too sharp.
Heart was often too soft.
Ass was just right.
Have a great weekend, y’all.
No matter how many years you spend in TTWD, no matter how many experiences you have, how many things you try, how carefully you hone your own personal interpretation of your chosen kink to where it is fulfilling and joyous… there’s always going to be some nitwit out there telling you you’re doing it wrong.
A few years ago when I was playing regularly with He-Who-Is-No-Longer-In-The-Picture, we used to shoot a lot of goofy videos of our play, some of which I posted on Spanking Tube. One especially popular one was when I’d written a spanking parody of the Beatles song “If I Fell,” and he made me sing it on video — while being spanked.
I still get occasional comments on that one, positive ones saying that it was funny and entertaining. And then yesterday I got this — verbatim, poor grammar and missing punctuation intact:
A spanking not supposed to be fun its supposed to make her correct her bad behavior
Oh, yeah? Says you, illiterate one. Although you’re probably right in one respect: I doubt that spanking or any other kind of kink play is fun when you’re involved.
Who the hell are you, or anyone else, to say what spanking is “supposed” to be? Who are you to deny the unbridled joy that some of us feel indulging in a favorite pastime and fulfilling our desires? Spanking — and all other forms of kink/BDSM/what have you — means myriad things to countless people. There is no “supposed to.” There is no “one true way.” And to impose your rigid (and unsolicited) view and dump on someone else’s pleasure is most unwelcome.
Just a reminder, to anyone out there reading who is new to all this: Don’t let others tell you how you’re supposed to do this thing. Discover for yourself, through trial and error, through following your instincts, what works for you. If it’s discipline, great. If it’s for fun, that’s also great. If it’s a complex mix of the two, have at it. What pushes your buttons and brings you floaty joy, as long as it involves consenting adults, is what it’s supposed to be.
Tell you what, stupid stranger. I’ll go on doing my thing the way I like doing it; if that’s “bad behavior,” oh, well. Report me to the kink police, why don’t you. Or better yet, why don’t you work on correcting your bad grammar and mind your own fucking business, hmmm?
We now return you to your regularly scheduled Monday. Today, it is cold, dark and rainy outside. I have my heater running, warm clothes on, a full fridge, classical music serenely playing in the background, and plenty of work to keep me busy. I don’t have to go anywhere; I can work out in the apartment gym if I want to. I am safe and insulated and at peace in my little bubble.
I know the rain will end, outside life will encroach, and I will need to leave my bubble and re-enter a world that feels ugly and unkind to me. But for this moment, I wish I could stay in here forever.
I feel like I want to write something here, even though I’m not sure what that is. I used to think I had to have something special, something of interest or intrigue, to post, but perhaps this blog can also be a place for me to ramble.
I miss playing. I really do. No, it’s not physically essentially like air, food and water. But it is emotionally essential. It’s a part of my makeup. Even when times are funky and I’m down, the cravings come when I least expect them.
People ask, “Isn’t there anyone available to play with you?” That’s not the question. It’s more like “with whom I want to play.” Because despite my neediness, I still prefer quality. I would rather go without than settle for an experience that doesn’t fulfill me. That’s the weird dichotomy of spanking, for me. The good ones can be so rich, so intensely wonderful and memorable in every way. But the not-so-hot ones? They are almost repulsive. It’s like having sex with someone you’re not drawn to. Why would you? Just for the sensation of being screwed? I’ll never want sex — or spanking — that much.
And, unfortunately due to circumstances of recent times, I do not feel safe or comfortable seeking what I need. Because the last time I admitted to neediness, to vulnerability, it bit me in the ass. Not in a fun, sexy way, either. So even though there are those I would indeed enjoying seeing for some play, I will not be the one to ask.
Regarding the party at the end of February… because I know how the gossip train is in this scene, I figured my hesitation about it would get back to the host, and his feelings would be hurt, which I do not want. So I headed things off at the pass and wrote him a long message, explaining what was going on with me and that my desire to withdraw from everything had absolutely nothing to do with him and I loved him dearly. He wrote back to me with such sweet words, I wept. I am a treasured friend and the party wouldn’t be the same without me. That he really wants me to be there, so please, please come.
So. I booked our room. That has to be done in advance. As for the rest, I have a month and a half to think about it. Everyone says I should go. Part of me wants to, so much. But the ugly, bleak voice within that seems to have taken over in recent weeks keeps saying no.
What else am I thinking about… oh, just random stuff. Like, remember I mentioned watching the Twilight Zone marathon over New Year’s? We happened to catch “It’s a Good Life.” Y’all know that one, don’t you? It’s the classic about the town that is being held hostage by a monstrous child, six-year-old Anthony Fremont? A child with too much power, but a complete dearth of empathy or caring? Who hates everyone who doesn’t like him, eliminates necessary things simply because he doesn’t care for them? Just one tiny little man-child, running the town according to his whims, making everyone suffer.
I was especially remembering the part where the party guest gets drunk and loses it, pleading tearfully to the others in the room to please, PLEASE, somebody, grab something heavy when he’s not looking and lay it across his skull, and end this once and for all?? Of course, no one did, but they all wanted to. The poor guy died for his outburst. And then for good measure, the little bastard changed the weather so it would ruin all the crops.
Why am I thinking about this so much? Eh, no particular reason…
Have a great weekend, y’all.
… a new one just begun.
So I guess this is the time where we reflect on the accomplishments of the past year. Here’s mine.
No small feat, really. It was a tough year, the latter part in particular.
The good news? I have a lot more work. The first half of the year was so slow, I had to dip into savings to pay bills. Now I have more than I can keep up with, which, even though it stresses me out sometimes, I’m happy about.
In other news? I am slowly disappearing.
I spent Thanksgiving at home working. My choice.
I spent Christmas Eve and Day at home, working. Also my choice.
I have not been on FetLife in over a month, and have no desire to return to it. I tweet, and I play games on Facebook. But my online footprint is fading.
I have not played in nearly two months. I miss it. But I don’t push for it, either. Because damned if I’m going to allow myself to appear needy again.
There is a big spanking party coming up end of February. Normally I am counting the days toward this event. This year, I am seriously considering skipping it. I really don’t believe anyone will care whether I’m there or not, and I am having a hard time imagining putting myself out there, making the effort to go. Not when just getting out of bed each day is a Herculean effort.
Did something happen? Yup. What? Sorry. Not going into it. There was actually a buildup of several somethings, but one last thing piled on and my personal house of cards collapsed. Suffice it to say that I am now questioning everything. Who my friends are. Who I can trust. And above all, myself. My instincts in people. My place in things. My worth — not just in this scene, but in this life.
No conclusion jumping, please. John and I are fine. We spent New Year’s Eve together, see? He is my one constant, through it all, through all the comings and goings of others in my life. He stays. He loves me. He keeps me going.
So, for 2019. With all the talk out there about walls, perhaps it is time to build up my own. Tuck away and protect my vulnerability. Enjoy what I can, when I can, but stay guarded. Because I’m tired of hurting. I just want to be numb.
I truly understand why people drink. Or use drugs. There’s a whole fucking lot to escape in this life. Fortunately — or unfortunately — I need control too much. My heart may be battered, but hey, my liver is in great shape. Guess that’s something.
Anyway. This is where I am. And now I need to get back to work, and back to the gym. Life goes on.
I hope my friends out there had happy, safe holidays. Be kind to each other. Have some extra fun for me.