Welcome to my blog!🙂
I’d forgotten to mention that, along with flowers and lunch, Steve gave me a gift card. What’s so unusual about that, you might wonder. Take a look at it.
What, pray tell, is a “Vanilla VISA”??? Does that mean I can’t buy anything naughty with it? So what shall I purchase? Maybe go to the book section of Amazon and buy “The Joys of Missionary”? Or get some nice virginal white granny panties? Oh, I know! I’ll go to the music section and buy “Shades of White: The Pat Boone Box Set”! (snort)
Incidentally, Steve was the one who scrawled KINKY under the No Fees line.
And really, is my birthday complete without a new cartoon from the uber-talented Dave Wolfe? No, it is not. He never forgets, no matter what. ♥ Here is the 2016 Erica’s Birthday Toon:
Thank you, Wolfie!!
And finally — this part is off topic, but it definitely concerns another topic about which I’m passionate: The Beatles. Yesterday, John took me to see “The Beatles: Eight Days A Week — The Touring Years,” the documentary by Ron Howard. It focused on 1962-1966, the years in which they traveled worldwide and performed live for thousands of teenagers. At the end of the film, there was a remastered film of their 30-minute Shea Stadium concert in 1965, to over 55,000 screaming fans.
It was magical. Especially for me, because I much prefer the first half of their career to the second. I loved them overall, but whenever I have my druthers, I choose to listen to the music from their “moptop” days, when they wore identical suits and haircuts, when they were brimming with youth and exuberance and cheekiness. Before they grew tired and jaded, before they withdrew from the public and retreated into the studio. When they could still do no wrong, before that unfortunate throwaway remark by John (“We’re bigger than Jesus”) in 1966 brought the wrath of the Bible Belt on their heads, inciting everything from mass burnings of Beatles albums and merchandise to death threats. Yes, their later music grew more sophisticated and complex, it gained in maturity and brilliance… but it lost something as well, for me: the unbridled joy. The playfulness, the boyishness. Before “She Loves You” morphed into “She’s Leaving Home.”
Some parts of the film made me cry… I’m not sure why. Nostalgia, perhaps, or sadness for days gone by. I thought of my brother, who was a teen in the thick of Beatlemania, who went to see them at the Hollywood Bowl. In fact, when the film showed footage of the Bowl concert, John leaned over and whispered, “Ken was there!”
But most of it made me happy. And I’d like to share just a tidbit, the last song in the Shea Stadium concert. Where the screaming was so loud, they couldn’t hear themselves, so they had to count on each other for musical cues (Ringo said he kept the drum beat by “watching John’s ass”). For me, this little two-minute clip encapsulates everything I loved about the Beatles. Watch Paul gleefully singing at the top of his lungs; John and George singing accompanying harmonies and cracking up; John clowning at the keyboard. I defy anyone to not feel the infectious joy. Indulge me — it’s just two minutes.🙂 Hope everyone had a nice weekend.
Are you ready for some Friday cornball nostalgia?
When I was a kid growing up in Southern California, we had a local kiddie program called Sheriff John’s Lunch Brigade. And a feature of the show was when Sheriff John celebrated his viewers’ birthdays — complete with this cheesy little number:
I know, it’s nauseating now. Heck, I found it to be a bit much even as a kid. But my point is, you’re supposed to put a candle on the birthday cake. But the other day, we had a candle, but no cake. So Steve improvised.
Yes, that is a lit candle. And get your minds out of the gutter; it’s not inserted, it’s just perched. He knew I was terrified (I hate fire, passionately), so he lit it, snapped the picture and blew it right out, warning me to hold still. This was an act of supreme trust, let me tell you! He wanted to do this last year and I wouldn’t let him. I don’t like flame anywhere near my skin. But I knew now that he’d be careful and wouldn’t let anything bad happen.
And, since he’d drawn that pretty Sharpie heart, he had to color it in. Didn’t he do a good job?
OK, so he went outside the line a little on the right. Nobody’s perfect. If you look carefully, you’ll see a faint bit of pink on each mid-thigh. That’s where the “ones to grow on” went. (groan) I don’t want to fucking grow anymore, thank you!
It was a lovely birthday. I got lots of online greetings, and although yesterday was a work day with laundry and gym and other everyday responsibilities, I got to take a break and have lunch with SpankCake. Alex is out of town, or else she would have joined us, and the three of us will convene for the full celebration in early October. Meanwhile, it was so great to see SC; we’ve all been so busy and had fallen out of touch, so we caught up a bit and had a nice lunch. And she brought me flowers and a balloon! ♥
Anyway, now I must return to work; it was an extremely busy week, but I am coming to the end of it and am wrapping up everything that needed to get done. It’s almost weekend time! Oh, and it’s supposedly the first weekend of fall… really? It’s going to be in the triple digits here by tomorrow or Sunday. Fall, my a$&.
Have a great weekend, y’all.🙂
Birthday week has had some lovely treats already, and it’s not even the actual date yet. John sent me roses early, and then yesterday, Steve came over to take me to a pre-birthday lunch and he brought flowers as well! Don’t they look pretty?
(Steve said: “I’m glad John’s are better. That’s as it should be.”) ♥
We went to Cheesecake Factory for lunch. I was wearing a long dress and Steve teased me at the table about taking off my panties and handing them to him. There were too many people around and I just laughed. However, after we ate and Steve went to use the restroom, I impulsively slipped off to the ladies’ room. There was a woman and her child in there, so I went into a stall, took off my panties, and came back out. Once outside, I gleefully handed Steve my underwear. And yes, we had a long walk back to the car, all the way across the outdoor mall, down some stairs, and walking through an underground parking lot. All the while, he was twirling my bright pink panties on his finger, showing them off, stuffing them in his pocket and pulling them back out, and acting like an adolescent horn-dog. It was so cute.🙂
Aaaaaand of course, once we got to my car, in a crowded garage filled with cars coming and going in several directions, he wanted a picture. Well, as they say, “Pics or it didn’t happen.”
More about what happened when he got me home at a later date (yes, spanking was involved). I have to get back to work.😀
As I expected, once the Shadow Lane party was over and the situational camaraderie dissipated, FetLife returned once more to its usual state of arguments, accusations and pontifications. I haven’t been on much, mostly to “like” pictures or wish a kinky friend Happy Birthday. But last week, I admit I got caught up a bit with one person’s essay on yet another subject that’s been done to death: Brats, and how much domly doms hate them.
This guy really let it fly, with a long, scroll-down post, basically taking all bottoms who aren’t purely submissive and painting them with the same broad brush — they’re obnoxious, they’re destructive, they’re nasty, they’re demanding and manipulative, they care only about themselves, etc., etc., blah blah blah. Oh, and how put upon the poor tops are, having to tolerate their behavior.
“Dominant” is not spelled “D O O R M A T,” he exclaimed.
No, it isn’t. In your case, pal, it’s spelled A S S H O L E.
Look, I know about the kind of brats he’s talking about. Yes, they can be annoying, destructive, manipulative. I have news for this guy, though. These particular bottoms aren’t brats. They are narcissists. Some of them are borderline psychotic. And yes, they are to be avoided. But to paint all playful, provocative, spirited and clever bottoms into the same corner with the nut cases is egregiously unfair.
I confess, I couldn’t resist adding my own comment. (The posting has received 140 comments so far, spanning the spectrum from “Hear hear!” to “Screw you.” This was my contribution:
Not all brats are destructive, willful monsters. And not all tops hate bottoms with a bit of spirit.
But it’s OK. We get it. Some Doms don’t want to have to make the effort to engage in a battle of wits with a clever provocateur. Some Doms don’t want to hear any words other than “yes, sir.” And the only time an Uber-Dom wants to see a sub’s tongue sticking out is when she’s about to suck his dick.
Don’t like brats? By all means, avoid them. But there’s no need to malign them so thoroughly.
(snicker) I waited with bated breath for the fallout on that one. But it didn’t come, amazingly. One person commented “Well said,” and another called me a “fabulous wordsmith.”
This post, however, is not about good brats vs. bad brats and who hates them and who loves them. This is about the term itself: Brat. The very word conjures up negative images. Spoiled kids, whining and stamping their feet. Defiance, childishness, acting out, tantrums, generally unpleasant behavior.
But what if a bottom doesn’t fit into the quiet, acquiescent, submissive mode that this Uber-Dom prefers? Is she (I’m using the feminine pronoun here for simplicity, but this can include male bottoms too) doomed to accept the opposite moniker of brat? What if she just likes to tease a bit, play, challenge? What if she is clever and funny, rather than obnoxious?
Yeah, I hear you. Labels suck. But they exist, and they’re here to stay, like it or not. So my issue is, people like me need a different name, a different category. Because being lumped in with the brats doesn’t work, and it’s automatically assumed (by some), if we call ourselves “brats,” that we’re going to be “snotty little shits” (one of the many colorful descriptions the post writer used).
Granted, I’ve done and said some pretty awful, bratty things on video. But anyone with common sense knows that the situations in videos and stories are exaggerated to make the bottom deserving of the punishment, and so the viewers/readers will root for the top. However, in my real-life play, I challenge, but I don’t insult. And I won’t be playful with a top unless I sense that he enjoys it.
Here’s a random example of my “bratting.” Years ago at a party, my friend Andy wanted to cane me in one of the suite parties, but he’d left his canes in his room. So he borrowed one from a gentleman named Ben, who had cheerfully offered it up. After our scene (which drew a crowd; this was back in the days when people actually gathered round and watched party scenes), Andy handed me the cane, pointed to Ben across the room and said, “Go bring this back to the nice man, and say ‘thank you, Ben.'” Slowly, I ambled across the room, several pairs of eyes upon me, and when I reached Ben, who was grinning in anticipation, I said, loudly and clearly: “Up yours, Ben.”
Yes, that’s my bratting style. Hardly fits into that nasty picture painted by the brat hater. Bratting is also a matter of degrees. I’ve been known to toss implements across the room. Hardly submissive, I know. But it’s not like I tossed them out the window, into the Dumpster, or into the fireplace. I’m playful. I’m not destructive.
So here’s my question: Can we come up with a term that describes the brats who aren’t really brats? The bottoms who fall between the polarities of must-to-avoid, disrespectful little twits and fully compliant submissives? I like the term “provocateur,” myself. Even the word itself is clever. However, I know it’s a bit of a mouthful, and for simplicity’s sake, I’d rather come up with something shorter. But what? A synonym for provocateur is “challenger,” but that too is awkward.
I’m serious, kids! Language is always in flux, and kink terminology is too. There are always new terms being introduced. Let’s come up with a term for “clever, non-destructive, non-manipulative, respectful and sensible brats.” You know, the ones that make a top want to spank them, not wring their neck.
Thoughts? Put your creative caps on and let me know.
In other news, life goes on. My computer is finally fixed, but my landline is on the fritz again, after being fixed not two weeks ago. John’s ongoing issues at work are worrisome, but my own work is keeping me busy, which is good. No news with my stepmother; I had emailed her asking if she needed anything, but she didn’t reply. And I have another birthday coming up, with all the usual ambivalent feelings. Meh. First world problems. I am stuck here all day waiting for AT&T, so I guess I should get back to work. I will be seeing Steve tomorrow, and he plans to take me out for a birthday lunch.🙂 There should be a spanking or two in the plans as well.
Because I sure as hell need one. Or two.
Been a rough patch, certainly. Sunday night I got email from my stepmother. We don’t keep in regular contact, as we’re both reclusive, so I hadn’t talked to her for a while. Imagine how I felt when she told me she’d nearly died. Apparently, she’d been feeling sick and nauseated with stomach pain for a couple of months, and her doctor was treating her for what he thought was an ulcer. Things worsened until she ended up in the ER, and an MRI showed she had gallstones that had migrated to several places, occluding a duct to her bladder and causing a widespread infection. So… surgery to remove the gall bladder, find all the stones and get rid of them as well, and put a stent in her bladder duct.
Six to eight weeks recovery, with a lot of pain and nausea. And then she gets to have surgery again to remove the stent, with another long recovery. She’s 85 years old, kids. She’s already dealing with a host of physical problems, including various food sensitivities and chronic sciatica. To quote her: “This sucks!” And how much can a body take before it gives out?
She was writing to me to apologize that we won’t be able to go out for my (upcoming) birthday lunch. I told her to please not worry about that. I wish I could do something for her, but I know how fiercely independent she is. She doesn’t want to be fussed over.
So, Monday and yesterday were raw. Monday, I had a chiropractor appointment… I’ve been a mess of tension and aches. I wasn’t my usual feisty self on the table; I didn’t gripe about the painful stuff he was doing, I got into the positions he asked, I was very passive. His comment? “You’re very compliant today. What’s wrong with you?” How well he knows me already.
Yesterday, Steve came over. We did not play; I was too despondent. All I did was crawl into his arms and cry on his shirt.
But the fog has to lift eventually. Life and work go on. Fake it till you make it and all that new age-y sh*t. I’ve worked. I’ve worked out. And I figured I’d make some attempt to post something here, so everyone wouldn’t think I’d disappeared into the ether.
So pardon me if this is disjointed; it’s simply a collection of random thoughts.
Yesterday I was playing Scrabble online, and this screen appeared. I swear, I did not create this, I didn’t rearrange any letters; it happened randomly. It made me giggle.
I remembered another snippet from the party. After my lengthy scene with Ulf, during aftercare, I impulsively said, “Let me see your hand.” I just had a feeling… he turned up his palm. Sure enough, I’d thoroughly assed his hand — a blood blister and several red streaks. He was incredulous; said he hadn’t been aware of it at all.
Looks like this granny has still got it, huh?
Another random tidbit — I haven’t cut my hair in months. Usually, I get it cut and colored every six to eight weeks, but the last two times I got color, I didn’t cut it. It is the longest it’s been in years. John loves it, Steve loves it. I have mixed feelings about it.
I have never had sleek, sophisticated, polished hair. It’s just not me, and I wouldn’t even know how to style it that way. Once my hairdresser gave me a sleek blowout, and it felt so foreign and “not me” that I couldn’t wait to wash it out. I don’t put it up, because I hate my ears and don’t show them. So, for better or worse, my hair is big and wild. On the one hand, having it past my shoulders and down my back feels very sexy. But on the other, the ghost of my mother is in my head. “You’re too old for long hair.” “You need to style your hair somehow.” And, my favorite: “When are you going to do something about those rags hanging around your face?”
Tomorrow I’m getting my hair colored… I’m considering letting the cut go, again. Just to break away from the judgment of a “woman of a certain age” growing her hair long. I’m sorry, Mom… I love you, but STFU already. Get out of my head.
Took this selfie yesterday. What do you guys think? Grow it, or cut it back a bit?
Finally… people tell me they like this blog because it’s real, because it’s honest. Well, in the spirit of honesty, I have a confession. I do photo-edit my pictures a little. Not a whole lot; I don’t know how to do anything fancy. I don’t have Photoshop, I just have a simple program with the basics. So I’ll erase bags under my eyes, or blur out those damned spots on my arms and legs. A little indulgence of my vanity.
But, you want real? Here is real. This is from yesterday. No photo-editing, no makeup, straight from the camera except for cropping and resizing. This is my depression face. It’s not pretty, but it’s me.
This is what Steve saw. He said I was beautiful. I think he’s crazy, but I love him for it.
Onward. There is work to be done. And this body won’t exercise itself, no matter how much I wish it would.
Hopefully some fun on-topic stuff soon. We’ll see.
I think, next time I go to a party and then want to write a report, I will switch things up a bit. I’ll post a couple of pictures (and make sure to include butt ones this time), and then I’ll write: “A good time was had by all. The end.”
Because fuck it. Any more than that and people’s eyes glaze over, according to the dearth of reads and comments on my last report. Why bother with remembering details, sequences and anecdotes? They are of little interest, on here and on FetLife as well.
And I think I should probably cut way back on the candid revelations of my vulnerabilities/insecurities. No one wants to read about Erica and her silly meltdowns and melodramas. They’re all dealing with their own stuff, their own lives.
To add insult to injury, something in my latest report (which has since been edited) ended up offending a friend. It was completely unintentional, I feel dreadful, and I have apologized profusely, but the damage is done. Yet another case for just shutting the hell up.
I’ll be more careful about the pictures I post and where I post them. On Facebook, I put up one of the glamour shots John took of me in the corset, because it was sexy but tasteful. The very first comment that appeared? “Naughty Granny.”
Of course, many people added their thoughts and compliments and likes after that, and a few of them had choice words for the man who called me a granny. I appreciated it all. But no amount of sweetness could eradicate the nasty taste left by that first comment.
Party drop? Sure. It’s bad. But I’m not posting this in the throes of post-party roller coaster. I thought about it all day yesterday, while the crickets were chirping.
So, I guess the tradition of post-party tomes has aged out, in the age of photos, instant likes, and little else. Noted.