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.

Archive for the month “September, 2011”

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 9/30

First CHoS of Fall 2011. Way overdue, huh? Besides, I’ve been feeling especially snarkastic the past couple of days (my new favorite word).

I wanna spank you. Then fuck you. Eat your pussy.

I don’t know where you’re from, but we do not eat our pets in this country.

I have been a Master/Daddy for 25 years. The perfect little girl never questions her Master/Daddy, and thinks of his needs above her own.

Damn shame I’m not perfect, huh? This little girl’s need, at the moment, is for you to take your ginormous Domass ego and… well, you figure it out, Papi.

Would love to spank you and then mount you with my large hard cock…..sexy rich guy looking for some kinky fun

I saw your picture, Richie Rich. You’re lying about the sexy part, so you’re probably lying about the large cock too.

And here’s my favorite:

Im pretty new to this site & came across ur photo. Im a tattoo artist fro. San diego. Im very much into the tits & bottoms of a lady. Being a tattoo artist i do enjoy inflicking some pain into my sex, spanking, tit squeezing, anal sex on a women & some biting. I do like to take control when were having sex.. BUT I ALSO LIKE BEING BIT & SCRATCHED HARD ENOUGH TO DRAW BLOOD…

Tattoo artist, huh? Since you enjoy inflicking [sic] pain and you like a bit of pain yourself, here’s a tat suggestion. Tattoo “I’m with” on one testicle, and “Stupid” on the other. And on your cock? That’s right, “Stupid.” That is, assuming it’s big enough to accommodate six letters.

This isn’t really a CHoS entry, but I’m including it ’cause I feel like it. Earlier this week on FetLife, in the group “Spank You Very Much,” someone posed the question, “Is it true that the more firm one’s ass is, the more a spanking hurts?” (rolling eyes) Kind of a dumbass question, way too simplistic, but that’s not my point.

Part of one man’s reply read as follows: I’ve encountered some ladies with well padded bottoms who could barely handle a hand spanking and some with bony bottoms which outlast most hands and some implements (Erica Scott – aka the ‘bionic bottom’ – comes to mind).”

OK, I appreciate the shout-out, truly. But… bony?? Really? That’s the best modifier he could have chosen? Part of me laughed, but another part was rather ticked off.

News flash, Skippy. First, thin women don’t like the word “bony” any more than women with a few extra pounds like the “f” word. Not at all flattering. And second, I am not bony. What I have back there is muscle tone. Which will feel like bone to your poor little soft hand, but it’s quite a different substance.

And finally, I’m throwing in another one of those baffling keyword search phrases:

flexible legs behind head feet

Join me, kids… WTF?

Tomorrow, I go back to Spanking Court. I haven’t been there since July, so I am really looking forward to it. Not just because of the shoot itself, but I can’t wait to see them all again! 🙂  Should be great fun; I’m doing two scenes, and as we left off on a cliffhanger (me causing the Court Disciplinarian to blow his cork and do something really inappropriate), we’ll take up with my hauling him into Court with me and having it out in front of the Judge.

I’m sure all will be resolved nicely — the Judge will dismiss the Disciplinarian’s sorry ass, after he is commanded to sincerely apologize to me for his gross mistreatment. Right? Right?

🙂 Have a great weekend, y’all.

OT Rant: The latest and greatest in disgusting food

Been a while since I did one of these. Last April, to be exact, when I ranted about Denny’s bacon sundae. Well, they’re at it again.

Having come to the end of their “Baconalia” cholesterol fest, they decided to move on to “Let’s Get Cheesy.” Imagine the possibilities. Now take those possibilities, stuff them with cheese, dump cheese on them, and then cover them with cheese sauce. There’s so damn much cheese, you don’t know whether to eat it or take a bath in it.

All the items on this featured menu are disgustingly decadent, but I’m focusing on the most outrageous: The Mac ‘n Cheese Big Daddy Patty Melt. (OK, I don’t know about you, but I’d feel like a horse’s ass just ordering it. What a stupid name.)

Here it is, in all its gluttonous glory. Buttered and grilled potato bread (God forbid it should be wheat bread). A burger patty, melted cheese, and Frisco sauce (whatever the @#$% that is; probably mayonnaise-based). And then? Yup. A layer of macaroni and cheese.

This sandwich has 1690 calories (I don’t eat that many calories in a whole day!!) and 99 grams of fat. If you were to eat a stick of butter, that would be a healthier choice.

But wait, there’s more! It comes with a side of French fries, accompanied by dipping sauce. Ketchup? Nah. Cheese sauce. In case you’re still cheese deficient.

When does this stop, people? According to the latest statistics, 33.8% of adults in America are obese. No, not overweight, obese. As in morbid. Obesity-related diseases and conditions are on the rise. Children and adolescents are getting fatter. Food portions are getting bigger, fattier, cheesier, breadier, sweeter. The media tell us to diet. The restaurants and food ads gleefully encourage massive gorging.

Let’s just make it simple, shall we? Take a wheel of cheese, batter it and deep-fry it, smother it in chocolate sauce and whipped cream, and eat that six times a day. At least that will cure one of the world’s problems: overpopulation.

Granted, I don’t like bacon and I’m not all that crazy about cheese either. But even if I did like these food items, I’d eat them in moderation. A slice or two of pizza with a normal amount of cheese is fine. Do you really need triple-thick-crust pizza with five kinds of cheese piled on it, with more cheese baked into the crust???

Oh, and if you’re hankering for some dessert after that macaroni mashup, another “Let’s Get Cheesy” item is a Strawberry Cheesecake Milkshake. Ice cream blended with cream cheese and cheesecake chunks.

Could be worse, I guess. They could have crafted a Hot Cheese Sundae.

OK, I just made myself sick with that one. Later, y’all.

Tonight’s scene…

… was very personal. ST did not stop to take pictures during it. His focus was singular — taking care of me.

We talked beforehand. I thought I was all cried out, but dammit, I wasn’t. I guess I never am.

He was concerned, very caring, and asked me what I wanted. I said, “I’ll tell you what I don’t want. I don’t want you to handle me with kid gloves.”

“No?”

“No. I won’t shatter.”

I just wanted to go someplace else for a while. He knew. He took me there.

We did not banter tonight. He did not scold. It wasn’t necessary.

Afterward, I couldn’t move for a long time. He lay on the carpet next to my chair, let me recover. Eventually, I scooted off the chair onto the carpet next to him and put my head on his chest. And there we stayed. I didn’t fix my clothes, I did nothing. Just felt the burn and sting and let my breathing settle back down.

Quite a while later, he got up. I stayed prone on the carpet, and he took a picture then. Of course, I was mostly faded. But I don’t get much more relaxed than this.




I’m not sure how I feel about last night’s blog. Part of me is rather embarrassed by it. Still, I don’t wish to delete it. It was honest.

Thank you for all the supportive comments. Funny how they ran the gamut, with the two polarities ranging from, “Don’t do it, you don’t need it” to “Go for it.” I know cosmetic surgery is a hot button topic, and some people are fiercely against it. Here’s my take: I don’t like it when it’s used as a panacea; when people think it will fix their lives. It won’t. I don’t like it when it’s done to extreme and people are left with freakish frozen masks. I hate the idea of Botox; I just can’t wrap my head around shooting poison into my face.

HOWEVER. Life is not easy, and like it or not, looks do matter. If someone has something or another that is fixable, that would make them feel better, more confident, whatever, if it were addressed, then I’m all for fixing it. If they can afford it, if they are safe about it and do their research, if they had their heads screwed on straight beforehand… more power to them, I say.

But I’m cannot condone paying for things I can’t afford to pay for. No matter how much I want them. I just can’t. So I have to work this out some way, or let it go.

John sent me flowers today. I came home from the gym and found them on my doorstep.

It’s now 24 hours since I wrote my last blog. Nothing has changed in those 24 hours; my situation and my feelings are the same. But thanks to the love of two wonderful men and some supportive friends, I’m at peace with unresolved problems. Those damned nattering negative voices have been stifled.

No matter how sad, scared or crazed I get, I don’t lose sight of what I have. Even through my tears, I’m aware that I’m lucky in so many ways.

So drowsy. I believe I will sleep well tonight.

Vanity

… can break your heart. Couple it with insecurity, and it can possess you.

I will probably regret this entry. I may remove it… but probably not. I have always endeavored to be honest, to reveal all sides of myself, and I’m not going to stop now.

Without delving into a whole lot of detail about my finances, I will boil it down to this. Once upon a time, I had retirement/emergency savings. Thanks to some money my father left me plus my own frugality, I was pretty well set for the future. I was able to pay my bills with freelance work and I spent little on myself. I could take a distribution each year from my decedent IRA, but I kept those small. I knew I wasn’t going to get married and that I’d have to take care of myself when I got old. That seemed like a doable goal.

Then the economy went to hell a few years ago. Two things happened; my freelance work all but dried up, and my investments lost some of their value. And I started taking bigger distributions, because I had to live on them.

I waited for things to get better. They didn’t. My skills are good, but highly specialized, and nowadays people want employees, even freelance ones, to have way more knowledge and capabilities than I do. I didn’t want to go back to the full-time office grind; it nearly killed me when I was in it. So I kept hoping for the best, and kept taking money out. Everything got more expensive. My medical insurance alone is nearly $1000 a month.

I still have some savings. I am not destitute. But the future is no longer sewn up like it once was.

So what do I want to do? Spend a whole lot of money. On something for my vanity.

I have a fairly youthful body. Some of that is luck; a lot of it is old-fashioned hard work with diet and exercise. But I can’t exercise my face. I see myself in the mirror, in pictures, and my eyes are unwillingly drawn to the hanging flesh under my chin and on my neck. Yes, a wattle. I look like a turkey.

I got my frugal side from my mother, which is why I have very old furniture and old electronics. I don’t wear designer clothes/shoes, I buy drug store cosmetics. I don’t go to expensive shows and plays, I don’t travel. I live simply. I have not one penny of debt. So thank you to Mom for that, for my ability to live that way without wanting, wanting, wanting. But I also got her crippling vanity, her obsession with looks.

In my mother’s lifetime she has had: Breast implants, a nose job, two facelifts, her eyes done twice, at least one laser peel (probably more), and liposuction. Where she got the money for all that, I don’t know. Yes, she looked great.

There is a famous cosmetic surgeon in Los Angeles; I know his name well, I know some of his patients, I’ve seen his ads and local-access programs. He does beautiful, subtle work. Recently, I saw an ad for one of his procedures, called a laser necklift. He had an offer going for a free consultation. Oh, what the hell, I thought. I made an appointment for one.

Last Wednesday, I went to see him. He was a lovely man, talked with me, explained the procedure and what it would entail. Because it was considered a “mini” lift, the cutting would be minimal, and all behind my ears, nothing would show. Unlike a full facelift, it would not require drains, and the recovery time would be short. And as he manipulated my skin with his deft fingers, he showed me in the mirror how I would look. My wattle would be gone and my lower face would be smoothed out. I’d look about 15 years younger.

I was ecstatic… until his assistant told me the cost. I felt sick, and told her there was no way I could touch that. She saw how my face had dropped even further than usual and said, “Let me talk to him and see what I can do,” and she left the room for a few minutes. When she came back, she had gotten the doctor and the anesthesiologist to lower their costs by about a third. It was a substantial discount.

But still very expensive.

And yet, I couldn’t bear to tell her no. I told her I’d think about it. And I did. By the time the day was over, I’d convinced myself this was meant to be, that I wanted this more than anything, and I would take it out of my savings. I’d make it work. What the hell… my life is now, right? What if I get hit by a bus when I’m 60? What’s the point of denying myself every damn thing?

It would be my birthday present to myself, I rationalized.

I got excited… euphoric, even. Every time I looked in the mirror, I’d make a face at that loose flesh and think, “You’re history.” I looked forward to seeing my image in the mirror and in pictures without cringeing.

I’d be pretty again. Not pretty “for my age,” but youthfully pretty. I’d recapture the looks I had in my wasted years, the ones where I was too depressed to feel attractive.

On Friday night, John and I went out to dinner. As we ate our sushi, I told him of my plan. He very calmly said, “You can’t do that. You don’t have the money.”

I got angry. “I do too have it,” I insisted. “I’ll take it out of savings.”
“You’re already living on that savings,” he pointed out. “It’s not a bottomless well. You’re burning through it, you’re out of work, and now you want to spend an additional [ridiculous amount of money]? Can’t you see how that makes no sense?”

He wasn’t unkind. He was sympathetic, non-judgmental, said he understood the desire and if I had the money, he’d encourage me to go for it. But I didn’t have it.

Of course, he was right. And I felt myself crash down into reality. I’m not rich. I’m a middle-aged, unemployed woman with an uncertain future. I can’t afford to do this for myself. I just can’t.

I wish I didn’t want it so damn much. I wish it didn’t mean so much to me.

I sat in the restaurant, tears rolling down my face. I couldn’t stop. John tried his best to cheer me up, to make me feel better. He said maybe I could do this in the future. Maybe I should redouble my efforts to find work. Maybe, maybe, maybe. “I think you’re beautiful,” he said. I know he means that, and I love him for it. But love is blind. He also thinks I look like the T-Mobile girl in the commercials. I look nothing like her, aside from the fact that we’re both brunette.

Saturday, I forgot things temporarily, as John took me out for a lovely dinner and we had champagne. But every time I caught sight of my reflection in the mirror, in the car window, etc., my heart sank. Today, when I was ready to leave for home and knew I’d be alone once again with my thoughts with no distractions, I started to cry again. Dammit. I hate being such a crier. I wonder where it all comes from sometimes; I feel like if I don’t stop, I’ll dry up and blow away.

When my mind is in this negative state, it wanders into other dangerous territory. I started thinking about some scene women I’ve known, the ones who get things given to them. Both femdoms and subs… their rent, new cars, trips, etc. I wrote in my book about some of the stories I heard when I was working in the dungeon. It seemed unfair to me even then, how some women didn’t have to do anything and men just gave them things.

John was seeing a domme, a young and beautiful one, whose primary slave paid her rent and her bills. This guy made a ton of money and gave freely to her. And what did she have to do in return? Not much, except abuse him. She didn’t even have to have sex with him; she saw to it that he wouldn’t have sex with anyone again. Yes, she ruined his manhood, physically. I’ll spare you the details of how. And he let her. When I expressed my shock and disgust to John, he said, “He wanted it. He got off on it.” Yeah, well. He won’t be getting off on anything else.

She once said to John, “I think you should show me your devotion and buy me a new car.” Fortunately, he wasn’t that devoted.

I used to look at those situations and feel contempt and anger. I don’t want someone to pay my rent. I don’t need fancy clothes and jewelry; what would I do with them? My old furniture (that’s so old, someone referred to it as “retro”) is still comfortable. I am not interested in travel. But you know what? If some well-to-do, kind person were to hand me a check and say, “Here, Erica. Go knock 10-15 years off your face, with my blessing,” I’d take it.

I’m not proud of this. But it is what it is.

John held me for a long time before he let me go home today. I know he’s worried about me, feels bad that I’m so down on myself. I’m grateful for him. Because I know others would look at this desire, this need, and think I’m vain and foolish. But I can’t help it.

Why am I writing all this? Because it’s where I’m at. Because keeping it bottled up and secret makes it worse.

If you’ve managed to read through this… thank you.

Thank you so much!

It’s only 12:30 PM on my birthday, and already I’m overwhelmed with greetings. My email boxes, my wall on FetLife, my blog, on Twitter and even on good old vanilla Facebook — so many happy birthdays! I feel like a little kid right now, hyped up on cake, and I haven’t had a bite of sugar.

And no birthday of mine is complete without a new WolfieToon from dearest Dave Wolfe — check out this year’s gem!

Look at all the details! He’s got Quentin in there, the CHoS archtype, the chair is property of Shadow Lane… and I’m signing his book “Doofus”!  LOL

I love you, Wolfie!  ♥

I have no plans today, except for gym and paying bills and other mundane stuff, but I’m sure the Internet will keep me entertained all day. 🙂

I am so, so happy today. Thank you, everyone.

OT: Adventures in public transportation

As I’d mentioned earlier, John wanted me to see a specialist/periodontist for a second opinion on whether or not I needed oral surgery on my receding gums. My appointment was yesterday. This doctor was highly rated and John had had work done by him, so I had faith that I was doing the right thing. However, his office is in the heart of downtown L.A., which is a driver’s nightmare: a maze of traffic, one-way streets and parking garages that charge you the equivalent of renting a room. So I decided to take public transportation.

The process?

1. Walk to the bus stop.
2. Take the MTA bus to the subway station.
3. Take the subway downtown.
4. Walk four blocks to dentist’s office.

This took two hours. But at least I didn’t have to drive.

Upon my arrival, I filled in the usual sheaf of forms, with some interesting new questions thrown in along with the standards. “Would you say you are a nervous person?” (Yes.)  “Are you apprehensive about dental procedures?” (Very.) I then waited an hour to be put in a dentist’s chair, where I waited some more.

Busy doctor. Back and forth between me and two other patients. However, he did spend a ton of time with me. Did a thorough exam, and told me that if everyone’s mouth/teeth were as healthy as mine, he’d be out of business. When I smiled at that, he said, “You don’t have to gloat.” I liked this guy.

I liked him even more when he recommended that we simply keep an eye on the recession, rather than taking an aggressive action now. I had plenty of root to the teeth, the teeth were not at all mobile and I was in no danger. If I monitored it, changed my brushing habits, etc., perhaps it could reverse itself. But even if it didn’t and stayed as is it now, it was quite livable.

YES!

Thank you for another early birthday present, Dr.

I was there for three hours, and it took another hour-and-a-half to get home. The subway was standing room only at that hour… fun fun fun. How do people do this every day?? I gained a new respect yesterday. At least the bodies I was crammed up against seemed to be well washed.

Nice end to the day — I found a package on my doorstep when I got home. Upon opening it, I was happily surprised to find Tina Fey’s biography, Bossypants. Craig sent it to me for my birthday. Thank you, Craig! 😀  He knows I adore that woman. I always liked her on SNL, but after 2008 and that dead-on sendup of Sarah Palin, she became one of my heroes.

OK. No oral surgery, for now. I can keep all the pain in my bottom, where it belongs.

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