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 “August, 2012”

Can’t take me anywhere

This is purely vanilla, but amusing. I hope, anyway.

So last week, I had lunch with my cousin (the famous one) and a dear friend (also famous). Unfortunately, I can’t name either one of them, although my friend knows both Ericas (Scott and [realname]). She’s worked with both my father and my cousin, so we have that connection. She’s not kinked, but she’s kink-friendly.

Anyway, my cousin had invited us both out to lunch, and we were informed by his assistant that we were meeting at a restaurant in Beverly Hills. I Googled it, and it turned out to be a popular French bistro. You know the type — pretentious food, small portions and not-small prices.

I confess right here, I am not a foodie. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Don’t get me wrong; I like good food, well-prepared food. But I like simple food. I’m not into sauces, reductions and emulsions. When I think of a turkey sandwich, I think turkey, lettuce, tomato and mustard on whole-wheat bread. Not smoked turkey breast, cranberry chutney and arugula on brioche. Same thing with pizza. I almost never eat it, but when I do, it’s plain mozzarella cheese and plenty of tomato sauce on a chewy slice I can fold. Not artisan flatbread with goat cheese, heirloom tomato confit and a smattering of truffles.

The place was gorgeous, I have to say. The hostess and servers were charming. (“Sparkling water, or tap?” our server cheerily asked me. She made tap water sound like she’d be pumping it out of the garden hose.) I glanced at the menu and nearly choked on my hose water at the prices.

I wondered what kind of bread they’d bring. I figured in a place like this, we’d get a fancy basket with an assortment of bakery breads and rolls. So I was quite surprised when the server laid what looked like a twisted branch directly on the tablecloth; no basket, no plates. Turned out it was a pull-apart strand of individual sourdough bread knots.

When my friend arrived and we’d hugged and sat back down, I plucked the bread off the table and held it aloft. “What the hell is this?” I asked. “They put the bread right on the table in this chi-chi place?”

She looked at it and quipped, “It looks like a dildo.” I almost fell out of my chair. She then went one better and pulled her camera out of her purse.

So here I am, in this fancy-schmancy restaurant, leering at the dildo bread:

Fortunately, she took two shots. The first one had our server in the background, looking at us and laughing. Yup, we be classy.

Hope everyone had a good weekend. I’m playing tomorrow — YES!!

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 8/17

Happy Friday, everyone, and congratulations to all my fellow Chrosslings. I promised you a whopper of a CHoS, and I am delivering. Enjoy.

Do u butter those buns?

No, I use Smart Beat margarine.

I am a do who is interisted in spanking. Nothig else.

I believe it. Clearly you’re not interisted [sic] in spelling properly. You’re not a do, you’re a don’t.

Sir found your profile quite interesting. It appears W/we share several interests. Particularly, your ability to express your desires.

I’m a well-educated secure professional who has been in the Lifestyle for over 20 years. That experience allows ME to understand MY partner’s needs and desires so that I can fully “explore” and “expand” them.

To find a person that truly understands MY desires is quite rare. In reading your profile, I see someone who possibly shares MY interests and is compatible with MY way of life. Importantly, I see a person who appreciates the wonder of this unique Lifestyle.

Where to begin… 1. Referring to yourself in the third person is pretentious. 2. MY, MY, MY… not too full of yourself, are you? 3. My profile had absolutely nothing in it that was compatible with your “Lifestyle.” Admit it — you were just looking at my ass. 4. You’re boring. Fuck off.

Hi there erica I’m also in so cali and I’m 37 I love spanking naught grls bottoms let’s chat would love to have good sessoin withlets chat I’m strict and know how to give a god spanking

Oh, so tempting to take “god spanking” and run with it. But I don’t want to offend anyone, so this naught grl is going to refrain.

Best for last, as always:


What do I love more having a ration of stupid crap spewed at me, kids? Having that ration spewed in ALL CAPS. Stop shouting, you moron. Actually, stop talking and stop typing while you’re at it. I’m afraid you have “commmmming” confused with vomiting.

Hope I brought you some laughs. Have a great weekend, y’all. 🙂

The ABCs of Spanking — Erica style

I wasn’t going to join in on the latest meme floating about in the spanko blogosphere (your favorite spanking terms from A to Z). It’s a fun one, but I figured that all the best words had been used already. Then I thought, why not put my own sarcastic spin on it? 😀

So, I present to you, my ABCs of spanking — snarkastic phrases A to Z.

A — And your point is?
B — Blah blah blah.
C — Can we wrap this up sometime today?
D — Don’t hurt yourself, darlin’.
E — Even the sides up; my left cheek is being neglected.
F — First time doing this, hmm?
G — Ginger? I don’t think so, pal.
H — Have you started yet?
I — It’s not rocket science, honey — hand up, hand down.
J — Just get on with it, OK?
K — Kiss my a$%.
L — Let’s review E; I have TWO cheeks, dumbass.
M — Mercy. (NOT!!!!!!)
N — No, I don’t think I’m smart; I know I am.
O — Oh no, your hand is bleeding.
P — Patty-cake, patty-cake, baker’s man…
Q — Quit making so much noise with that smacking, I’m trying to take a nap.
R — Riiiiight. I’ll be a good girl from now on.
S — So sorry…No, not really.
T — Too bad about your hand, honey.
U — Up yours.
V — Very nice implements; call me when you’ve learned how to use them.
W — Whatever.
X — X marks the spot. See if you can aim accurately with visual aids.
Y — Yes, I’ll probably say something like that again.
Z — Zzzzzzzzz….

Feel free to make up your own, of course!

The excitement is building!

Still one of my favorite Wolfie caricatures of me! (and I wish it were raining!)
The Shadow Lane party in Vegas is now two weeks away. Room is booked, tickets are purchased. And my usual cocktail of nerves and excitement is setting in, big time.
Yesterday I got to see Alex for lunch, on the last day of her L.A. trip. My only complaint was that our time was limited and I could have easily spent twice as much time with her. She is such a doll! But I get to see her again in two weeks, as she’ll be at SL as well. And all our party/video/scene chitchat kicked me into pre-party mode.
ICAN’TWAITICAN’TWAITICAN’TWAIT! Not just for the play (although that’s huge), but seeing so many adored friends, all in one place, once again. As usual, I’m panicking about having so much to do in such a short time. We don’t come early, and we don’t leave late — we arrive Friday late afternoon and we’re out of there early Monday morning. So it’s a very short timeframe in which to cram about a week’s worth of activity.
Yeah, I know. I do this song and dance before every party, and have done so for years. Can you imagine what John goes through?? He has to deal with Ms. Panic. I told you guys before, he even made up a parody about me, Panic the Cat, sung to the tune of the “Felix the Cat” theme. (groan)
So I’m restless and anxious and way too damn hot and and and… ARGGGH! For Christ’s sake, Erica, get a grip. It’s Wednesday the 15th. Go do some work. Go to the gym. Go get spanked… oh, wait. Can’t do that until next Monday. Oh well, that’s OK. Did I mention that it’s too damn hot?
Welcome to the E L Scott Asylum, folks. Fasten your straitjackets. It’s going to be a crazy couple of weeks.

Uncommon Sense, Part 3: The Brotherhood of the Traveling Fingers

Obviously, this isn’t my usual Monday night blog. Mr. D had to postpone; the poor thing did something or another that his back didn’t like and it was spasming on him. I know back pain well, so he has my sympathies. He assured me he’ll be back in fine form next week.

Damn, I’m good. I mean, I’ve bruised and blistered several tops’ hands, and even made a couple of them bleed. But I’ve never made a top throw his back out just thinking about playing with me. 😀

(John insisted I post the above paragraph. It’s all his fault. So, Mr. D, just pretend you didn’t read that part, k? Thanks much.)

Anyway, I thought tonight might be a good time for one of my “uncommon sense” columns. You know, where we talk about things that should be common sense, but apparently aren’t. Tonight’s installment is about tops who let their fingers wander where they weren’t invited. I read about this all the time on FetLife and elsewhere, and really, I wonder what some people are thinking. Oh, wait. They aren’t.

I can hear some of you out there. “But wait, Erica! If you don’t approve of such activity, then what about this?”

Hey, that was a professional photo; that didn’t count. 🙂 But I’m not saying that there’s anything wrong with the touchy-feely stuff. What I object to is the assumption that it’s OK, that it’s welcome, simply because a woman bares her bottom to you for a spanking. NOT.

Sure, a lot of people like their spanking and sex/touching/etc. together. That is their choice, their prerogative. I’m not talking about couples here. I’m talking about parties, about the more casual type of spanking, when you’re not playing with a significant other. If a bottom likes the touching, then more power to her. But a top should not assume that when a woman is over his lap or bent over in front of him, if it’s for a spanking, that it’s OK to do anything else. Wouldn’t you think that’s common sense? Not so common, from the stories I hear.

I have three examples of tops who were far too presumptuous. I’ve talked about them before, but they bear repeating for this topic.

1. New top came over (we’d done the coffee meeting), and we started to play. About one minute into the scene, he’d already pulled down my panties, yanked my cheeks apart and made a comment about the “big pink winking eye.” WTF??? I got up and told him the scene was over.

2. I did a scene with a new guy at the Shadow Lane party on Friday night. I was OTK on a bed in a room full of people, and he suddenly shoved my legs apart. Startled, I firmly slammed them back shut. I figured that would be the end of it, but he grabbed them and pushed them open again, and this time he reached in for a feel. Screw subtlety; I loudly snapped, “Don’t DO that!” He muttered, “I can’t help it… you’re just so fuckin’ hot.” Yeah, well. Thanks, but I won’t be playing with you again.

3. Met a guy for coffee; we got along, have a nice chat. He lived nearby, so we went to his house to play. I was bent over the couch arm and he was strapping me, then he paused. “Be right back,” he said, leaving the room. Came back in, and then next thing I felt was his fingers in the last place where I wanted to feel his fingers. “What are you doing?” I asked. “Just a little lube,” he answered. I jerked my head around, and saw he’s got lube in one hand and a butt plug in the other!! “NO!!!!” I hollered, jerking away from him.

He stood there, blinking in confusion. “Wait… is that a real ‘no’?”

You bet your ass it’s a real no! Jeeeezus! Presumptuous, much?

Please don’t get me wrong. I know lots of spankos are anal-erotic and enjoy back door play. That’s fine and dandy. But for God’s sake, when you’re playing with someone for the first time and it’s a spanking scene, would you assume it’s OK to shove a butt plug in her without checking with her first? Apparently, this guy didn’t think it was necessary.

But what if you’re playing, the scene is going great, and your spankee is noticeably wet? Sorry, dude. That’s a physiological reaction a lot of us bottoms have. It’s still not an open invitation to let your fingers do the walking. If a “no genital touching” limit is in place, then no is still no.

In the past, in the middle of private party scenes, I’ve had playmates ask, very politely, if they could touch me. Yup, I’ve OK’d it a few times, caught up in the moment, feeling the chemistry and wanting it. (And I always tell John afterward, whose standard reaction is to shake his head and sigh, “You slut.”) But if they hadn’t asked, just went right for the feel, I wouldn’t have appreciated it.

Incidentally, I’m going with the M/F orientation because that’s the one I know, but I’m curious: Have any male or female bottoms ever had trouble with over-assuming female tops?

Anyway, here’s the deal. Going OTK at a play party is not, not, NOT implied consent for tops to dip their fingers in the cake. Is that really so hard to comprehend? Why is this an issue to begin with? We engage in a fetish activity that involves a degree of nudity and physical closeness, but smacking a bottom can be accomplished quite thoroughly without wandering into other territory. That kind of activity is secondary.

So have some (un)common sense. If you have free reign, [ooops! That should be rein. And I even thought about that and chose reign deliberately. Some proofreader!] great. If you don’t, don’t assume you have it, because it’s not a given. Period. When a woman says yes, she’s saying yes to a spanking. Whether or not she’ll say yes to “Can I put something up your butt” or “May I touch your hoohah” is yet to be determined.

I am so over this @#$%ing heat

(warning: cussing ahead)

Anyone remember the old Twilight Zone episode called “Land of the Midnight Sun”? The one where the Earth is orbiting closer to the sun, and it’s so hot everywhere that thermometers are bursting and paintings are melting, and people are either dying or going insane? That’s what I think we’re in right now. Either that, or Hell. Enough already with day after fucking day of triple-digit heat! I’m so sick of it, I could scream. In fact, I think I will, in a bloggy sense.

Could be worse, I know. At least my building’s antiquated A/C system hasn’t croaked, as it usually does during a heat wave. But it can’t keep up with heat like this, so my apartment has been averaging about 76-80 degrees. I have every fan I own running and I’ve been spritzing myself with water for the evaporative cooling. Dinner tonight was a pint of frozen yogurt.

At least I got some respite at John’s house this weekend. His central air system is like A/C on steroids; it’s powerful enough to deal with triple digits. He had to work late on Friday evening, and when he came home, he said his place was nearly 100 degrees, but within two hours after putting on the A/C, it was back down below 80 already. (I didn’t go there until Saturday morning.) Of course, the utility companies are telling us to set our A/C at 78 degrees, but even my beloved diehard environmentalist said, “Fuck that” and cranked it down to 68. So it was quite comfortable there. Unfortunately, we couldn’t stay in there all weekend.

Yesterday, we went to the nursing home where his mother is staying until she’s well enough to go home (she got out of Kaiser Hospital last week). Before we went, we’d seen one of John’s sisters, who said she’d already been to visit. She made a face, saying the place was depressing, and they automatically put all the patients in wheelchairs and diapers whether they need them or not. Lovely.

The first thing I noticed when we walked into the place was the pervasive stink of pee. The people who worked there were nice, but the place itself was dreadful. John’s mom was pretty much out of it and it was impossible to have a conversation with her, but we still stayed for over an hour. From one of the nearby rooms was the sound of a patient howling and keening, and my nerves nearly snapped. We were just about to leave when John’s brother, sister-in-law and nephew arrived. I groaned inwardly. Shit. We almost got out, but now we’re stuck. Sure enough, we stayed another 15 minutes while John and his bro/SIL caught each other up. Deep breaths, Erica, we’re almost out. I’d just gone through this with my own mother and it was just too damn much. At least the nursing home she’d been in didn’t smell bad.

When we left, my car nearly killed us both — it was 110 in there, according to my car’s temp register. It was like driving inside a blast furnace until it finally started to cool down a little bit. At least it’s a newer car. Some of you might remember older-model cars, the ones that overheated on days like this when you ran the air conditioner.

Poor John. The heat did a number on him, too. Even long after we got back into his lovely icebox of a house, he was sweating. It’s like he was overheating from the inside out.

Today was better. Not cooler, you understand, but at least we didn’t have to do anything dreadful. We went to brunch, and in the parking lot, we saw two other couples walking ahead of us. Knowing that the restaurant was probably already packed with the lunch crowd and not wanting those two couples to get there ahead of us, I actually broke into a sprint and ran across the lot, down the sidewalk and inside. Hey, it got us seated sooner. So what if it damn near killed me.

So now, I’m home, and it’s still hot; it’s 10 PM and a brisk 83 degrees. Eric Idle is on TV as I write, at the closing ceremonies, singing about looking on the bright side of life. Shut up, Eric. You’re in London right now. Come here and deal with this damned heat and see if you still look on the fucking bright side.

Why yes, I’m cranky. Thanks for noticing.

Tomorrow Mr. D is coming over. I look forward to seeing him again, but I don’t know how either of us will survive playing in this heat. I was tempted to tell him to forget about the toy bag and just bring his bathing suit, but hopefully it will be OK. Perhaps I’ll spritz him with my water bottle. 🙂 That would be a kindness, wouldn’t it??

Tuesday I’m having lunch with Alex; she’s been in town for the past couple of weeks and this will be her last day here. Can’t wait to see her again! Wednesday I get my first batch of work from the new client, and Thursday I am seeing my cousin again. So it’s going to be a busy week. But if this heat doesn’t break, I may end up in the loony bin. Which I wouldn’t mind, if it were air-conditioned.

Excuse me for now — I’m going to go pour ice water on my sheets.

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