TMI Thursday

Definitely Too Much Information, but it’s quite funny as well, I think.

We’re all adults here, right? OK.

You guys know me pretty well by now. You know that most of the time, after an intense spanking session, I’m done. I’m limp, happily drained of tension, as blissfully indolent as a cat napping in sunshine. All I have energy for is to fix myself a snack and write a blog.

Most of the time. But there are other times when I really, really need to take care of business. Get off. Yes, masturbate. The other night was one of those times.

So I retrieved the trusty old Pocket Rocket. It’s not all that efficient, but it’s quiet and small and it was inexpensive. (Have you checked out the cost of some sex toys out there?? Geezus, it’s cheaper to hire a professional escort to get you off.) Turned it on, and… nothing. Ugh.

Probably a dead battery. Muttering in frustration, I went into the kitchen and retrieved a fresh pack of AA batteries from the tool drawer. Pulled out the old battery and inserted a new one, turned it on, and… nothing. The thing was dead.

“Dammit!” I yelled, hurling it in the trash. Stupid piece of junk. Now what?? I was feeling the need more than ever. And for another bit of TMI, my fingers simply don’t cut it. They lack the speed and intensity of battery-powered pleasuring.

Well, to paraphrase an old saying, necessity is the mother of improvisation. I went to the linen closet, pulled out the box of assorted cloths and rags I use for dusting, and selected a clean, soft cloth. Then I wrapped it tightly, around and around…

… the head of my electric toothbrush.

Oh, grow up. :-Þ  Like no one’s ever done that before. Sometimes, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.

And BTW, it worked splendidly. 😀

Better late than never, right?

I’m late with my birthday spanking blog, I know. Not like me to be off my schedule, OCD as I am. But it’s been an unusual birthday.

Before I get to yesterday’s festivities, I need to touch on the weekend a bit more. I know John wanted to make it wonderful and special; he always does. But the timing couldn’t have been worse. The man was absolutely trashed; he’d just come off two grueling weeks of insane hours on a project from which he got summarily removed at the end, he had a bad cold and wrenched back. I know he was trying to put on a good face, especially on Saturday night, and I love him for it. But I knew better.

As soon as we got home from our lovely dinner and dessert, he fell asleep on the couch. I was worried about him and didn’t sleep well. And the next day, I guess it all kind of caved in on him, and he was despondent. He was dreading going back to work the next day, because of the manager who had been so rude to him. He felt like a failure because he’d done his job to the best of his ability (and then some) and it wasn’t appreciated. I know John; I know a great deal of his self-esteem is tied up with his work, and this was killer. When I saw him like this, the strain of the past couple of weeks caught up to me as well, and I burst into tears in the restaurant at brunch. Not good.

We went home, and I tried my best to give him a pep talk. Regarding the manager who’d yelled at him on Friday, I reminded John that this guy has always had a bad temper; he blows off, and then he forgets about it and it’s like nothing happened. Chances are, that was the case this time as well. And if John was worried about it, perhaps he should go talk to him the next morning. John said, “Well, I’ll wait to see if I bump into him in the kitchen or something.” “No,” I said. “Don’t wait. Get it over with; go see him first thing.”

When I went home, I felt like crap. Worried about John, and yeah, selfishly sad about my birthday and my own mixed feelings about it. It dawned on me, after the fact, that for the first time in 16 years, John hadn’t sent me birthday flowers. Not that I think that’s my due, but it’s something he always does. And he always sends them early, anywhere from a couple of days to a week prior to the date. My logical mind said, “Don’t take it personally; he’s been in hell the last two weeks.” But my inner, insecure little self said, “You’re not a priority in his life anymore. You’re too damned old. It’s his work, then his mother/family, then you.”

Monday morning, John sent me a text, saying that I was right; he’d talked with the manager and the guy was fine, friendly, even thanked him for his work. He was hugely relieved (as was I). We have a silly couple-y thing we do: we sign all correspondence (email, texts) to each other with LYVM (Love You Very Much). This time, John signed off with “LYMTYCI.”

Took me a minute, but I figured it out. “Love You More Than You Can Imagine.”

I felt better. I worked out, came home, showered and dressed and made up… and then Mr. D called. More bad news about the neighbor he’s been caretaking. Really bad. He offered to come over later that evening, but I said no; I knew his heart wouldn’t be in it, I could hear it in his voice. He suggested the next day, and I said yes. He kept apologizing, but he really didn’t have anything to apologize for. After we hung up, I thought, “Fuck it. Let it go, Erica. It’s life. Life doesn’t revolve around you and your damned birthday. Forget about it.” I stripped off all the nice clothes I’d put on, laid them out to put back on the next day.

Yesterday morning, it felt like a different world. I’d had a call into the building manager to change my A/C filter, and he came over and did so. Instantly, I could feel a better flow of air from the vents. Plus, the weather finally gave us a break and dropped into the 80s. Amazing how life always feels better when you’re physically comfortable. Then, later in the morning, my doorbell rang. It was a delivery for me… a massive bouquet of long-stemmed peach roses. What John always sends to me. My spirits kicked up another notch. I love you more than you can imagine as well, sweetie.

Then, it was Mr. D time. He arrived around 1:30, and he brought me flowers! A beautiful flower box filled with big, bright sunflowers and two-toned yellow/orange roses, with greenery. I went from no flowers to two bouquets. On September 25, three days after the fact. Talk about surprises. 🙂

We sat and talked for a long time, catching up. He told me about his vacation, and then what was going on with his neighbor. I told him about the past couple of weeks: John’s work hell, my stepfather losing his license, etc. Before we started our play, he had to make a call to his friend’s doctor about some meds he was supposed to get which had been denied by the pharmacy. Of course, he got snarled up in a mess of being on hold, being disconnected, listening to recorded “Your call is important to us” messages, blah blah blah. But finally, that was done and it was birthday spanking time.

My entire body and soul was craving it, by now. I wanted that sweet oblivion, that pain that clears my mind; I needed to go to my special place. He knew that, too. But he took his time, giving me slow swats, lingering with rubbing, stopping to lean over and whisper to me. Normally, I love all that. This time, I was half out of my mind with impatience.

So… once we’d moved to the bedroom, and he’d picked up a couple of implements, I lost it. When he paused yet again to speak to me, I snapped, “Stop. Talking.”

“Excuse me?” he said. I grit my teeth. “I said, STOP. TALKING.”

“Say that again?” he said, putting his hand on my bottom.

“Is there something wrong with your hearing?” I asked. “You said you just got your eyes checked; have you thought about having your ears checked too?”

Yeah, that was really rude. I didn’t mean it, and he knew I didn’t. But that tipped the scales.

Soon, I was moaning and muffling shrieks in the bedspread, and, as the expression goes, taking the Lord’s name in vain. And he continued until I broke down. It didn’t take very long.

“Let it go, baby,” he murmured. “You need just a little more.” I nodded. I knew I did. He finished me off, snapped a couple of pictures, then came down to the bed to soothe me.

What do you think, kids? Did I get a good birthday spanking?

We talked for a long time afterward. “So,” he asked, “aside from the stress about John and all, how do you feel about this birthday? How do you feel about turning 55?” (It will be his turn, in five months.)

I didn’t hesitate for a second. “I hate it. It sucks.”

He seemed genuinely surprised. “Why?”

I have to stop for a second and interject something. Mr D is a very unusual man, y’all. He’s a native Californian, but you wouldn’t know it. It’s like he comes from another culture altogether. He thinks ageing is wonderful. He thinks women grow hotter and more beautiful, the older they get. He is my age (sans five months), but he could pass for his late 30s. And he could get any of the young ‘uns he wanted. But he doesn’t want them; has zero interest in them. That blows me away, truly.

He’s seen pictures of me from when I was younger, and he thinks I look better and prettier now. I don’t get it. I really, really, really don’t. I’ve never met anyone quite like this. When I told him that the first thing I’d do if I won the lottery is get a facelift, he was genuinely shocked. And upset with me.

Anyway, since I don’t share his appreciation for age, I replied, “Because I feel old. I feel like life pretty much declines from this point on, with age and illness and so forth. Maybe it’s just that I haven’t had a very good year. No one wants to shoot with me anymore, I’ve had a lot of worry over John, I lost my mother, I lost [ST]… I feel like this whole year has been about saying goodbye, especially to my youth.”

He leaned close and whispered, “Well, say hello to me.”

Later, we went out to get a bite to eat, at a nearby Japanese restaurant, which turned out to be a good choice. I got a seafood salad and a side of brown rice, and he got a few orders of different sushi, and shared his eel with me (no wisecracks from any of you). And after we were done eating, he sang happy birthday to me, right at the table.

He’d gotten a call from CVS pharmacy, saying that one of the meds for his neighbor had been approved and was ready, so he had to get back home to pick it up before they closed at 9:00. It was now 8:10, so we had to hustle and get back to my place, so he could pick up his stuff and hit the road. I wished he didn’t have to leave so quickly; I’d hoped he could linger, maybe watch a video, play a little more. But I was being greedy. His neighbor needed him.

Big hugs, many thank-yous, and he was out the door. I was just about to settle in, change my clothes, etc., when my phone rang. He hadn’t been gone more than 30 seconds, but I knew it was him. So I snatched up the phone and playfully said, “Whaddaya want NOW?”

His growl came down over the phone. “Bring me your panties. Now. QUICK.”

Oh, no! We’d forgotten the panty ritual! Giggling, I tore my panties off, balled them up in my fist and ran out of my apartment, down the hall and out to the foyer, where I saw him outside the door, grinning at me. I dashed over, opened the door and handed them to him.

I know. We’re twisted. I told John that Mr. D takes my panties home every week and then trades them off the following week, and he yelped, “He has a panty fetish?? What kind of a sick @#$% is this guy??” LOL!

Here are my birthday flowers, plus some cards (yep, some people still give hard-copy cards!).

I snapped this with my cell phone, since my regular camera’s battery was dead. For whatever reason, the color of John’s roses are off. But just imagine that they are peach. 🙂

Feeling very soft and at peace today. Finally. Like I said, better late than never.

Fun stuff

Thank you to everyone who sent me birthday greetings/ecards/tweets/wall comments, etc. It was great fun at John’s yesterday, checking on his computer every few hours for the various greetings. Wanted to share a couple of the fun things I received.

It wouldn’t be a birthday without some sort of treat from my dear friend Dave Wolfe. He created a Dark Shadows card for me this time, with some clever Photoshopping and funny verbiage. So here I am in a compromising position with my heart-throb, in THE LOST EPISODE:

Here’s the copy, since it’s hard to read:

(OPENING NARRATION MUSIC)

NARRATOR:

The master of the great house of Collinwood is both disturbed and thrilled this night; for he is the solitary witness of an eerie tableau that no one else can see nor hear. Barnabas Collins, for reasons unknown and unknowable, has been watching a couple from the future, yet-unborn ghosts living one hundred years hence of the quieter world of 1870.

They are Quentin Collins and his lover Erica Scott, and, unaware that their drama has an invisible audience, Quentin sternly but lovingly punishes Erica for meddling with things a woman ought to leave alone. Erica protests that she only scraped a bit of paint away from the magical portrait of her paramour that he had hidden away in the locked upper room of the mansion, hoping to discover the truth of the Curse of the Full Moon, and was curious to see Quentin with a snout and pointed ears, because wolves are really, really cute.

ANNOUNCER:

Our story continues after these words from Palmolive Paddles, as gentle to Tops’ hands as they are tough on Bottoms.

LOL! I love you, Wolfie. Thank you.

And here’s a fun image I found yesterday on my Facebook wall (I’m reasonably discreet there, but people seem to know my proclivities anyway):

I’m not even a Star Wars fan, but this made me laugh. Particularly when a friend commented: “The Empire Strikes Backsides.” Thank you to the creator!

I wish I’d taken a picture of last night’s cake. They were out of German chocolate cake, so, since they had several shelves of wonderful-looking cakes and cupcakes and cookies and so forth, I asked the guy behind the counter to recommend a really good chocolate choice. He pointed out an enormous Bundt cake topped with thick frosting and large slabs of solid chocolate and said, “This is one of our best-sellers, our See’s Candy cake.” Oh, that’s all I needed to hear — y’all know how much I love See’s Candy. (It was either that or the Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup cake, but John doesn’t like peanut butter.) You should have seen the size of the hunk he put on the plate for us. I cut it in half and we had two normal-to-large pieces! I thought, I can’t eat all this. I just put away a plate of fettucini with grilled vegetables. But I ate every damn crumb of it. 😀

Birthday spanking tomorrow…

Finally Friday

I’m glad it’s Friday. I thought I’d feel more excited today, but at the moment, I’m simply wrung out. It’s so @#$%ing hot and muggy here, and my building’s A/C, which has held up like a trouper the past few hot weeks, seems to be having one of its fits today; the air coming out of the vents is sort of warmish, and the temperature is slowly climbing. Fortunately, I get to leave in a couple of hours. By the time I come home Sunday, it should be fixed.

It’s been a couple of horrendous weeks for John, with work. Without going into excruciating detail, he has a tough job on the best of days, and lately, he’s been in transition between two departments (which means he’s been doing the work of both). In the last two weeks, he was involved with a dreadful pipe inspection, where he had to be the bad guy, reporting poor conditions and fighting with the contractors for the proper improvements. He shouldn’t have even been there, considering this was for his former department, but one supervisor insisted he do it. He’s been stressed to the max, worked insane hours, and this week, he tweaked his back and caught a cold to boot. But he kept persevering.

This morning, his old boss told him, “You’re off the project; you never should have been on it in the first place. Your presence isn’t welcome, it’s disruptive.” Nice! After all that work. Fortunately, his new boss met with him and told him just the opposite, so that helped. Now it’s over. He’s off the project, and I couldn’t care less if that damned pipeline explodes. It’s not his concern anymore. So, my poor exhausted sick man is dragging himself home this afternoon.

I don’t think the birthday weekend is going to be very festive, what with John being half-dead at this point. But you know what? I don’t care. All I want this weekend is John, all to myself. Not having to share him with his work or with his family. Anything else is gravy. I’ve been so worried about him, and all I want to do is hold him close.

He said he has special surprises for me; I’m sure they are lovely, but like I said, at this point, I just want him. I do have a special surprise for him, however; I bought new lingerie. 🙂 When he was working last weekend, I indulged in a little retail therapy (and hey, it was all on sale).

So we’re going to one of our favorite restaurants tomorrow night, followed by the bakery/cafe I love, with that famous German chocolate cake (hope they’ll have some available!). And then Monday, Mr. D returns. I do believe, once I get out of this hotbox and leave it behind for the weekend, some excitement will kick in.

Even though I feel like every single fucking minute of my advanced age this afternoon, I’m going to fake it till I make it. Already got a nice new pedicure, and soon I will take a comfortably tepid shower and wash my heat-bedraggled hair. Time to go have some fun.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Guess what I need??

OK, kids. Enough of this off-topic sh… stuff. Vanilla is too depressing and politics/religion is too incendiary. Time to get back to basics.

Who wants to play a game? This is a really simple one: Guess What Erica Needs.

1. John is still killing himself with ridiculous hours this week and I’m driving him crazy with my worrying. Guess what I need?

2. After doing three batches of work for my new client, I invoiced them this week… for a whopping $122. Hot damn! I’m rich! Now I can pay for about four days of next month’s rent! (heavy sigh) Guess what I need?

3. We had a nice couple of days’ break from the extreme heat (it actually got down to the 90s! Break out the Snuggies!), but tomorrow, it’s back up to the 100s. Guess what I need?

4. I spent four hours yesterday dealing with public transportation to get downtown to an appointment that took 15 minutes. My bouncy, noisy, rattling bus ride home was enhanced by a man sitting a few feet away, having a very animated conversation… with himself. Guess what I need?

5. Last night, someone on FetLife referenced “Fifty Shades of Grey” while discussing things one could do to add extra zing to a spanking. Now even FetLifers are using that pile of dreck as a reference?? I wanted to reach through the computer screen and throttle people at random. Guess what I need?

6. I am so irritable, I’m actually talking back to commercials on TV. An ad for seasoning came on, claiming that “Life is a pulled pork sandwich.” WTF? OK, Madison Avenue. Life is a lot of things, but it most surely is not a fucking pulled pork sandwich. I don’t even like pork, pulled or otherwise. Does that mean I’m dead? So yes, I shouted at the television screen. Guess what I need?

Time’s up! What did you guess?

Was it this?

Good guess. I’m sure many think there are times I could use a straitjacket. But no, try again.

How about this?

OK, that’s a close second. Very little in this life that stuffing oneself with chocolate won’t ameliorate, at least for a little while. Not a win, though.

Oooh! This for sure, right?

Hmmm. It’s not the right answer, but if I had a money tree, I certainly wouldn’t cut it down.

Now for those of you who guessed I need a whole freaking lot of THIS:

You go to the head of the class!

(That’s Tubaman Paul, by the way, doing the honors.)

It’s only Wednesday? Can’t I bypass the rest of this damn tedious week and get to the good stuff??

Most definitely OT — RANT

I’m going to apologize in advance, y’all. I don’t usually blog about anything to do with politics or religion. But I just read something that blew my head apart, and I simply cannot keep quiet.

WARNING: The following contains blasphemy. If this will offend you, please, please don’t read it.

So, remember Todd Akin? The Missouri senator who, a couple of weeks ago, started a firestorm by claiming that women who are “legitimately raped” won’t get pregnant, because their bodies will “shut it down”? Of course you do. It appears that the GOP is not too pleased with him (cue the understatement font here) and many have withdrawn their support for his re-election.

Today, his wife (someone actually married that asshat??) came out swinging, saying that the GOP’s attempts to get her hubby to withdraw are akin to rape. (Say what??) Lulli Akin (what the @#$% kind of name is Lulli??) also claimed that their tyranny is reminiscent of the American Revolution. Gee, Lulli. Exaggerate much?

Later in the Talking Points Memo article that I read, Lulli is quoted as saying it doesn’t matter if the campaign donations are small, because “God will increase them.” So if Akin receives a paltry sum, all that the campaign manager (his son, BTW) has to do is say, “God, multiply it. Make it pay.”

Really?????

Is that how things work? I am flabbergasted! And here I’ve been, all these years, operating under the assumption that if I want money, I have to perform some manner of work for it. What a fool I’ve been! All I have to do is ask the Bank of God!

Hey, Big Guy! I have a few singles and a couple of 20s in my wallet. Couldja please multiply those into, say, several hundred thousand? That would be peachy! I don’t want to be too greedy and ask for millions — I just want enough to tide me over for, well, the rest of my life, with good housing, proper health care and enough money to provide my body with nutrients without having to resort to Purina Cat Chow.

(Hmm. Just remembered the skyrocketing costs of health care. Perhaps I’ll need millions after all.)

And since you’re so good at math, God, how about some subtraction as well as addition? Subtract at least half the amount of mouth-breathing, racist, homophobic dumbass morons from the planet, and add on a whole bunch more who possess healthy, functioning brain cells and reasonable minds? Think more Hawking, less Honey Boo Boo. Or more Plato and less Palin.

I know, I know. If you were to rid the world of ALL the idiots, that would take up all your time and you wouldn’t have any left over for your other requested tasks, like detouring hurricanes for the Republican National Convention. But half would be a good start.

I swear, every time I think I’ve heard the most asinine thing that could ever be uttered, someone comes along and lowers the moron bar. No, you @#$%ing twit. Money doesn’t magically multiply like a benediction. Your husband stuck his foot in his face and now he’s reaping the fallout. Deal with it.

(if you want to see the article, it’s here.)

Ugh. Ugh multiplied. Rant over.