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 “December, 2012”

‘Tis the Season to be Tacky

Not to worry, kids — my holiday grousing is almost over for another year. But I do have one last word.

You have to admit, this is the time of year for decorating excess. Of course, some people don’t wait for December to be tasteless. In John’s neighborhood, there is a house that has become a sort of landmark. Why? Because they have three giant pink flamingos in their front yard, year round. So, what’s tackier than giant pink flamingos?

That’s right. Three giant pink flamingos with Santa hats on.

However, I can forgive John’s small town its eccentricities. After all, we also get to see sights like this: (click on the photo to enlarge it)


Tomorrow night, New Year’s Eve, John and I will have a quiet night. I’m going over there sometime in the afternoon with dinner and a movie, and he has champagne. It’ll be just me, my sweetie, some bubbly and the fireplace — my kind of NYE. 🙂

I’m kind of glad to be saying goodbye to 2012, honestly. In many ways, it was a tough year, with losses large and small. The two toughest, of course, being my mother’s passing and ST exiting. There was a lot of stress, with work (or lack thereof), a seemingly neverending and ugly election, John’s health issues, tragic current events.

However, there were good times, too. We went to Boardwalk Badness for the first time, for example! And to offset the losses was a tremendous, priceless gain… Mr. D, who went from Mr. Possible to Mr. Definite, a wonderful friend and play partner. His timing couldn’t have been more perfect.

So, here’s to 2013, for all of us. I wish my friends a peaceful year, with much love, good health and fun times. And lots of spanking, of course!

Be safe tomorrow night, y’all.

I need you

Three little words. So simple, the same amount of syllables as “I love you.” But for me, so much harder to say.

I don’t like my neediness. I shun it and reject it, tell myself it’s inappropriate. Part of that may be my own wariness about other people’s neediness. It’s been my experience that, while some may just need a bit of support now and then, others (if you let them) will feed on your life force. The Takers. I have no tolerance for them, and if I feel like I’m going to be one, I withdraw.

All kidding aside, most of you know the holidays bring me down for various reasons. This year, I did exactly what I wanted to do — nothing. There were no obligatory family gatherings with John. He was going on Monday to his mom’s nursing home for Xmas dinner, but he knows I will not go there again and he doesn’t ask me to. And as it happened, my client had just sent me a nearly 400-page manual to proofread. So I figured Monday and Tuesday, I’d stay home and work. Easy, right?

Not sure what happened. Everyone was fine; even my upstairs neighbors were cooperating and were quiet. I knocked down about 200 of those pages, plus going to the gym Monday, so I felt virtuous. John and I talked on the phone both Monday and Tuesday. But I felt lonely. I was sad that I can’t seem to enjoy what other people are enjoying at this time of year. And as much as I felt like being with another human being, the thought of getting dressed and made up and going out was unacceptable.

It didn’t help that I was watching an old sitcom episode (circa 1975) on AntennaTV, and saw my mother in the party scene. She used to be an extra, throughout the 1970s and part of the 80s, and did a lot of shows. She looked so young and pretty and alive, in a beautiful blue evening gown I don’t remember seeing before. It made my heart hurt.

I knew Mr. D was incredibly busy with his kids visiting, with family and friends and shopping and preparing his house for company and all that, so I left him alone. Figured he’d touch base with me sooner or later. But by last evening (Tuesday, Christmas night), I hadn’t heard anything from him. I’d sent him a light and friendly text, but he hadn’t answered it. I’d sent an e-card, but it had gone unopened. And when I called him, he didn’t pick up.

Yes, I’m freaking insane. My mind goes to dark places. But by 10:30 last night, I was convinced something awful had happened to him. After all, he always returns texts. He always returns calls. And it wasn’t like him to go so many days without checking in with me, even if it was just for a minute. If something had happened — if he was in the hospital (or worse) — how would I know? It’s not like I’m a family member. Still, when I’d called, I’d left a message, but I purposely didn’t make it sound needy. Just said that I hoped he was having a good holiday, and were we still on for Wednesday?

This morning, no text and no phone call. So I called again, and this time he picked up. Whew. He’s not dead. He sounded hoarse and exhausted, apologized for not getting back to me, but he’d had a houseful of people and hadn’t gone to bed until 2:30 a.m. Then he said, “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to postpone today; I’m just wiped out.”

I wanted to get off the phone immediately. I didn’t want him to hear the neediness in my voice, the tears that were already starting. But he did hear it. “Are you OK? Talk to me.”

“I can’t,” I said. “You have to. Please,” he said. He kept insisting until I hesitantly told him that I’d thought something had happened to him and my head went south.

“Tell you what,” he said. “I have a bunch of kids in the house right now, but let me make sure they’re squared away, and I’ll get away for a couple of hours and come see you.”

“No!” I cried. I didn’t want to disrupt his day. “You’re exhausted! You’ve got so much going on! Please don’t, it’s OK, I don’t want you to. You need to get some rest.”

Very gently, but also very firmly, he replied, “I can take care of myself. What I do for my own welfare is up to me, not you. Thank you for caring, though. I want to come over. You need me to; I can hear it in your voice.”

Goddammit. I didn’t want him to hear that fucking need. “But you just said you were wiped out,” I said in a small voice.

“It’s been crazy here,” he admitted. “But good crazy. Fun. A little overwhelming, but I love it. I’ve had a hectic and wonderful few days. But I want to see you, too. That’s not a chore. That’s something I need, too.”

What could I say. I really, really needed to see him. So we agreed on 1:00. He said he could only stay a couple of hours; I told him that was fine.

We talked for a long time after he arrived. He felt bad that he hadn’t been in touch with me, and I felt silly and childish. I kept apologizing for my neediness, and he kept telling me to please stop that. “I’m not supposed to be needy!” I said. “I’m supposed to be fun!”

“You are fun,” he said. “But listen to me. I like all of you. If I’m going to be your top, I want it all — laughing, crying, happy, grumpy, bitchy, sassy. Do you get that? Are you starting to get that?”

I nodded.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes.”

“You need a really good spanking, don’t you.”

I sighed. “I don’t know what I need.”

“It’s all right if you don’t. I do.”

He took me by the hand and led me into my room, setting up the pillows on the bed. I assumed the position, and he pulled my leggings down. “I’m a little upset with you,” he said. His voice was calm. “I wish you had told me outright that you needed to talk to me, to see me. I wish you had trusted me enough to know I’d care enough to make a window for you.” Then he began to spank me.

“Do you know I care about you?” he asked. “Yes,” I answered. “How do you know?” “Because you’re here,” I bawled. I’d started crying again from the very first strike.

“Then say it,” he said, continuing. “I want to hear ‘I know you care about me’ after every swat.”

Somehow, I managed to blubber that out each time. “Yes, I do care,” he said. “And you won’t ever forget that, will you? You’ll never doubt it again?”

“No,” I sobbed. “I won’t.” He then went to my implement drawer. I didn’t have to look; I knew what he was getting.

That wooden heart paddle bit and stung fiercely, but I welcomed it. I squirmed and my feet twisted together, but I held my position. Soon, I was crying so hard I couldn’t say the phrase anymore. He stopped.

It didn’t have to go on for a long time. He’d made his point.

Sorry, y’all — no pictures this time. Too personal.

“Shhhhhh,” he whispered. “It’s OK. You’re OK. Come here.” And he gathered me close. I wept and wept, but these were different tears. The bitterness was gone, and they were as sweet and clean and pure as rain.

At 3:30, he had to go. He asked several times if I was OK now. I was more than OK, and could send him off with a smile.

After he got home, he called, just to make sure once again that I was all right, that all was good. “I’m great,” I said. “Thank you. So much.”

He made me promise that next time I get in that sort of head space, I will let him know. Not with a light-hearted message, but a direct and honest expression of my need. This is what he wants.

I hesitated, and he added, “I know it’s hard for you. I know I’m re-wiring you. But promise me.” I did.

I will.

Happy Festivus

Some of you may recall the Seinfeld episode where a new holiday was declared, for those of us who aren’t religious and/or don’t observe the usual holidays: Festivus, for the rest of us!

John and I don’t do Christmas. We don’t do gifts either, although we get each other one small token present apiece. On Saturday, John said he had a surprise for me in the living room and led me out there with his hands over my eyes. “Ready?” he asked, taking his hands away. And what did I see, but this:

That’s right — it’s a Festivus pole!
Now to be truly authentic, a Festivus pole has to be a plain steel pole, no decorations whatsoever. But I couldn’t resist, when I saw some odds and ends of Xmas paraphernalia in John’s box of wrapping stuff.
Behold, the Festiduck:


Isn’t he cute?

Some of my long-time readers may be wondering, what happened to the annual drunken bacchanalia Xmas party that John’s eldest sister and her husband (AKA the alkie and the lech) throw every year? Well, kiddies, that party is no longer. It seems that John’s brother-in-law wasn’t just leching after his wife’s brother’s girlfriend. shudder

John said to me a while back, “I think [the lech] is having an affair.” To which I sneered, “Oh, please. Look at him. There isn’t another woman on the planet who would go anywhere near him.” Apparently, I was wrong. It is now common knowledge within the family — that marriage is a sham. And the festive gatherings are history.

At least now I don’t have to pretend to like the guy. He once said to John, in the middle of a family fracas, “Well, John, you’re no walk in the park yourself.” I wish I’d been there; I would have said, “At least when John walks in the park, he doesn’t scare small children.”

Anyway, for my newer readers who never got to see one of my reports of these parties (or for those who miss them), please enjoy this repost from 2010: Happy (Hic) Holidays.

I went to the gym this morning (it was packed!), dropped off three bags of old clothes and books to Good Will, and now I’m home to stay, tonight and all of tomorrow. I have a huge work project to keep me busy, and Wednesday with Mr. D to look forward to. Now, if my asshat upstairs neighbors would just be quiet, it will be a peaceful couple of days. So far, so good.

Whatever you’re doing, whatever you celebrate, my very best wishes to all of you.

The Twelve Days of Bitching

Oh, come on. Did you really think you’d escape at least one bitchy holiday post from me? After all this Santa/baking business, I feel like I have to reassert my true nature. So, I’m cramming 12 days’ worth of miscellaneous grumbling into one post. Bah, humbug.

1. Last night, my gym-class instructor did her “12 Days of Xmas” workout. On the first day, one minute of planking. On the second day, two sets of 8 bicep curls (heavy weights) and one minute of planking. On the third day, three sets of 4 situps, two sets of 8 bicep curls, and one minute of planking. On the fourth day, four sets of 2 pushups, three sets of… you get the idea. Today, I feel like I’ve been run over by a bus.

2. My upstairs neighbors are inconsiderate idiots. They blast their music too loud and have their speakers on the floor, so all I hear is BOOM BOOM BOOM. Also, they installed a bidet (!) in their bathroom, which flooded and leaked down into my bathroom wall, which then had to be repainted. The manager is not pleased with them.

3. And speaking of neighbors, my nice quiet next-door neighbors moved out. Lord only knows who’s going to end up there. (I have had quite the succession of neighbors-from-hell next door over the years, so I’m understandably apprehensive.)

4. I am so @#$%ing sick of holiday music, I could croak.

5. I am equally sick of holiday commercials. I especially can’t stand that Audi commercial where the son comes home for the holidays and his parents steal his car and take off. Nice holiday sentiment, there.

6. My health insurance just went up to the obscene amount of $1077 per month. Not a blessed thing I can do; without it, a single illness or accident could wipe me out. However, the premiums may do that anyway.

7. As much as I relate to grumpiness, I’m really tired of this stupid cat meme. Everywhere. Everywhere.

However, I will admit to laughing at this:

8. I still cannot access Chross’s blog. A techie pal instructed me on how to pull up the site with a proxy server thingamajig, but really, perving shouldn’t be so challenging. EDIT: As of last night, I can now access Chross’s sites. I have no idea what happened, but YAYYYYYYYYY!

9. I’m really pissed off that yet another year has gone by and teleportation hasn’t been invented yet. I keep reading about my spanko friends and their various get-togethers and I want to be there. But without all that airport hassle and travel time and jet lag and packing and blah blah blah. Just snap! and be there. I could drop in on so many people and then just as easily go home when I get tired. Come on, tech geeks. Get cracking on that, will you?

10. Judd Apatow and Quentin Tarantino just came out with new movies. I can’t stand Judd Apatow and Quentin Tarantino.

11. Honey Boo Boo. Nothing else, just that. Speaks for itself.

12. I don’t get to have the @#$%ing grumpiness spanked out of me until next Wednesday!!! (epic sulk)

Oh, well. I do have the weekend with my sweetie, who is in good spirits after several holiday parties/gift exchanges at his work. He always makes me laugh. And it’s lovely and cold out, very seasonal. None of this tank-tops-in-December California nonsense.

Happy holiday weekend, y’all. Hope everyone gets to enjoy the extended weekend with loved ones. 🙂

Sh*t that John talks me into

So last Saturday, John and I were at his sister’s restaurant, and as we were leaving, she said, “Hey, you know, Santa’s at Beantown this afternoon.”

Beantown is the local coffeehouse. Very charming place, lots of atmosphere. The coffee is mediocre, but it’s a fun place to hang out. Anyway, my reaction was “So?” (I didn’t say it, just thought it.) However, John had other ideas.

“Oh, we have to go to Beantown and get a picture of you on Santa’s lap,” he said. Right, honey. Not in this lifetime.

“No, really,” he insisted. “Let’s go! You want to see Santa, don’t you?” No, not particularly. But he wouldn’t stop teasing me about it, until I finally agreed to go to Beantown.

As we pulled into the little town square, I could see a lot of people with small children on the street, and all the parking spaces were full. “Oh well, there’s no parking,” I said, ready to turn around and go home. But just then, a car pulled out of a space right in front of Beantown. “Um, how about right there, sweetie?” John said. No excuses for me.

So we parked and went in. Beantown was looking very festive, with a tree and lots of different hanging decorations. And sure enough, there was Santa, along with two very cute (and scantily clad) female elves. At the moment, there was no one posing with him, so one of the elves approached me, beaming. “Want a picture?” she said.

I started to demur, but John wouldn’t hear of it. (groan) Fine, all right. Feeling somewhat asinine, I approached Santa, who twinkled at me and patted his lap. “Have you been a good girl this year?” he asked.

Oh, brother.

John said I blew a great opportunity; that I should have smiled and said, “Actually, I’ve been a very bad girl.” And Mr. D said I should have laid over his lap rather than sitting on it. To both suggestions, my reaction was, “Ew.” Sorry, y’all. I don’t have any Santa fantasies and I don’t want to flirt with him. Plus, if I’d been dressed up reasonably nicely, I might have felt sexy enough to pull it off, but I was in sweats with no makeup. So I simply answered, “Of course!”

Yes, I’m going to hell for lying to Santa. Just add that to the 5,782 other reasons I’m going to hell. 🙂

Enough stalling. Here I am with Fatso dear jolly Santa in all my glory:

All right, kiddies. Go ahead. Knock yourselves out. First baking, and now this?

Baking and beating — what a lovely holiday

Yeah, I know that’s a bizarre blog title. Not to worry, I intend to clarify it in my usual blathering fashion.

A while back, I was talking to Mr. D about the holidays and how, when I was younger, I had a lot more spirit about them. I used to bake banana and cranberry breads and rolled-out sugar cookies for gifts, send cards, etc. Not sure where that desire went, but it’s gone, gone, gone. Mr. D said it was OK, that a lot of people feel the way I do. Then he added, “But if you should get the desire to make banana bread again, I’ll take it!”

I haven’t baked anything (aside from brownies for John) in years. I searched recipes online and found what sounded like a wonderful (and relatively simple) scratch recipe for banana bread. I checked my cupboards; yup, the old loaf pan was still in there. Of course, I had to throw out the desiccated lumps of old spices and buy new cinnamon and nutmeg, but I had flour and sugar and so forth.

Sunday night found me in the kitchen surrounded by various spilled powdery substances, mashing bananas with a potato masher and wrangling sticky batter. The bread had to bake for an hour, but I freaked out when I checked it at 45 minutes and, although the top was deep brown (bordering on burned), the center was still batter. I even tweeted about it. (What had I come to??) I ended up lowering the temp slightly and tenting some foil over the bread so it could finish baking. When it was cool, I wrapped it in foil, then tied it up with ribbon and two bows and put it in a gift bag. I felt damn proud of myself, I must say, although I was concerned that it was overbaked, or over-something.

Yesterday, Mr. D showed up, also bearing a gift bag! He knows I adore Target, so he bought me a couple of very cute tank tops plus a gift card. He was thrilled with his banana bread.

But I had another gift waiting for him.

Cut back to August, when we first played. I told him the drawer in my bedroom vanity table had implements in it, so he went rummaging in there. “Ooooh!” he said, pulling out the heart-shaped paddle ST had made for me, two Valentine’s Days ago. “No,” I said, shaking my head. That was special, between ST and me, and no one else could use that. He understood, put it back, and never picked it up again.

Yesterday before he arrived, I pulled that paddle from the back of the drawer and put it front and center, on top of the other paddles and the hairbrush. After our nice long hand warmup, I took my place over the pillows on the bed and he went to the drawer. I heard him shuffle around, then looked over as he approached the bed. He had other paddles in his hands, but not the heart-shaped one.

“You know you’re not supposed to look,” he chided. I blurted, “But you got the wrong one!” He looked confused, so I added, “I put it on top for you.”

He walked back to the drawer, looked again, and then did a double take. When he looked questioningly over at me, I just smiled. “Really?” he said. “Yes, really.”

I do believe he was speechless for a moment. “But… this means so much to you.”

“Yes, it does. ST made it for me. But he’s gone. And you’re here. It’s yours now.”

I wanted him to know that he’s not competing with a memory. I could say it again and again, but I think I showed him the best way I knew how.

(damned underwear tags!!)

I had forgotten how much that @#$%ing thing hurt! I was squiriming and cussing, and when I let out a particularly pained and stifled groan, Mr. D murmured, “It’s OK… you’re OK. I’m right here.”

“Yeah, that’s the problem!” I screeched. He laughed, and gave my right cheek a hard smack. “I’m right here, too.” Then the left one. “And here!”

Wise-ass.

After I came back down to earth, we went into the living room to dig into the banana bread and to look at some video clips he took last week. Of course, as soon as I tried to load one, my computer completely locked up and I had to shut it down. So while we waited for it to boot up again, Mr. D glanced over at the ottoman and suggested we make use of it.

This time, it was his hand and my hairbrush. And I was already so tenderized from Round One, everything stung and bit, but I bore down and absorbed it, zoning out once again.

When he thought I’d had enough, he went to get my lotion and then gave me a wonderful treat. Started with my left side, he thoroughly massaged my foot, moving up to my calf, then my thigh, and finally, a deep, strong massage on my left butt cheek. And then, all over again on the right. I was incoherent. “You stay there and rest,” he said, draping an afghan over me. Yeah, like I was going to move anywhere, at that point.

(You can see the banana bread on the table in the background. So how did it come out? I thought it was a little rubbery rather than cake-y, but it wasn’t dry and the flavor was great. He loved it, so that’s what’s most important!)

Finally, the computer cooperated and we watched his clips, plus a few of mine. We’d been talking about canes and the various types and techniques, and I showed him what I thought was an example of absolutely perfect cane stripes (yes, Beth, that would be you).

And then it was time for him to leave. He had a lot of work to do this week and needed some sleep. We agreed that next, because of Monday-Tuesday being the official holiday, we’d meet on Wednesday.

No matter that I have no plans for Monday or Tuesday. I couldn’t care less. I already had my holiday. 🙂

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