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 “May, 2013”

OT: Yes, I know I’m weird

I’ve made no secret of the fact that I’m, to use a popular euphemism, quirky. I am a person of odd rituals and comforting routines, bordering on OCD. A lot of these habits revolve around food, because I have a history of eating disorders. It’s not always easy, but I’ve learned to live with it, and a lot of the time, I forget just how odd I might seem to others. Until someone points it out.

On Wednesdays, I take a class at a branch of my gym that is right near a mall. So every couple of Wednesdays or so, I stop by this mall, which has a Sweet Factory, and get a supply of chocolate malt balls. Now, when most people go into a self-serve candy shop, they go to their chosen bin, stick the scoop into the gumballs or chocolate-covered gummy bears or what have you, and fill their bag. Not me. I take one bag, open the bin of dark chocolate malt balls, and carefully count out 20 of them. I shuffle through and make sure I choose the biggest ones. Then I take another bag, open the bin of milk chocolate malt balls, and do the exact same thing. Twenty each.

I’ve been doing this for a long time, and didn’t think much of it. Until last Wednesday, when the perky young thing behind the counter recognized me. “You’re always here on Wednesdays, aren’t you!” she chirped. OK, she remembered me; no biggie there. But after I got my candy and came to the counter, she cocked her head and asked, “Do you always count them?”

I was so taken aback, all I could do was stammer, “Um, yeah.” She added, “I see you doing that and I was just wondering!” I mumbled something about portion control and she burbled, “Well, that’s great, you’re keeping your weight down!” No, Miss Bubbles, it’s not about that. It’s about control, period. It’s about knowing exactly how much I’m eating, because I have to keep track of it. When I left, I felt like I never wanted to go back, I was so embarrassed at being caught at my ritualizing by a stranger.

It’s not just about the food, though. I’ve always been this way, as far back as I can remember. My mother said when I was very small, I’d get upset and cry if she changed the furniture or the knick-knacks around. “It doesn’t go there,” I’d sob. Where does that come from? Also when I was little, the housekeeper/nanny used to bring me a cup of warm milk every night just before I went to sleep. Except when she had the night off; then my mother would bring it. And inevitably, she’d put the milk in a glass. Warm milk is warm milk, right? Tastes the same, despite its vessel? Not for me. I was thrown by this. After all, everyone knows that only cold beverages go in drinking glasses, and hot ones go in cups. Why couldn’t she see that?

I love The Big Bang Theory. Talk about quirkiness! And yes, I relate to Sheldon. Certain foods that go with the days of the week? Check. Scheduling everything? Check. Hating change? Check. Fortunately, I don’t share his disdain for all things affectionate and intimate. And I don’t schedule my bowel movements like he does. Although I probably would, if I were physically capable of doing so.

I have annoyed and baffled people most of my life. Referring to any one of my “quirks,” my mother would say, “Don’t do that. People will think you’re weird.” Guess what, Ma? I am.

Friends/family/co-workers didn’t get me at all. I gave up on being understood long ago, because I didn’t even understand myself. One man, many years ago, said something so unkind, I never forgot it. “People say you’re difficult, but they’re wrong. You’re not difficult; you’re impossible.”

Then I met John.

John, too, is quirky in his own way. But one oddball doesn’t always necessarily accept another. Accept. That was a word I didn’t become familiar with until the past 20 years or so. I wanted so badly to be understood. Screw understanding. You don’t have to understand me; just accept me. John was the first man in my life to give me this.

Not quite at first. I remember the first time, very early in the relationship, that we went for Chinese food. This restaurant provided calorie info, and I ordered deliberately, choosing a half-order of a main dish and a half-order of broccoli and mushrooms, knowing the total calorie count of both. When the food arrived, John did what people do at Chinese restaurants: he picked up my dish of vegetables and started spooning them onto his plate. Then he looked at me and his hand froze.

He said I had a stricken look on my face; I’d literally gone white. “Is this not OK?” he asked.

I was mortified. “Well,” I stammered, feeling like an idiot, “it’s just that I know exactly how many calories I’m eating, and if you take some of it, then I won’t know…” My voice trailed off as I realized how insane I sounded.

The look on his face was puzzled, to say the least. But all he did was scrape the vegetables off his plate and back onto the serving dish, and hand it over to me. That was the beginning of acceptance.

We get each other. We share some of the same quirks; in others, we differ. He doesn’t have all my food weirdness. But he, too, is highly ritualized, has his own routines and must-dos. And while he can tease me affectionately about my oddities, he will not allow others to do so. If someone in his family, for example, makes a comment about my food issues, he will firmly say, “You don’t get to give her a hard time about that. That’s just the way she is.”

Same thing goes for him. He’ll be doing something or another in his routine fashion and ask, “Am I OCD, sweetie?” I’ll answer, “Yes, honey. You are. But it’s OK, so am I.” There is affection and acceptance in our teasing, not ridicule.

We go for the same brunch every Sunday. We always request the same server, and she never brings us menus. In fact, she puts in our order as soon as she sees us come in. Because it never changes. And we both have our oddities around it. I cannot stand to have my pancakes on the same plate as my eggs and other stuff, because I don’t like the syrup getting into the other food. Our server knows this. But a couple of weeks ago, another server brought the food, and there were my pancakes, crammed onto the same plate. I managed to take a breath and then quietly say, “May I have another plate, please?” When she walked away, John said my face was, once again, horror-struck. But he wasn’t judging. He has his own shtick. Sometimes, the server will bring his omelet and say, “English muffin’s coming, John.” He_will_not start eating his other food until the muffin arrives. He just won’t. And I get it.

Sometimes I wonder — how many people are like me? Somewhat, at least. Are there others out there with routines and rituals, with the need for sameness? Is spontaneity, which is anathema to me, something that everyone else is capable of embracing?

I never thought I’d meet someone who would so thoroughly get me, like John does. And sometimes, I think he’s the only one who does, because he’s just as much an oddball as I am. But that’s ridiculous. Still, after nearly 17 years, he’s seen a whole hell of a lot of oddball behavior from me, more than any other person has. And he’s still here.

He is not well. I know this. He hasn’t been well for some time now; ever since that incident a couple of years ago, his malfunctioning heart valve has weakened further. The time is approaching when he’s going to have to seriously consider surgery. Ironically, he’s in the best physical condition he’s been in since I’ve known him. He works out every day and is fit and strong; his blood pressure, pulse and cholesterol are low. But he is tired all the time. His heart has to work so much harder to compensate for the defective valve, and it’s exhausting.

Next month, he’s going for an angiogram. It’s a lengthy test and he won’t be able to drive himself home, so he’s going to take a cab to the hospital early in the morning and I will pick him up sometime that afternoon. Last night, we were discussing it on the phone, and he started talking about advance directives  and power of attorney, and what I should do in case there’s some sort of emergency, and asked me if I’d research about documents regarding this stuff. And I burst into tears. I don’t want to have to think about this. I don’t. I don’t. But sooner or later, I will have to. More changes and disruptions, and more things to fear. 

John, bless his heart, even apologized to me, saying he knows that having to pick him up at the hospital next month will “disrupt my routine.” Who else would do that, but someone who completely accepts me and knows I can’t help the way I am? Does anyone else like this exist, really?

I’m not sure where I’m going with this, kids. Maybe I’m just trying to figure out if I’m as alone in my oddness as I think, or if others get it too. Because sometimes, I am so very afraid. Especially when I consider that I will, more than likely, outlive the person who knows me better than I know myself.

Thanks for reading, if you managed to get this far. On a positive note, I got Chrossed today. It’s the weekend and I’m heading for John’s later. And Monday, I get to see Mr. D, who feeds my soul in special and needed ways, too.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Mini-vid from Monday

OK, so Monday wasn’t our lucky day with clip capturing. I’m not all that crazy about this one, to be honest; the lighting is too bright and harsh on my face, and we’re not centered well in the frame. One good thing, though — the damn thing cut out before capturing for posterity the point where I admit everything is my fault! LOL Divine intervention, if you ask me. 🙂 And of course, everyone knows that such confessions obtained under such extreme coercion are null and void.

I’m kinda bummed that none of the other clips came out. Mr. D had one of his finest moments in one of them. I was kneeling at his feet, about to go back OTK for another round, and he said, “Are you ready for dessert?” I perked up and said, “Oooh… ice cream?” And he quickly quipped, “Oh, you will.”

(groan)

Misgivings aside, however, this is still pretty funny, I think. Hope you guys get a kick out of it!

TopReasoning1 from Erica Scott on Vimeo.

The Top is always right

Or so Mr. D would have me believe. Today, he did his toppy best to convince me that whenever any issue, large or small, is in question, the top is right and the bottom is wrong.

Actually, this is all John’s fault. He told me that I needed to present the argument to Mr. D: Is it the right thing to blame me for everything and pretty much make everything I do a spankable offense, or not? John then added, “Oh, and you might want to tell him that if he says it’s not the right thing, he’s never playing with you again!”

Thanks a lot, honey. :-Þ

Naturally, upon hearing this proviso, Mr. D was quick to say, “Of course, John’s right.” He then said we should make our session today all about encouraging me to see things his and John’s way. (massive eye-roll)

Despite this treachery, I really was overjoyed to see him. Two weeks had felt like two months, honestly. We didn’t even play for the first two hours; we just caught up, talked and talked and talked. But then it was time to catch up in another way.

Today was camera malfunction day. He’d brought his usual camera — however, he’d been loading some photos at home and had left the card sitting in his computer. (sigh) He did have a smaller camera with him as well, and he tried loading the card from that one into the larger one. However, the damned camera kept shutting down every time we tried to film a clip! We tried about six times and it kept stopping. Fortunately, we did manage to get one good, lengthy clip, and I will put that up tomorrow or Wednesday.

In a nutshell: After a long warm-up with his hand, Mr. D gathered a host of implements, took me OTK on the side of my bed, and proceeded to persuade me to his way of thinking. Top reasoning, he called it. I didn’t find it reasonable in the least, and told him so. Repeatedly. Emphatically. His response to my defiance would be a smack. To my thighs.

Not super-hard. He didn’t need to do it hard there. If my bottom is made of titanium, then my thighs are made of tin foil. It takes very little attention there to send me shooting through the ceiling. Still, I argued. And I even tried to use his own logic. “If I’m always wrong about everything,” I mused, “then I guess I was wrong when I chose you for a play partner, huh?”

He didn’t approve of that. What a surprise.

After a while, we gave up on the camera and both just hunkered down into the scene. By then, I was nearly toast and I wasn’t contradicting him any longer. I gave in; I submitted. But he knew I wasn’t done. “Not yet,” he said. “Almost. I know you need a little more.”

I don’t know how he tells when I’m done. Is it my body language, my sounds, my color? But he knows. 

There weren’t really that many swats to the thighs. But like I said, it didn’t take much. I mark there like I used to mark on my behind, all those years ago.




I wouldn’t want just anyone marking me like this. I don’t trust others to strike below the spank zone. But I trust him. You’ll see in the video — the thigh strikes were relatively light. 

I did not cry during the spanking, not even toward the end. But when he transitioned from tough to tender, when he held me close and crooned, “My Erica… my bottom… my baby,” I lost it. He’s so good to me. He says I please him… I really don’t know how I do. But I’m glad. I want to.

It was so hard to get up and suit up for the gym. Since it was over 100 degrees outside, there’s no way I was going to wear long pants, so shorts it was. And when I put them on, I realized they didn’t even come close to covering up the marks.

Oh well. Yes, I’m just twisted enough to get a kick out of the thought of people peeking at my thighs and wondering just what the hell happened. 🙂

Here I am in the shorts I wore to the gym. Think anyone noticed?




And tomorrow, I get to do it again. Yes, I got to the gym so freaking late, it was impossible to do my full workout; it was just too crowded and all the machines and weights were being used. So I did half of it, and I’ll do the other half tomorrow morning.

Thank you, dearest top. I was just kidding with that business about being wrong when I chose you. My choice won me the spanko lottery. ♥

Damned heat

Record-breaking. Currently, at 11:20 PM, it’s 83 degrees outside. Earlier today, it was 103. Tomorrow, 105 degrees possible. Somebody please tell May that it’s freaking May, and not August, for God’s sake.

I am an idiot. When I left on Friday, it was comfortable and cool in here. I knew it was going to heat up while I was gone. I knew this. So why didn’t I turn my AC on low and just leave it? Nah, I forgot. So when I got home late this afternoon, my apartment was 78 degrees.

I’m well aware that the “save energy” commercials advise us to set our AC thermostats to 78 degrees anyway, during the hot weather times. To this advice, I say go @#$% yourself. John is the most environmental person I know, and even he cranks the AC down to 70. His place was deliciously cool all weekend; I hated to leave.

Of course I turned my AC on right away, but the damage was done; the heat was baked in. It’s been running for six hours now, and it’s only cooled the place down to 75. 

I’m going to leave it running all night. It is quite crucial for it to cool off in here. Because tomorrow morning, Mr. D will arrive at 10 (well, 10 on Mr. D time, which means anywhere from 10 to 10:30). And then things will really heat up. 😀

I can’t wait. Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

Mother’s Day thoughts

Another Mother’s Day is upon us, this weekend.




Hard to believe these feet ever fit into those little shoes, huh? Yes, those were mine. My mother had them bronzed. Do people still do that — bronze their kids’ shoes? I don’t hear about it anymore.

I suppose that, technically, this is my first Mother’s Day without my mom. Can’t believe it’s been almost a year since she passed away last June. But you all know that I lost her a long time before that.

They say the worst thing that can happen to a parent is outliving their child. I don’t think my mother ever fully got over the death of my brother. Sometimes I wonder; would she have been as critical of me, so desperate for me to live up to her hopes and expectations, if Ken had lived? Or would she have simply imposed the same expectations on both of us? I’ll never know. My mother had a hunger that perhaps no one could fully satisfy.

After Ken died, on Mother’s Day, Mom started giving me presents. When I asked her why, she answered, “Because if it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be a mother.” That made me so uncomfortable. I was glad when she stopped doing that.

I had mentioned on here a couple of years ago that, in a moment of truth, my stepfather said to me, “I really can’t blame you for not wanting to be involved with your mom’s issues now. She wasn’t much of a mother to you to begin with.” But after she passed, the typical canonizing of the deceased commenced, and he back-pedaled. Recently he said, “You took her far too seriously. She didn’t mean any of the things she said.” (sigh) 

When my dad died, I had closure. I had a sense of resolution, and I was at peace with him and he with me. But with my mother, I guess I will always feel a sense of conflict and confusion, never knowing where I stood. I know she loved me. But I know she wanted a lot more from me, in so many ways.

Anyway… I sent an e-card to my stepmother (the nice one). It will be delivered to her on Sunday. Simple and sweet; a mother duck in a pond with her babies. I signed it with “Much love from your step-duckling.” 🙂

I wonder if she has any idea of how much I wish she were my mother. If she can sense the rush of pride and joy I feel when I wear the necklace she gave me. Beautiful S. She just turned 82; I hope she sticks around for a while.

All the knots and tension and irritability of this week are dissolving into tears. I guess that’s a good thing. Just in time to go to John. And on Monday, I get to see Mr. D. He is feeling better and is ready to make up for a lost week. I’m certainly ready too.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

A little ditty for your hump day

Yesterday, when I was in such a crap mood, I pulled up this little guy for my FetLife main photo:


I confess, I didn’t like Grumpy Cat at first, but now he’s completely grown on me. After all, disliking him would be akin to disliking myself, no?
But then, when that infernal song wormed its way into my head, I found myself pondering alternate lyrics. So, for your midweek entertainment, sing along with me! Y’all know the melody.
If you’re naughty and you know it
Drop your pants (smack smack)
If you’re naughty and you know it
Drop your pants (smack smack)
If you’re naughty and you know it
And you’re not afraid to show it
If you’re naughty and you know it
Drop your pants (smack smack)!
If you’re sassy and you love it
Kick your feet (stamp stamp)
If you’re sassy and you love it
Kick your feet (stamp stamp)
If you’re sassy and you love it
Go and tell your top to shove it
If you’re sassy and you love it
Kick your feet (stamp stamp)!
If it’s spanking that you’re craving
Pound your fists (bam bam)
If it’s spanking that you’re craving
Pound your fists (bam bam)
If it’s spanking that you’re craving
Start that middle finger waving
If it’s spanking that you’re craving
Pound your fists (bam bam)!
If your bottom needs a whacking
Roll your eyes (blink blink)
If your bottom needs a whacking
Roll your eyes (blink blink)
If your bottom needs a whacking
Tell your top to get a-cracking
If your bottom needs a whacking
Roll your eyes (blink blink)!
If you gotta feel the stinging
Throw your toys (toss toss)
If you gotta feel the stinging
Throw your toys (toss toss)
If you gotta feel the stinging
Then the implements be flinging
If you gotta feel the stinging
Throw your toys (toss toss)!
If your top is getting lazy
Show your tongue (nyah nyah)
If your top is getting lazy
Show your tongue (nyah nyah)
If your top is getting lazy
And withdrawal’s made you crazy
If your top is getting lazy
Show your tongue (nyah nyah)!
Feel free to add on, if you’re so inclined! 😀

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