Happy Thanksgiving

Here I am on Thanksgiving Day, having a quiet moment of reflection. Actually, it’s going to be an entire day of quiet, because I am spending Thanksgiving by myself.

By choice. No one feel bad for me. No one. This is what I want.

Y’all know I used to love Thanksgiving, back when my mother used to prepare the feast and we had a fun and festive time. But those days are over, and now (to me), Thanksgiving is simply a large meal, and I don’t really care about it.

John is very understanding and I appreciate it. I know he secretly wishes I would join him — he went to his mother’s assisted-living facility today, with one of his sisters and his niece, to have TG there. I’d do it if I could, but I simply cannot. I’m done with that place, and all others like it. The idea of eating a mass-produced, institutional meal in a roomful of seniors nodding into their creamed corn makes my recent experience with root canal sound like a picnic in the park. Plus, they had it at 11:30 AM. Who the hell wants to eat Thanksgiving dinner in the morning?? I will head for John’s tomorrow morning and we’ll spend the rest of the weekend together.

So today is just for me, where I can gather my thoughts and list my “gratefuls.”

I am thankful for my beloved John…

My wonderful top Steve…

And a fabulous bunch of friends (a smattering of them below)…

I’m thankful for the wild, wonderful, maddening, drama-laden, mercurial and marvelous spanking scene. As crazy as it can be at times, it has enriched my life and brought me so much joy and fulfillment, and I’ve met so many people I never would have known and loved.

What else… Oh, I’m also thankful for pumpkin pie. Yes, I bought myself a slice to savor later. Because, while I can live without the dinner, pumpkin pie on TG is a must.

And speaking of eating, I’m thankful that I can finally chew on the left side of my mouth. I’d forgotten what that felt like without a spike of pain.

Also, I’m thankful that AT&T, after much squawking from me, finally fixed my landline phone yesterday afternoon. Just in time, too — I got a notification from my cell provider today, saying that I’m about to exceed my Anytime minutes. I think I spent most of them on AT&T!

To my readers/friends/loved ones — whatever you’re doing today, celebrating or not, with family or with friends, or even on your own like me — much love and appreciation to you. ♥

Well protected

Last week, we added a “D/s relationship” on FetLife. I’m already listed as Steve’s “play partner” and “bottom.” Now, I’m also “under his protection.”

I don’t know why I like that so much. I see that status all the time on FetLife, and never thought too much about it, but it did seem like a nice extra touch. So I was very happy when Steve liked the idea.

One of my friends saw the new status and kiddingly wrote to me, “I’ve seen your posts and your comments — from what exactly do you need protection?” Yeah, I know. I’m pretty scrappy on FetLife; if people push me, I push back. Since when am I some helpless flower? So I laughed and replied, “Hey, even snarky bitches need a guardian angel every now and then.”

Today, Steve said he loved being my protector. “I’ll always have your back… and your backside.” Clever, isn’t he. I giggled so much at that, he asked, “Is that going into the blog??” Yup, here it is!

He asked me what kind of scene I wanted this afternoon, but I had no answer. I just wanted to play and feel and enjoy. So we simply jumped into it, no agenda. I had an oldies station playing in the background, providing a lively soundtrack for his energetic pummeling. 

Of course, he did give me a nice hand warm-up first. But then it was ottoman time, and we got into a big pile of weapons of ass destruction implements.

There were three more besides the three showing above, including that @#$%ing Lickin’ Stick.

At one point, Elvis Presley’s “Don’t Be Cruel” came on. How apropos! I pleaded with Steve to heed the King’s words, but he didn’t listen. Just thought it would be amusing to keep whaling on me, to the beat of the damn song! But at least he was polite. “Legs down, please.” “Still, please.” “Do as you’re told, please.” Please go soak your head. 🙂 No, I didn’t actually say that. My earlier smart-assery had been rewarded with a brisk thigh pinch. Ouch. Meanie.

(I have a video of the portion with the Elvis song, but for whatever reason, YouTube was giving me fits trying to upload it, getting stuck and not completing the process, so I gave up. Perhaps I’ll try again tomorrow and see if it works. I did manage to upload it onto FetLife.)

This is my “Did you really have to use that @#$%ing stick?” face:

OK, OK. I really did kinda like it. No, not the stick, but the overall session. 🙂

Following some aftercare, I had to once again try to call AT&T, in order to deal with this ongoing debacle with my landline. Yesterday, they futzed around with the wiring outside in order to transfer me to a different high-speed Internet platform, and in the process, they knocked out my phone line. They were supposed to come over today and fix it, and had given me the window of 8:00 AM to 6:00 PM! Now here it was 4:00 and I still hadn’t heard anything from them, so I thought I’d try reaching them to check status of the service call. Big mistake — I got caught up in a maelstrom of incompetence. I got transferred three times, then left on hold for 45 minutes until I finally gave up. Steve managed to keep me distracted and amused, despite all the aggravation. He’s rather good at that.

Turns out AT&T never showed up, and when I finally reached the right department, they said someone would come on Friday!! I said that was unacceptable, so now I have a manager calling me in the morning. Keep your fingers crossed. I’m not a phone person and so this isn’t really that big of a deal, but it’s still frustrating. Does customer service even exist anymore? I won’t be home Friday, so I may be phoneless until next Monday.

Never mind. I’m still a happy woman, phone or no phone. Sore, sleepy, and yes, protected. ♥

It’s now officially Wednesday, so… Happy Birthday, Ten Amorette! 

A bit more "Big Bang" spanking

Last Thursday, my very favorite sitcom, The Big Bang Theory, had another Sheldon/Amy hand-to-bottom encounter. This time it was a one-smacker, but equally as hilarious as the spanking Sheldon gave Amy last season for faking being sick because she loved his attention. (If by some chance you haven’t seen that, it’s here.)

This time, we find the gang having Thanksgiving dinner, and Sheldon forming an unlikely bond with Howard’s good-ole-boy father-in-law. They proceed to get drunk together and Sheldon is so obnoxious and rude to Howard, Amy finally demands that he apologize. He does so, sheepishly, then smiles blearily at Amy, saying “Ain’t she great?” Amy ducks her head, clearly pleased, and then Sheldon adds, “Now how about getting us both another beer!” and sends her off with one resounding wallop on her bottom. She lurches forward, then giddily stumbles into the kitchen, looking back with a shocked but priceless smile on her face. Sheldon meets her glance with a smirk and a nod.

Perfection. Damn, I love this show.

I tried to find a clip of this, but could not. Perhaps Chross can.

EDIT: I love my friends! Thank you, Nancy and Bonnie. Here it is!

In other news, Steve and I have decided to switch our date to Tuesdays, since we end up switching there a lot of the time anyway. So stay tuned.

Kinky and Squeamish: an uneasy combination

I am possibly one of the most squeamish people you will ever meet. I mean, ridiculously so. My tolerance for the gory and the gross is zero.

I adore animals, but I could never be a pet owner. Why? Because I couldn’t handle the icky side of pet ownership — the poop, the vomit, the pet illnesses, the inevitable wounds.

I can’t even stand the sight of blood when it’s fake. Wanna torture me? Prop my eyelids open and make me watch The Walking Dead. Or any of the Saw movies. Even one of my all-time favorite shows, Weeds, freaked me out once. There was an episode where a DEA agent was tortured for information with a circular saw. I had nightmares for two nights after seeing that.

Same thing with sophomoric comedies where vomit and scat humor are prevalent. Yeah, I know the vomit is fake. I don’t care. I cannot watch it.

So what’s my point? It’s hard enough getting through day-to-day vanilla life when you’re this squeamish and weak-stomached. But when you throw in the world of kink, that’s even more of a challenge.

John often says that, in the overall scale of things, most people would consider me an extreme player. I disagree with him. How can anyone with a terror of blood and broken skin be extreme?

I think (no, I know) I sometimes come off as judgmental of harsh scenes. I really don’t mean to. It’s more a visceral reaction than a cerebral judgment. I can know in my head that the scene is consensual, that the bottom wants exactly what he or she is getting. But my gut freaks out.

This one of the many reasons why I’m a terrible fit for dungeon gatherings and more hardcore BDSM parties. I never know what I’m going to see, and what’s going to set me off. And my reactions are considered rude and unwelcome. Example: many years ago, John and I were at a BDSM club party called Proscenium, which was held at a filming studio with two floors and many rooms. While wandering about, I could see that one room off to the side had a large crowd gathered, so I walked in. At the front of the room, an M/M scene was going on (no, that is not the part that upset me). A man was shackled naked to a St. Andrew’s cross, and another man was behind him, throwing full-arm whip strokes at him. The man being beaten looked like something you’d see hanging in a slaughterhouse; all I saw was blood.

My reaction was instant — I screamed, clapped my hands over my mouth and ran from the room. John, who had been behind me, stayed in there and apologized for me. Apparently, people were really pissed off and offended. But I couldn’t help it.

So, from then on, the rule at this party with John and a couple of our friends was: “Scope out the rooms first and make sure they’re safe for Erica.” How embarrassing. The next time we were there, there was a heavy-duty piercing scene happening in one of the downstairs rooms, so I was kept upstairs for most of the evening, and told that if I went downstairs, I should NOT open the closed door that was just off the lobby area.

I did go downstairs later in the evening; I don’t remember why. I did stay away from the closed door. But then, the door opened, and a man walked out. He had nothing on but a thong, and his entire torso was awash with blood. I looked over at him, and I must have gone as white as a sheet. I froze to the spot, my hands over my mouth. The man then came over to me. “Are you all right?” Oh, my god. I frantically shook my head, backed away and sat down heavily in a chair. He then came closer and said, “Would you like some water?” Aaaaaggggh! Finally, fighting my gag reflex, I blurted, “No… no thank you… just, please, go away!” He backed off. I know he was trying to be nice. He honestly had no clue how much the sight of him was upsetting me.

Fortunately for me, there is little risk of seeing anything close to this at a spanking party. On a rare occasion, I’ve seen bottoms with broken skin. When that happens, I need to go elsewhere. The last time I saw it, it was someone I really like, and I was nearly in tears. She, of course, was perfectly fine and happy as could be. I had to keep reminding myself, “She wants it, she wants it, she wants it.”

FetLife can also be a minefield for someone like me. Pictures will come across my “feed” and I will fervently wish that I could unsee them. The people who post them are proud of them, and I get that. I’m proud of my photos too. Still, my inner squeamish self is disturbed. Recently, I saw a pic of a woman’s bottom that had been beaten with a meat tenderizer hammer. Blood everywhere. Was it consensual? Yup. I don’t get to say a word, and I wouldn’t. I don’t comment on these photos; I know I don’t have the right. But they do upset me, purely because of the extent of the skin damage and gore.

Just about a week or so ago, a friend “loved” a photo on Fet and the thumbnail of it looked intriguing. It seemed to be some sort of colorful artwork, a mosaic or something like that. So I clicked on it.

Turned out it was a very artistic piercing, with dozens of syringes that had multi-colored heads on them, creating a pretty design. On the flesh of a woman’s back.

Need I mention that I’m scared of needles and sharp objects too? When I was small, blood tests with a finger stick made me scream and cry. But when I had my first blood draw from a vein in my arm, I fainted. Literally passed out cold.

So, when I saw this photo, a part of me could appreciate the intricate artiness of it. However, my stomach still roiled and nausea rose, and my mind screamed “Nononotakeitawaytakeitawaymakeitstop!!!”

Ugh. Like I said, it’s not easy being a big squeamish baby in the world of kink.

Sometimes I wish photos came with a warning, like NSFW (Not Safe For Work). In other words, don’t look at this when you’re on your work computer. Only for me, it would be “Not Safe For Erica.” 

Please bear with me, kids. It’s not about judgment, it’s about my own fears and extreme squeamishness. I don’t like being this way, but it’s lifelong and I doubt it’s going away. So I live with it as best I can. You can tease me about it, it’s OK. But please don’t get mad at me, because I don’t mean it, and it’s me, not you. 🙂

Do I have any fellow fraidy-cats with weak guts?

You know what?

I know this is going to be out of character for me, but I don’t feel like detailing my session with Steve today. I’m kind of drained… probably some emotional fallout. For everyone who commented on last night’s blog, thank you so much. I’m done. Time to focus forward and positive. (Yes, I know the grammatical structure of that sentence blows. I don’t care.)

So, suffice it to say that today there was some pain…

…and quite a few tears.

My feet were cold. I wore goofy socks.

In case you can’t read them, they say “XOX.”

I skipped the gym. Perhaps I’ll go tomorrow. Or not. For now, I’m not going to fret about that either.

I am loved, well thrashed, protected, and purged of emotional poison.

Good night. ♥

OT: The well of acid

(warning: this blog is long, and has very little to do with spanking. I’m processing stuff. If you want to skip out now, I won’t be offended.)

I don’t like to think of myself as an angry person. I can be snarky and cranky, a bit curmudgeonly, but truly, bitterly angry? Yeah, sometimes. I have triggers and buttons, like most of us, I guess. A certain type of person, certain behaviors, will set me off. And one of the worst of those triggers? When someone, for no good reason, tries to take someone I love/care for away from me.

I experienced this early on, as a 15-year-old, when my father met the woman who eventually became his third wife and who proceeded to make my life a living hell. She did not want him to divide his attention to her with anyone else: his friends, his colleagues, or even his own child. So she set out to machinate, manipulate and make trouble between my father and me, until the time came when his decision was forced — her, or me. He chose her, and he and I didn’t speak for 5 1/2 years. Fortunately, he came to his senses, divorced her sorry ass, and he and I were able to rise from the ashes of our burned relationship.

Cut to my adult life, and my time in the spanking scene. In my 16+ years, I’ve had my share of experiences with other women who had the same agenda — they wanted something and they hated me for having it. The fact that I never did anything to them to deserve their hatred and resentment was irrelevant.

Around 2004 (I’ve lost track of the exact timeline), I had a great top. I recommended him to a friend of mine, they hit it off as well, so then he was playing with both of us. It was a lot of fun; we ganged up on him and pranked him, teased him on a forum where we all posted, entertained everyone with our antics. Until the two of them decided to start dating as well as being play partners. 

Suddenly, I was the enemy. She didn’t want him playing with me anymore. Nor did she want him to talk to me, IM with me, or post on my forum. I lost my top and I lost a friend, and that hurt a great deal. But that wasn’t the worst of it. They had a horribly tempestuous relationship, fighting often. And every time they did, I’d get angry emails from her, saying that I’d probably be happy when they crashed and burned, because then I could “have him back.” Somehow, all the problems in their relationship were my fault. They broke up and got back together about half a dozen times. Meanwhile, I found a new top and moved on. But when they broke up for the last time (and he contacted me and asked if we could take up where we left off — to which I said no), she flipped out. And told anyone and everyone who would listen to her that I had sabotaged her relationship, and what an evil woman I was.

I’d been in the scene for a while by then and had some friends… but she was an icon. She was a well-known spanking model who was idolized by many, and had been around a lot longer than I. Soon, I was hearing from third parties that people I thought were my friends were saying things like “Sever ties with Erica” and “Don’t be friends with Erica; she’s bad news.” I didn’t know who my real friends were or who was talking about me behind my back. It was horrible, it went on for a long time, and it nearly drove me out of the scene.

Cut to a few years ago. John was playing with a domme who was used to getting her own way about everything, and she wanted his complete devotion without a pesky girlfriend in the way. So she told him to break up with me. When he didn’t, she set about trying to break us up with some extreme and nasty measures, ones I don’t want to go into here. She damn near succeeded, too. It was a bad time, a bewildering and heartbreaking time, and I still can’t hear her name without grinding my teeth.

A year and a half ago, I’d been playing with my dear and special top ST for nearly two years when he met a new woman. They started dating, and he told her about me (she was kink-friendly). She uttered a single sentence: “I don’t think I like that.” And I was history. She didn’t know me, she’d never met me, I was no threat to her whatsoever. But I had to be banished nonetheless, and lose someone who had become important to me.

So here we are, in the present day. And when this sort of thing happened yet again, with Steve, I lost it. No, I didn’t lose him. Fortunately, he cares about me and doesn’t let anyone dictate with whom he can or cannot play. But the point is, this woman still tried to come between us, still wanted him to dump me. And I have found myself unable to let go of the rage and resentment. 

Last week was especially bad. I had just found out some new information about this person, and right after that, I had to deal with car troubles and root canal. I found myself seething constantly, fuming and thinking angry thoughts. I did everything I could to blow it off — I worked out, I wrote a rather generic but pointedly angry piece for FetLife (which made K&P and got 145 “Loves”), I shared my feelings with a few trusted girlfriends. But the anger simply would not pass. My reaction was something like what I imagine people with PTSD go through. It was all-consuming.

This weekend, I talked about the situation at length with John, did a whole lot of raging and used a lot of unflattering words and phrases. (No, I didn’t use that word. No one will ever reduce me to that level.) At one point today, John chided me and said, “That’s not very nice.” And I screamed, “Yeah, I’m a bitch! I don’t care! She started it, and she wasn’t nice either! And I’m sick of it! I never did anything to her! And I never did anything to… [I went on to list all the women I’ve mentioned in this blog — stepmother, former friend, domme, etc.]! But they still fucked with me and I’m SICK of being fucked with! Why do these women always want to take people away from me??” And, to my shock, I put my face in my hands and burst into tears. John took me in his arms, and I cried and cried.

Beneath that seemingly bottomless well of anger within me is hurt. And fear of my own powerlessness, because there’s nothing I can do or could ever do about people like this. So, instead of playing the sad victim, I got angry. And I raged, got my bitch on, and went on the defensive.

I don’t want to do that anymore. Why did I title this blog “the well of acid”? Because I remembered that long ago, someone told me that harboring anger is like carrying around a vat of acid. “The acid only corrodes the vessel in which it is carried,” they said.

Yeah, it’s psycho-babble. But it has its truth. I’m not hurting the perpetrators, hauling around this rage. I’m only hurting myself.

I need to move on from this latest bit of insanity. This person has blocked me on FetLife, and lord only knows what kind of smack she’s talking about me. However, my situation is different now. I have many more years in the scene, and many more friends. It’s doubtful that anyone who matters to me will listen to her.

I will probably always have this particular trigger. I’m not saying I don’t have a right to my anger. But I need to learn to deal with it and channel it better. I want my side of the street to be completely clean.

Time to take some deep breaths, and think about dumping some of the toxic, corrosive acid. In a place where it’s safe, of course.