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, 2014”

OT: My two cents on Robin Williams, suicide and depression

It’s been a sad week, kids. Robin Williams, one of our most beloved comedic icons, took his own life this past Monday. I’m old enough to remember when he first broke into our collective consciousness (on Mork and Mindy) and watched his trajectory from street mime to comedian to TV star to movie star, handling both comedy and drama with aplomb, winning an Oscar in 1997. I saw countless appearances on the Tonight show and Late Night.

It was a horrible shocking sadness. And yet for me, it wasn’t a complete surprise. Because I had read for a long time of his struggles with depression and addiction. I’d watched his manic performances and knew there was a very dark flip side to that seemingly boundless energy. I knew, because I know that flip side myself. So I felt very sad for him, for the extreme pain that drove him to ending it.

But nothing prepared me for the next couple of days.

Monday was mostly about reaction and shock and tears. Tuesday brought on the judgments. 

Suicide is selfish. Suicide is the coward’s way out. Suicide is for the weak. He gave no thought to his loved ones and how they would suffer. He had all that money; he could have paid for the best of care. Lots of people get depressed; they endure it and they get over it. And so on and so forth, blah blah blah.

And I felt all-encompassing rage.

You know what? Until you have existed in the living shroud that is depression… until you have known, up close and personal, that utter darkness, despair and hopelessness… until you’ve counted the minutes every day until you could go to bed and sink into oblivion for a few hours of respite from the misery… until the simplest of acts, like putting on your clothes or brushing your teeth, are Herculean feats for you… until you’ve listened to hours, days, months, YEARS, of negative nattering in your head… until all that and so much more… you do not get to say jack about suicide. You do not get to judge, and you do not get to condemn. If you have never experienced any of this, then more power to you. I envy you. But have a little compassion anyway. And if you can’t find it in your heart to feel that compassion for a another’s tortured soul, then keep it to yourself. Think your judgmental thoughts if you will. But SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. You are helping absolutely no one with your intolerance.

No, Robin Williams wasn’t thinking about his loved ones, because he’d gone beyond rational thought. Depression isn’t about logic. Depression isn’t something you can talk yourself out of; it’s a brain disorder, a chemical imbalance, and victims of it can’t talk themselves out of it any more than diabetics can talk themselves out of low blood sugar. Suicide is born of the worst despair imaginable, a relentless torment.

I know, because I attempted it when I was 19. And one thing I will never forget, as long as I live, was the way I felt the morning I decided to do it. After so much crying and agonizing and fighting, peace descended over me, enveloped me. My crazed mind went blank, I felt calm. Finally. It would be over. I thought of nothing else — not my family, not my friends, nothing. All I could think of was my deliverance from pain and how relieved I felt.

One of my friends on Facebook wrote a blog in which he compared Robin Williams to Roger Ebert, who suffered for years from the ravages of cancer before he finally succumbed to it. He claimed that Ebert faced his pain heroically, while Williams surrendered and betrayed his loved ones in the process. I did not wish to disrespect or insult my friend, but I had to say something. So I commented that it was unfair to compare the two: Ebert had a ravaged body, and Williams had a ravaged mind. I was respectful, and he was respectful in his comment back to me. But it made me sad. People just don’t understand.

But wait, there’s more. Wednesday brought yet another type of judgment and condemnation.

Certain members of religious groups were, almost gleefully, saying that because Robin Williams committed a mortal sin with suicide, and because he was blasphemous and profane in his comedy, he was burning in hell for all eternity. The Westboro Baptist Church clan intends to picket his funeral. And so on.

When I read about this, I waited for the next wave of rage. However, it didn’t come. Instead, I broke down and bawled. 

I am not a saint. I have felt anger, and yes, even hate, toward certain people, particularly those who have done dreadful things to me or to those I care about. But what the hell did Robin Williams do to any of these people? How anyone can wish eternal misery upon a fellow human being, whose only “sin” was his inability to endure his own torment, is beyond my scope of understanding. 

As I wept, I read further, searching for some sanity. Fortunately, I found some. I am an atheist, but I wanted to find some goodness, some human kindness and compassion, in both realms: the religious and the secular. So I found two quotes, which I will share here.

This one is from Mark Shea, a Catholic blogger:

Robin Williams, RIP
He brought joy to a lot of people.  May he find in death the peace he could not find in life, through Christ our Lord.
And please, if you must comment, prayer only. If you feel a compulsion to make some political commentary, or wish him into hell because you’ve decided God has authorized you to pronounce on his eternal destiny (yes, I’m seeing people do this around the blogosphere), for the love of God just stow it.

And this one is from Michael Stone, a secular humanist:

In the end, of course, there is no heaven, and there is no hell. Death is final, and that is tragedy enough. There is no afterlife. All we can do now is mourn the loss, and celebrate the life.

Pick whichever one works best for you. For the record, I found both comforting.

So I will mourn our loss of a great entertainer and humanitarian, and I will celebrate the good memories and honor his life by enjoying his performances. I feel the need to see Dead Poet’s Society again. O captain, my captain, please rest peacefully.

A final note: I don’t wish to minimize the death of screen legend Lauren Bacall, who passed away on Tuesday. She was one of the few remaining greats of that era, and it’s sad to see her go. She was 89; she had a long and fruitful life. And while I don’t believe in heaven, I’m going to suspend that disbelief here just for a minute. Because if there is indeed a heaven, then Bogie has been waiting there for her since 1957. That would be one hell of a reunion. ♥

Tuesday of Pain

Dunh-dunh-DUNNNHH! Doesn’t that sound ominous? It was.

So here is Steve’s convoluted Top Logic. He will not be here next week, as he’s going hiking/camping with his son before school starts. And in two weeks, it will be the Tuesday right before Shadow Lane, so we will have to play lightly that day. Therefore, yesterday’s session needed to be extra hard. Right?

Yeah. I thought it sucked too.

OK, so maybe I’d better tone down the smart-assery and sass, I thought to myself. No dice. He did everything he could to provoke my feisty side, including one of my pet peeves — repeating the same @#$%ing phrase over and over. This time, it was “young lady.” Which I usually like, but maybe just once in a scold-y way. Not fifteen times. 

Enough already with the ‘young lady’!” I snapped.

SMACK to the thigh. “Excuse me? Did you say something?

Aaaaand we were off. Damn that man… he knows my Achilles heel all too well. I can kick, squirm, rage in frustration and yell “STOPPIT!” He’ll just laugh, say “No-o-o-o…” and do it again. 

(Just a reminder to everyone else out there who might play with me at a future party: Steve is the only top who gets to do that. Don’t get any big ideas! :-Þ )

We moved to the ottoman. I was ready for him to bring it.

I love that Cane-iac OTK strap. But the Lickin’ Stick? Not so much.

He patiently, quietly, and firmly kept going, the hard blows juxtaposed with gentle and kind words, encouraging me to take just a little more. I reached the point of “Oh-my-God-I-can’t-take-anymore” and then went beyond it. He eased off a bit, let me catch my breath, then resumed. Crash went the heart-shaped paddle, and I burst into tears. And there it was, that flow of emotion, that release, that inexplicable trust.

How does one explain this to people who don’t understand? Here was this man causing me pain, and I couldn’t feel any safer with him. He is my protector. His pain delivers me.

As you can see, my thighs got some attention this time.

I need this to tide me over for two weeks. Think I can make it! (Ha! Probably not even two days. But it was a valiant effort.)

I felt at peace yesterday, despite the pervasive sadness all over the media due to this week’s events. But I don’t want to talk about that now. I will post my thoughts in a future blog. For now, I want to stay in my bubble for just a little while longer.

Tonight: dinner with SpankCake and Alex! Win!

(sigh) I just can’t help myself sometimes

Pet peeves. We all have them; some of us more than others. I certainly have plenty of my own. Likewise, John has his.

In general, I try to be respectful of other people’s peeves, even if I don’t share them. Just because something doesn’t bother me, doesn’t mean it doesn’t drive someone else completely nuts. But sometimes, a bit of well-placed teasing is irresistible.

One of John’s biggest pet peeves? Earworms.

You know, when an obnoxious song or tune gets stuck in your head and you can’t get it out? Most of us find them annoying. John finds them maddening. And he will get really ticked off with me if I deliberately introduce one — like if I sing an obnoxious commercial jingle, or a crappy song. Or if I take a good song and ruin it by parodying it in an earworm-y way.

Anyone here a James Bond fan? Enjoy the movies, especially the old ones with the premier Bond, Sean Connery? Then you’re no doubt familiar with Goldfinger, and its theme song, powerfully belted out in Shirley Bassey’s booming voice: “GOLLLLLLLLD-FinGAAHHHHHHHH!” (If you don’t know it, you can hear it here, if you’re curious.) I’ll get back to that in a minute.

Anyway, yesterday, we were poking fun at a restaurant review, for one of those trendoid places with snob food. You know the type, right? Where they take a huge plate, leave it mostly empty save for about two-and-a-half bites of food that’s covered with an infusion or a reduction or some other such pretentious nonsense, decorate it with a flower petal and a drizzle of yak oil, and charge you $100? John read the part out loud about how your sushi is “graced with truffles or gold leaf,” and I snorted.

“Gold leaf? WTF?? Why would anyone want gold on their food?”

Without missing a beat, John shrugged and replied, “Maybe it makes their poop sparkle.”

After I picked myself up off the floor laughing, I was seized with a mischievous urge. I knew John would hate this, but I couldn’t help it; it was irresistible. Taking a deep breath, I then, invoking my best Shirley Bassey, loudly sang: 


Sure enough, this earned me the stink-eye from John and “Don’t. EVER. Sing. That. Again.” Oh, and I’m supposed to tell Steve that I permanently ruined the theme from Goldfinger. Hey, it could have been worse. I could have parodied the whole song. “Golden words he will pour from his rear…”

I don’t know why John’s so bent out of shape. He doesn’t even like Bond movies.

My "treatise" on the corner controversy

This post is for Jay! Earlier this week, she wrote about how her work computer faces a corner, so she’s essentially “in the corner” for eight hours a day. This got me thinking about the ever ongoing discussions about corner time on FetLife, and I wrote a tongue-in-cheek piece about how to make it entertaining.

Mind you, I don’t really have an issue with the corner thing. It has little effect on me — aside from posing for pictures there on occasion, I don’t have much experience with it. I’ve never had a top who was into it. So I don’t hate it, but it doesn’t do anything for me, either. My sole (and vehement) objection regarding it is when tops put a bottom there after the spanking. Before the spanking, or during a break, fine, but after is a big NO for me. Sorry, but when the spanking is over, that’s the time for whatever your idea of aftercare is — not for making your bottom feel isolated and untouchable.

Anyway, here’s what I posted on FetLife, for those who aren’t on there and might find it amusing. 🙂

I’ve been observing the “corner wars” posts the past couple of weeks. Bottoms hate corner time and think it’s a waste of time. Tops think corner time rocks and is an absolute necessity. I, of course, am on the side of right: the bottoms’ side. But if tops insist on this ridiculous practice, I have a solution.
Bottoms: just bring a tablet or your Smartphone with you.
While you’re stuck standing there feeling like a dummy with your red bottom on display, maximize your time! Catch up on the latest news. Answer your emails. Write something new; perhaps a treatise on the latest reasons why tops are wrong. Take selfies of sticking your tongue out. You’re facing the wall; they can’t see you.
If the corner time is extra long? Bring a Kindle with you and read a new spanking novella. Get some fresh ideas on how to make mischief once you’re sprung from your painted prison.
If your top balks at this, claiming you’re not entitled to entertainment during your punishment, remind him/her about how you’re always in trouble for wasting time and not getting things done. You are simply trying to rectify this situation by not letting any precious minutes slip by without filling them with something useful. (Useful to whom doesn’t matter.)
If your top is one of those nose-to-the-wall sticklers, then put your headphones on and listen to music. Enrich your senses. Turn the sound up enough so that it turns everything your top says to you into garbled murmurs. Which is pretty much what it always is, anyway.
Exercise your artistic abilities. Go to the Paint program on your tablet and draw a funny caricature of your top. The possibilities are endless. Or hone your computer skills and do something artistic with Photoshop. I once swapped a top’s head out with Alfred E. Neuman’s head. It was highly amusing.
My point is, make lemons of lemonade. What you think of corner time is immaterial, if the tops insist on it. So instead of protesting, use it to your advantage. Who knows… the tops might just see the erroneous nature of this silly ritual and give it up altogether.
Of course, that might mean that you need to maximize your time elsewhere. I suggest reading the news while OTK, but do that at your own risk.

The comments I received overall were quite funny. Of course, one Uber-Dom sort had to chime in and say something about how that would be the perfect time for some extra spanking attention on the soles of the feet. !!! I wrote back that striking the feet is not spanking, it is bastinado. And I pity the poor BASTard who would try BASTinado on me, because I’d kick his sinuses through the back of his head.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

The "C-Spot"

Fellow bottoms, you know how, in the throes of a spanking session, there is a certain swat or series of swats that causes the perfect harmony of sensations, that reverberates all through your core and sends all the right signals, just the right blend of pain and pleasure, zinging to your brain? Steve can always tell when I’ve gotten one or more of those, because I let out a really guttural, semi-orgasmic groan.

“Ooooh,” he said yesterday when that happened. “Did I hit your c-spot?” I roused enough out of my stupor to mutter, “Wha…?” “Your ‘cheek-spot,'” he replied. Cute.  

Well, he hit that all over the place yesterday. Damn, what a great scene. Exactly what I needed, after reading all the post-Crimson Moon comments and looking at picture after adorable picture. Dammit… end of this month, it’s my turn for party time!

Anyway, yesterday I got my just deserts and dessert as well. Steve showed up with cake, a lovely big chunk of triple chocolate cake from the nearby bakery, for our 2nd anniversary, which we hadn’t gotten around to officially celebrating yet. But the sweets had to wait until later.

In order to commemorate our two years, Steve felt it was necessary to drag out nearly every damn implement I own and make a presentation of it:

He didn’t use all of those (particularly not the thicker wooden cane, since I threw it into the corner of the room). But he used quite a few.

As you can see, I wasn’t taking him too seriously at first (what’s up with that face??):

But shortly thereafter, it began to sink in that he had the upper hand.

By the time he was done, I had about half the bedspread scrunched up into my fists. I was pleading with him, “no more, no more,” all the while hunkering down for more. He pushed, just enough. 

It took me a long time to calm down afterward. I shook and twitched and panted, and it felt like stinging sparks were shooting off my bottom. Then, the peace and nothing-ness settled in, enveloping me, as he held me close. I actually dozed off for a bit. That never happens. But that’s how relaxed I was.


And then there was cake! 😀  Chocolate cake, chocolate mousse filling, and chocolate icing, with glazed berries on top (a perfect strawberry, raspberry and blackberry). Couldn’t have been more perfect.

Last night, instead of setting my alarm, I decided what the hell, work is finished for the moment, I’d just sleep until I wake up naturally. I went to bed around 1:30, and was shocked when I opened my eyes and it was 10 minutes to noon! I guess I was truly wiped out.

Steve told me that when he picked up the cake, there was a sweet, middle-aged woman behind the counter, who smiled at him and asked if this was a special occasion.

“Yes, anniversary,” he replied.

“How nice!” she beamed. “How many years have you been married?”

And that fool answered, “Oh, we’re not married. We’re spanking partners.”

I said, “You didn’t. You did not. You’re yanking my chain.” But he insisted that he did. And then she said, “Oh, that’s ni… huh?” Her face looked thoroughly confused. He then took his cake and left, wishing her a nice day. Oh my GOD.

I told John about this last night. His comment, “Good for Steve. Tell him next time to say that when you’re there with him.” 

Men. Buncha buttheads, every last one of ’em. But I do love mine. 🙂

OT: You know, some people really suck

Sorry, kids. This has absolutely nothing to do with kink, or anything fun. I just need to blow off some steam. 

Every Sunday, John and I have a routine: We go to the same restaurant, where everyone who works there knows us and we always sit in the same server’s station. She never brings menus, just puts our order in as soon as we’re seated, because we always get the same thing. We stay at the table for a long time, lingering over the paper, my crossword puzzle and several cups of coffee, and leave her a ginormous tip. 

Today when we came in, the waiting area was crowded, no place to sit, so I put our name in and we stood to wait. Because of the blood clot in John’s leg, it hurts him to stand on it for more than a few minutes, so when a couple of spots on the bench freed up, we sat down, pulled out our reading material and focused on it as we waited. People came in and out as we sat there, but we were reading and didn’t pay much attention.

Suddenly, we heard a man’s voice saying very loudly, “It’s amazing to me that in this day and age, a man will still sit down when there are women standing.” We looked up. There stood a man about our age, staring directly at John. Standing next to him was a woman I figure was his wife, and seated at the other end of the bench was a much older woman with a walker. I’m assuming that someone else got up so she could sit down. If John had seen her, he would have gotten up himself. But they came in after us and we weren’t looking.

John calmly answered, “What did you say?” The man, still staring John down, replied, “I said…” and then repeated exactly what he’d said a moment ago. 

John stared back. I sat there looking back and forth between them, thinking, uh oh. This isn’t going to be good. But then John, after a good long measured look, went back to his paper. He didn’t answer. A minute or so later, the trio was seated.

I was furious, though. Where did this creep get off, judging John? What did he know about why John needs to sit down? So when we were seated, I saw that Mr. Loudmouth and his two cronies were in the same station. I got up and walked over to their table.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said, looking him in the eye. “My boyfriend has a heart condition, and he also has a blood clot in his leg. He needs to sit. So what you said back there was really out of line.”

Before he could answer, his bitch of a wife lurched forward in her seat and got in my face. “No, it was NOT!” she snapped. I started to insist that it was, but she talked right over me, saying, “Just shut your mouth for five seconds!” I was so shocked, I stopped talking. She went on to give me this lecture about how her mother is 88 years old, she’s on oxygen, she uses a walker, and that takes precedence over anything else. Then Mr. Jerk-off chimes in with, “And if that really is the case with your boyfriend (what, like I’d make that up??), then you say so at the time, and then you get off your ass to let an older person sit down, how about that?”

Wow. Just… wow. I was dumbfounded, being slammed into this wall of self-righteousness. The wife finished off, saying in this superior air, “Just a little something for you to think about as you age. Now go off and enjoy your day!” I shook my head at them and said, “OK then… you enjoy your judgment!” and I walked away. I heard her call after me, “We DO, thank you!” Ugh.

Twenty-twenty hindsight, what I wish I’d said was, “You know what? My boyfriend is twice the man you’ll ever be, and he probably won’t live to be anywhere near 88. So both of you shut your mouth!” But I didn’t. I was too flabbergasted.

But wait, there’s more.

I got back to our booth, and as I slid back in, I hissed to John, “Fucking bastards!” I followed his eyes and looked to my left… Jerk-off was right there. He’d followed me back to our booth. “What now??” I said.

“What, you can come to my table, but I can’t come to yours?” he said, stepping closer to me. That’s when John jumped in. “Leave her alone! Stop talking to her!”

The guy then swiveled his whole body aggressively toward John and answered, “OK, I’ll talk to you!” But before he could launch into his next barrage of BS, John gave him a look of pure disgust and blurted, “What are you doing, man? Go away! Stop bothering us!”

At that moment, our server walked over, looking a little apprehensive, and John said to her (while flapping his arm as if he were waving away a bad odor), “Susie, get this guy away from us, will you please?” She then timidly tapped the idiot’s elbow and said, “Sir…”

I guess then he realized that he had gone too far, and he was risking getting thrown out. He walked away without another word. Our server then gave both John and me a hug, and the manager came over to make sure we were OK. When our food came, the manager said, “Enjoy your breakfast in peace,” and left us. Later, she said, “See you both next week!” So we were still in good standing. After all, we hadn’t done anything wrong.

It’s been hours and I’m still stewing over these fucktards. I really do need to let things go more easily. But I do not like people screwing with my loved ones. Anyone gives John crap, including his own family, and I want to fling it right back plus extra. 

(sigh) Oh well. At least it’s off my chest now. 

Tomorrow, I’ll start fresh and try to focus on the good folks again. I promise. Tonight, I’m allowing myself a good stew over self-righteous asshats. Begone from my head, cretins. You’re not worth my consideration.

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