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 “July, 2015”

Defining… and redefining

OK, kids. I have some things to say. Hunker down and grab a beverage, because this is long.

I find myself at a crossroad with this blog lately. Since I moved to WordPress, my views and comments have dropped by about two-thirds. I was told to wait it out, and I have; it’s been five months. I’m not sure who my readers are anymore, really. Do people still read blogs, these days? Is the blogosphere destined to be pictures only? And where do I fit in, in all this, at this stage of my life?

So, I’ve been feeling the need to clarify a few things. Much of this, many of you might think is already well known. Bear with me, because I’m clarifying as much to myself as I am to you, and I need to get it all down.

1. I am a depressive. I have been for most of my life. It is clinical and physiological; my brain wiring, serotonin levels, etc. are screwy. I am also cynical, curmudgeonly, snarky, sarcastic, and a glass-half-empty sort. This is who I am. How do I cope? I take meds. I exercise. I talk to friends, I play with my top. And sometimes, I vent. I rant. I bitch. Sometimes, I wallow a little in the pity pot until I’m able to climb out of it.

I realize I’m not everyone’s cup of tea; I am no ray of sunshine. But if you don’t like who I am, or what I have to say, think I’m too negative, please… just don’t read me. And please, don’t shame me or invalidate me. I know people mean well when they try to fix, try to suggest things that will snap me out of it, suggest that I count my blessings and be grateful, tell me that other people have it much worse. Believe me, I am fully cognizant of my blessings, and I know they are many. Problem is, when I am in the abyss, I can recognize the blessings with my head… but I cannot feel them in my gut. They are temporarily lost to me. Regardless of what Abe Lincoln said, I cannot simply “make up my mind to be happy.”

Let me put it another way. If you saw someone in a diabetic coma, would you say to them, “Come on! Just make up your mind that your blood sugar levels are normal.” I would hope not. A depressive cannot control the unhappiness anymore than a diabetic can control their blood sugar. They can only manage it somewhat, and hope that it doesn’t go haywire.

So. if my sometimes cranky outlook on life isn’t your cup of tea, please feel free to seek out people who will blow sunshine and rainbows up your ass. I promise I will try hard not to be too over the top negative; I will keep working on perspective.

And remember this: 🙂


2. I am a spanko. Well, duh, Erica. Tell us something we don’t know. Patience, boys and girls.

I’ve been in this scene now for 19 years and counting, and I’ve watched a lot of changes, seen a lot of people come and go. Maybe I spend too much time on FetLife, but in recent years, I’ve noticed an overall attitude, a sort of negative vibe toward people who identify with just one fetish.

Used to be that people like me, who identified spanking as their sole fetish, called themselves “spanking purists.” However, now that term is frowned upon; it’s considered elitist. Somehow, it’s not OK to simply enjoy one aspect of the lifestyle anymore. We are supposed to experiment, to try new things, to be open-minded. We are supposed to “evolve.” So now we have St. Andrew’s crosses and whips at spanking parties. We have caned breasts and thighs. We have interrogation scenes (granted, those are done privately, but still).

I have very mixed feelings about the term evolve, as it’s used in the scene. On the one hand, some of my dearest friends use it and I know they don’t mean to upset anyone. But on the other hand, I resent the hell out of it. Because the implication is, if you’re not evolving, if you’re not continually changing and broadening, then you’re a dinosaur. You’re narrow-minded. You’re doing it wrong.

Here’s the deal, kids. I’ve done my experimenting. In my earlier scene years, I went to way more BDSM gatherings than spanking parties. I’ve been tied up, tied down, on a St. Andrew’s cross, in suspension. I was whipped by this guy. I scened with a man who is considered one of the premier experts on BDSM. (Who, incidentally, marked the hell out of me on a Friday night of a spanking party weekend; a major no-no.) I worked in a dungeon.

Most of my friends like a lot more fetish stuff than I do. Hell, my boyfriend and my top like a lot more fetish stuff than I do. And so sometimes, I doubt myself. I wonder if I need to branch out, be more open to other things.

Recently, John and I went to a BDSM/dungeon party, for the first time in many years. There was nothing wrong with it, no one did or said anything inappropriate. But I was miserable. I didn’t enjoy being there, I didn’t like anything I was seeing. And when we left, I was sad and depressed, and I wasn’t sure why. Until I thought about it, and realized that, just like when I was younger and desperate to belong, I was trying to force myself into places where I didn’t fit.

Well, no more. I’m not going to apologize for being a spanko, for liking what I like. What gets me going? I love a man’s hand, or implement, striking my bottom/sit spots/uppermost upper thighs. A friend recently asked me, “Do you hate D/s?” No, absolutely not; it can be really hot with the right person. But for me, it must be centered around spanking. Period. I do not want a gag in my mouth, a collar around my neck, clamps on my nipples or a hook up my ass. Paddles, straps, crops, canes? Bring it. A nice soft flogger on my back — there’s my exception to the bottom rule. I don’t want to be thudded with implements that look like closet poles, or have my flesh flayed off with a rubber hose. Marks, bruises? Sure. But my blood is to remain within my unbroken skin, thank you. My “bionic bottom” days are over. I am not in a competition with anyone to see who can have the most trashed ass.

If that makes me unevolved, then so be it. But I will not feel less-than about it anymore. I am who I am, and this is what works for me. If you like a lot of different fetish activities, then I am happy for you and wish you all the pleasure. But please don’t judge me or think less of me because I don’t.

3. This blog is more writing-centric than photo-centric. I realize that everyone and their second cousin has a Tumblr photo blog these days. But let’s be real, folks. I think it’s time to start calling myself a retired spanking model. My shoots are very few and very far in between these days. Don’t get me wrong; I am extremely proud of the fact that I have been a spanking bottom on video all through my 40s and most of my 50s. That’s unheard of. But even I realize I’m getting a little too old for this. I may have knocked a few years off my face with surgery, but the rest of my body is aging, in various and insidious little ways, despite all my efforts with diet and exercise.

Recently I watched a video that I shot last year, and had a couple of rude awakenings, seeing myself in HD. Fact: most bottoms can look good when the spankee is bent over — everything smooths out and tightens. The true test of a bottom’s shape and tone is when they’re upright. As I watched myself over the man’s lap, the camera zoomed wayyyyyy in on my bottom (jeezus, if that thing were any closer, I could have had a colonoscopy). And then, in that extreme closeup, the top told me to stand up, and I did. And watched as, in glorious HD, my bottom sort of flattened out and collapsed. ACK!! My eyes! Also, as I watched myself lying across the bed, much to my shock and horror, I saw my mother’s age-spotted arms and vein-y hands. How the hell did she get in there? Then… oh, f**k. That’s not Mom. That’s me. (Yes, Mom, I can still hear you. I should have worn more sunscreen.)

QUICK EDIT: Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying I’ll never shoot again; I enjoy it too much, and if the opportunity arises, I won’t say no. But what I don’t want is to cross over the line between being a rebel against ageism and being a joke. I know haters are gonna hate, but I’m not made of stone. Comments like “What is someone as long in the tooth as Erica Scott still doing in spanking videos?” hurt. Yes, that’s real. Or the guy on Twitter who posted my picture and tweeted, “Wow, I didn’t know there was such a thing as granny porn.”

What does this all mean? Mostly that the days of exciting write-ups of shoots, with accompanying photos, are pretty much behind me. And because I don’t go to many parties and we don’t have a local spanking scene, my party reports and pictorials will be rare as well. So, if you look at blogs for the spanking photos, this blog isn’t for you. Sure, I’ll still have posts about Steve and our scenes. But I’m sure a lot of people find those redundant after a while.

So what does a spanko and former video actress write about? I feel like I have a lot of wisdom and experience to share, and would love to have some interesting discourse with y’all. But if all folks want is pictures these days, then I may need to gracefully retire this blog. Thoughts?

One more point, and then I’ll end this soliloquy. If you do read this blog, and you enjoy it, or if you want to debate a point with me, ask questions, whatever… for heaven’s sake, take a minute and drop a comment. Without feedback, we bloggers might as well be talking to ourselves. And I don’t want to hear any more about how it’s too difficult to comment on WordPress. I’ve already explained how it works, here. Also, people have mentioned that they don’t want to comment because they don’t want their names and email to show up. Well, you don’t have to post them. When you go to the comments section, the first thing that comes up is blank spaces for Name, Email, and Website. Guess what? You can leave them blank. Put whatever name/nickname that you wish in the name slot, and that’s it. Actually, you don’t even have to do that; if you leave Name blank, your comment will appear as Anonymous. So, no more excuses. I don’t ask you to agree with me when you comment. All I’ve ever ask is 1. you stay on topic, and 2. you are civil and polite.

(whew) OK. I feel better now. I meant no offense to anyone; just needed to redefine who I am and what I’m doing here.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Third Anniversary

Told y’all I’d be back when I had something fun to post. Actually, I have a great deal to say, but that will keep. For now, I’m in celebratory mode.

On July 25, 2012, I met Steve for the first time. Three years later, we’re still happily enjoying our play partnership and friendship. Yesterday, he showed up at my door, his arms laden with goodies for me — a huge bouquet of flowers, a bag of gourmet chocolate-chip cookies, and a sweet card, with a Starbucks gift card inside. I felt kinda bad that all I had for him was a card, but he assured me that I didn’t have to give him anything, that *I* was his gift. 🙂

Post warm-up, he mused, “I want to put three stripes on your bottom and write ‘Happy anniversary’ on it.” Since I don’t mark that easily, this would take some planning. We decided to use my Delrin cane, and he would strike each of three spots repeatedly until a nice stripe showed up. Ouch. But I was game.

“Hold still,” he admonished, as I felt him writing all over my butt with a Sharpie. He practiced a few strokes of the cane on my pillow, getting his aim sharpened, and then we proceeded with our little masterpiece.

And here it is. Observe the three stripes. Also, observe that Mr. Clever used my butt crack to serve as the “i” in “Anniversary” and “Erica.”


“We are not amused…”


After that, he went to work with a few other implements, obliterating the stripes and leaving me gleefully glowing and pleasantly sore.

All kidding aside…

When Steve came into my life three years ago, I was reeling from ST’s abrupt exit. From the beginning, I shared my abandonment/rejection issues with Steve, and he said, “I’m not going anywhere.” Since then, those four words became his mantra with me. He has said them countless times — when I was feeling insecure and fearful, when we had disagreements and misunderstandings, whenever I needed reassurance. We have had our ups and downs, but three years later, my top is still here.

Thank you, Steve. For all the intense, pleasurably painful, fun, cathartic, and edgy scenes, for being a good top, a good friend, a good man. For not going anywhere.

And aren’t my flowers beautiful? 🙂


Yes, I am OK

Still here. Sorry that my absence concerned people.

Just taking a brief sabbatical. When I have something fun and interesting to say, I’ll be back.

Work is busy. John is doing well. I’m… not, for various reasons. But I’ll be better.

A rock feels no pain…

…and an island never cries.

For those unfamiliar, that is the last line of a Simon and Garfunkel classic, “I Am A Rock.” If you don’t know it, Google it, play it. it’s a great song, albeit depressing.

It used to be my anthem. And sometimes, it still returns to me.

Sometimes, I simply get so damn sick of feeling so much. The past few weeks have been fraught with feeling: loss, insecurity, and that old “I’m not enough” tape playing yet again. I have not talked about it here. As the Green Day song “Paranoid” goes: “Do you have the time, to listen to me whine?” No, you don’t. I don’t blame you. I’m sick of hearing me whine too.

Just read this on Twitter today, of all places:

Stop telling people about your problems. 20% don’t care and the other 80% are glad you have them.

Ouch. Even I can’t bring myself to be that cynical. But there is some truth there. In the world of social media where oversharing is all too easy, one can get carried away and talk way too damn much.

Which, of course, is born of feeling too damn much.

Then, in the midst of all this emotional whirlwind (and getting sick on top of it), Steve did something that (these are his own words, not mine) was stupid and bone-headed. In the overall scheme of things, it wasn’t that big of a deal. But it was the final impetus I needed to send me into another frame of mind, one that is shut down. Where I retreat, where I push my feelings down so deep, I lose them temporarily.

It’s a relief. Kind of like I imagine the relief addicts feel when they take that pill, gulp that drink. Oblivion. No more neediness, no more hurt.

I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain…

When Steve arrived yesterday, I was cordial and welcoming, as always. I hugged him, sat on the couch with him, asked him all about his vacation. And we did talk about his faux pas. He fully acknowledged it, he apologized. One thing I’ve always liked about this man: he never says, “I’m sorry you feel that way.” He will come right out and say, “I’m sorry I did that. I was an ass.” We even joked about it. But I was edgy.

In my bubble, I was reserved. Somewhere deep within, my subconscious was telling me to remain stoic, to not feel. To keep myself safe and protected. I had to keep my guard up, or else I’d be vulnerable.

I build walls… a fortress deep and mighty…

Steve knew I wasn’t there. “I want you back,” he said. “I want you to come back to me.”

Silly man. I’m sitting right here. But I knew that wasn’t what he meant.

“I think we both need for you to get over my knee, right now.”

Sure. Whatever. Mechanically, I assumed the position. Without preamble, he pulled my leggings and panties down and began.

I experienced pain differently yesterday. I was aware of it, but I was somehow removed from it. My body processed and absorbed it, but in my mind, it was almost as if it was happening to someone else. I did not have my usual reactions and movements; I was relatively still, and I made little sound.

Don’t feel. Don’t feel.

He asked me questions, making me stay engaged. I answered with monosyllables.

His hand was powerful and painful. But my sole acknowledgments of the pain were my feet twisting together, and my left hand clutching the afghan on the couch. He noticed, and gently untangled my fingers. I then thrust both hands under me, hunkering down.

He spanked hard. He knew he was spanking hard. I knew why. I knew what he wanted; he wanted me to feel. But I couldn’t give him that. He’d stop now and then, to caress, to assess the heat and redness. But then he’d start again. My upper thighs were getting a great deal of attention today, along with my backside.

“My hand hasn’t even begun to get tired,” he remarked after a long while. “I could do this for another hour if I have to.”

Go ahead. Knock yourself out.

But I knew he wouldn’t do that. He’s not a brute.

When he finally stopped and pulled me up into his lap, I was limp. I was sniffling, but not outright weeping. Normally, I will curl into him and wrap my arm around his neck. Today, my arm flopped against his chest.

“I love you, you know,” he said.

This was the part where I say it back. But I didn’t want to, couldn’t bring myself to. No. Don’t feel.

If I never loved, I never would have cried…

He took me into the bedroom, where I put myself over the pillows as he gathered a few implements. I still felt like I was behind a stone wall of sorts, but despite that, the pain was beginning to break through. I am only flesh and blood, not brick.

I touch no one, and no one touches me…

This time, I reacted more, with moans. I felt them coming up from my gut. “I know,” he said. “I know.”

He still asked questions. But now, all I could do was either nod or shake my head. Even the monosyllables were too much effort.

“We’re almost done,” he assured, picking up the heart-shaped paddle. Figured that’s the one that hurts so damn much. I guess anything to do with hearts has a way of doing that.

And wouldn’t you know it, that @#$%ing heart broke through.

My reserve crumbled; I felt it go. And then, without any forethought, I whispered one sentence:

“Please stop hurting me.”

I don’t think I was talking about the paddle at that point. And I really have no idea if I was talking to Steve, or to the universe in general. Please stop hurting me. I’m so tired of hurting.

It didn’t matter. Immediately, I heard the thud of the paddle as it hit my bed. And then he gathered me in his arms once more.

“Please,” he murmured. “Do something. Hold onto me, grab my shirt, anything.”

I did. Once again, as I’ve done so many, many times, I clung to him as if he were a lifeboat in a storm. I balled up his t-shirt in my fists. I wept.

“You’re marked,” he told me. “Don’t be upset when you look and see.”

Nah, I thought. It’ll fade away. It always does.

I was half right. Within a few hours, my bottom was just faintly pink, nothing more. My upper thighs were another story.

I will feel this for the rest of the week. There it is, that damned feeling again.

Sometimes, I really do wish I were a rock, or an island. Life would be so much more manageable.

Hiding in my room, safe within my womb…

But emptier, no doubt. Most of the time, I know the trade-off isn’t worth it.

Most of the time. That small amount of other time, I wish I could shut it all off. Just like my hearing-impaired friend turns off her hearing aids when the noise around her gets to be too much.


Happy birthday, Alex!

Crazy busy with work, and still dealing with whatever this viral plague is (although I’m a bit better), but I’d be quite remiss if I didn’t take a moment to wish someone very dear a happy birthday!

So, happiest of birthdays, dear Alex! You have given me many laughs and smiles, and you touch my ♥. I hope you’re having a joyous spank-filled day and I can’t wait until you come back from your travels so we can have a belated b-day lunch/dinner and catch up.


Love you sweetie!

Mine, mine, MINE


I am so not a submissive.

Yeah, Erica, what else is new? I dunno, just something that came to mind lately. Not a judgment, not a statement of any sort of superiority. Just a heightened awareness of how very different we all are, within the same overall community.

I copy-edit/proofread a lot of kink erotica. Therefore, I have regular exposure to fictionalized spanking/BDSM relationships. Some of them resonate. Others do not. And one theme I see repeatedly is that of ownership.

I know the secret behind D/s… that the surrender and submission of the bottom is their choice, and they have the control, even though it seems that they’re relinquishing it completely. It’s a dance and a game. But still.

I am so fiercely, ridiculously independent, I cannot imagine having my autonomy taken from me. Or even giving it away willingly.

Oh sure, a little objectifying is fine. We all do it. We all use the word “my.” My love. My sweetheart. My husband, my wife. Steve will often grab onto my bottom as he’s spanking me and say, “This is mine, do you understand?” Sometimes I’ll say, “No, actually, it’s mine.” But more often than not, I’ll say yes, because I don’t want thigh whacks. 🙂

Everywhere I read, everywhere I look, there is something or another about permission. Just today, I saw a spanking photo with a caption saying something about how she had her hair dyed without permission. Um. It’s MY freaking hair, and if I want to cover the gray, or dye it rainbow colors, that’s MY choice.

Maybe it’s a childhood leftover. My mother had so damn many rules and regulations and rigid standards I had to follow when I was a kid. I seethed with anger and resentment, vowing that I couldn’t wait to grow up and make my own choices. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine choosing to give them away again, even if it’s in a fantasy mode.

Yesterday, I was working on a book with a scene where the woman was punished because she touched herself without her top’s permission. This guy was strict. Everything she did, she had to ask first. Permission to speak (during scenes). Permission to orgasm. Even permission to suck his cock. As I got into the intense spanking scene, which was quite hot, I found myself squirming in my chair. Hey, it’s been a while, I’ve been sick, etc.

So I finished working on the scene, got to a good stopping point, and took a little break to take care of business. Yup, the joys of working at home are many. Office coffee breaks ain’t got nothin’ on this girl’s breaks. 😉

Then it occurred to me: Imagine if I’d had to ask for this first? If I had to feel like I’d done something wrong, something naughty, something forbidden, because I hadn’t gotten permission for it?

Nope. Not me. That simply wouldn’t work. I know it’s a dynamic that works for many. Sometimes, I’m almost envious of those who can let go to that extent and allow another have say-so over what they do. Almost. Then I remember who I am and what I own.

I own my pleasure. I own my orgasms. I own my choices in all things. I own my bedtimes and getting-up times. I own my speech, my clothing choices, my hair style. I own my online time, my TV time, my time for anything I want or need to do. I own what I eat and when I eat it (that’s a huge one, for one in recovery for eating disorders).

I will give my love, my devotion, my willingness, my vulnerability, my tears, my laughter. I will surrender my body to painful pleasure. But I will not — cannot — surrender my choices. The day I begin to surrender my autonomy and independence is the day I begin to die.

And perhaps I take all this shizz way too seriously. 🙂

Have a wonderful holiday weekend, y’all. Be safe.

EDIT: By the way, all comments are welcome, even if you are on the opposite end of this submission spectrum. I’d love to hear what resonates with you about it.

Post Navigation

%d bloggers like this: