Back, sort of

So, yeah. Two and a half weeks ago, I went dark. Life’s stresses had piled up and knocked me out of balance, and the final straw was when Steve went for a job interview in Santa Barbara, a hundred miles away. In my fragile mind state, I instantly projected that he was going to take the job (because the man has to work), move away, and that would be the end of our times together. I went deep into my inner bomb shelter and stayed there, only surfacing to function as needed. Because no matter how bad I feel, I still function.

I stopped blogging, and I temporarily deactivated my FetLife profile. I couldn’t stand all the BS there, all the bickering and back-biting, the comparisons of parties, the consent police, the pontificating of the know-it-alls, the insensitivity and unkindness, the misguided worship. I worked. I tweeted some, but not much. I didn’t tell Steve what I was thinking/feeling. The only person I talked to was John, because he wouldn’t let me withdraw from him. He was very sweet, sending me little email messages every day, trying to cheer me up. He was the only one who could make me laugh.

The longer I stayed withdrawn, the more I was convinced that it didn’t matter. People’s lives went on and I was a blip on the radar. In the overall scheme of things, we are all microscopic bits, destined for oblivion and being forgotten. Such is the insidious nature of depression… it fills one’s head with the worst of lies, the cruelest beliefs.

A week ago Tuesday, Steve came over, and we talked about his finding work. He told me he didn’t want to move away, and that somehow, he would find something in the Los Angeles area, even if he had to take a job at Costco. That I was not going to lose him. That I could be sad and depressed and scared about anything else, but this was one thing I did not have to fret over. We’re going on four years, and he’s not going anywhere.

We didn’t play. All I did was cry while he held me.

Another week passed. I functioned.

Then last Tuesday, Steve was here again. We talked for a long time, and then decided to play. It had been three weeks, and I’ve had this ongoing sciatica business, so I was a little concerned. But once we got into it, I felt myself start to shift, to get into it. To feel. He lectured me while he spanked. “Do you know that you have people who love you?” I wanted to say “no,” but 1. I knew that wasn’t true, and 2. I knew he’d spank a whole lot harder if I did. “Yes, you do, and don’t forget it.” My thighs got a little attention too.

I thought I might cry. But no tears came.

We moved into the bedroom and he collected some implements. What followed took me to the very edge of my limits. He deliberately hit the same spots over and over until I thought I’d go through the ceiling. By the end, I was writhing, struggling to stay still, pleading, “Steve, please. Please. Please.”

But I still didn’t cry.

He took some pictures, and then got me some ice packs, which felt wonderful. But I still hadn’t achieved that emotional release. Perhaps I was simply cried out, after the past couple of weeks.

After a while of coming down, Steve asked, “Do you need your toy?” Translation: do I need to get off with my vibrator. At first, I thought no. My libido hibernates during depression. But then I thought, eh, why not. Couldn’t hurt, right? Besides, he likes to watch me do it.

I guess I needed it more than I knew, because the first orgasm happened very quickly. But then I kept going. Steve, watching me, said, “You have another one in you, don’t you.” He can tell, just by looking at me, by reading my body.

Then it happened. The second wave rose, but along with it, I felt a tidal wave of grief. The two sensations crested, peaked and intertwined until I couldn’t tell one from the other. I snatched a nearby pillow, shoved it over my face, and screamed. And as the waves kept crashing, I bawled. I hollered. Tears poured. I guess I wasn’t cried out after all.

Somewhere in the emotional haze, I could hear Steve. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Let it all out, give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.” I clung to him like a life raft in churning water next to a sinking ship, my eyes shut, my mouth open. I cried, and cried, and cried. And it wasn’t pretty or sexy. It was red-faced and noisy and drippy and mascara-smeared.

It went on and on. Every time I’d start to wind down, he’d say something like, “Do you know I care for you? Do you know that I want to protect you?” and I’d start up again.

He kept saying “Thank you” to me. I was too far gone to ask, “What for? I didn’t do anything.” He was the one who needed thanking, for being here, for providing a safe haven for my anguished release. But I knew what he meant. He was thanking me for my trust in him. For giving him my deepest vulnerability. Only two people in my life can see me come apart to this degree: Steve and John.

Later, after I’d finally calmed: “How are you feeling?” “Drained,” I replied. I was so tired. My eyes were swollen and scratchy. But I felt cleaner, clearer. I knew I was on my way out of this latest visit to the abyss.

Anyway. It’s Friday. The problems and worries haven’t gone away. I’m still feeling kind of sad and tired. But that awful blackness has receded.

I’m on the fence about reactivating to FetLife. It’s kind of nice taking a break from it. Steve gave me the password to his account, so I logged in under his name to see what was going on. Same old, same old. I did notice that dear, sweet Joe had posted a status about how he missed me and wished I’d come back. He’d also texted me after I disappeared, which did my heart good. At least someone noticed, I thought. I looked to see if anyone had commented to his status… yeah. Two people. (sigh) So no, I’m in no hurry to return.

But of course, despite the emotional excess, there must be pictures. You’ve slogged through all this touchy-feely stuff, so here’s the fun part. I’m posting this one so you can see my most excellent socks (and Steve’s feet):

 

And here I am with ice packs “strapped on” by my underwear:

 

Again, for all those who commented and dropped me private messages, thank you. I appreciated it, even though I was non-reactive.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

The art of clever bratting

Yeah, I’m still here. I figured I’d come back when I had something fun to post. Today, I do.

In my nearly 20 years in the scene, people have often read my thoughts on bratting, a spanko behavior that has a bad reputation with many. Why? Because it’s not done cleverly and with a light touch — too often, it’s executed in a heavy-handed manner that is more annoying than provocative. I’ll reiterate my personal favorite metaphor: Clever bratting is a feather tickling a top’s nose, not an anvil slamming onto his foot.

Good bratting is a tease, and if done right, should make the top smile in spite of himself. He should want to spank the minx’s bottom, not wring her neck.

What got me started on this? Recently, Sarah Gregory released a video, starring Kajira Bound and UlfSayer, called “Lumberjack Spanking.” In it, U played a Canadian lumberjack (complete with green flannel plaid shirt) and K is a bratty American, making fun of him until he decides to take her in hand. You can read about it here, and in the meantime, here’s a picture:

What of it? Of course, being of a certain age, I couldn’t help but think of Monty Python when I saw this, and their classic “Lumberjack Song.” A show of hands — who hasn’t heard of it? Who hasn’t heard of Monty Python? (Spankos, of course you have, even if you don’t think so. Who among us has never heard the lines “Bad Zoot! Naughty Zoot!”) Anyway, for those who don’t recall, the Lumberjack Song starts out with a man singing about being all macho and slowly slides into a ditty about a cross-dresser, while his sweetheart goes from beaming happily to openly weeping. (No, it’s not politically correct. But come on, it’s Monty Python.)

In a mischievous moment, I took this link, pasted it into a tweet, and posted it to K & U, since we all follow one another on Twitter. I figured it was good for a giggle or two.

But Kajira grabbed the brat ball and ran with it.

Last weekend, while John and I were at lunch, I was thumbing through my Twitter notifications and saw that U had replied to my tweet (which K had liked, retweeted and commented on). It seems the alarm on his phone had “somehow” been changed to the Lumberjack Song.

I burst out laughing in the middle of the restaurant, no doubt startling everyone around me. Brilliance. Sheer brilliance.

But wait, there’s more. Today, U tweeted that K had also purchased napkins in a plaid flannel pattern. I damn near fell off my chair.

This, my friends, is a classic example of clever bratting. It’s funny. It’s creative. It harms no one, insults no one, doesn’t mess up anyone’s clothes or break anything. The payback will be as fun as the execution of the prank. Silly String and water guns are for the Brat Bush League. Kajira has firmly established herself as being in the Majors.

I’m so proud.

As an aside, I’ve had an affinity for the Lumberjack Song for a long time. Years ago, when we were at Shadow Lane, John began a tradition of singing to me, when I couldn’t get out of bed during the day:

♪ She’s a cutie-pie and she’s OK,
She’s spanked all night and she sleeps all day!♫

😀

(To everyone who commented on my last post, or who wrote to me, who cared, thank you. I’ll have more about that another time. Today, I just wanted some fun.)

The abyss

Sometimes…
I think
my life
may be
only a dream.
No such luck
Sorry.

— Me. Age 16.

Going dark for a little while, kids. See you when I climb out.

More photo no-nos

I’m on a roll here, kids. Since I critiqued unfortunate butt shots earlier, now I’m moving on to another potential photo disaster — the awkward screen grab face.

A little photo 101: When producers shoot videos, they of course will want stills to post on their sites, on FetLife, Tumblr, etc. to advertise their work. There are two ways to attain photos — one, you shoot stills between/after the video scenes, and two, you get “screen grabs” from the videos. With a variety of software available — some of it free — one can play a video, freeze the action, and capture what’s on the screen as a still shot.

There are advantages to both methods. Obviously, a still shot is more posed and perfect and the participants can tweak it to achieve the right look. But there is an immediacy and authenticity to screen grabs, capturing the action in ways that a posed shot simply can’t.

HOWEVER: screen grabs also capture the people mid-sentence, mid-grimace, mid-scream, whatever. And the face can be frozen into something that looks utterly ridiculous. When taking screen grabs, the grabber should consider all aspects of the photo — the position, the action, and yes, the facial expression. But alas, oftentimes the latter is ignored, as evidenced by the plethora of screen grabs I found of Yours Truly out there.

Yup, this time, I’m featuring my own self in the Bad Picture Examples. Enjoy.

My first example is a comparison between a good screen grab and a bad one. This is from the DVD box of Spanking Epics’ “Trouble in Carson’s Gap,” with Keith Jones:

You can tell this is a screen grab, not a posed shot — my hair is messed up, I’m not looking at the camera, but it has a wonderful sense of immediacy. However, in yesterday’s search, I found this little gem. Same scene.

What the hell? I look stoned!  Who looked at this and thought it was a good screen grab?

While we’re on Spanking Epics, here’s a shot from “The Reckoning.” Keith looks fine. But what the hell am I doing?? Neck exercises?

This next one made it very clear to me that someone is out there trying to make me look stupid. Here’s a grab of me, with Devlin O’Neill, in Shadow Lane’s “Stand Corrected.” WTF is this face about? (sorry, lousy picture quality, but even a good resolution couldn’t save this)

Who put this up, dammit??? I look like a chicken trying to lay a square egg.

And finally, a comparison between a well-taken still and a poor screen grab. This is one of my favorite photos from Pandora Blake’s Dreams of Spanking, “The Workaholic,” with Paul Kennedy:

If I do say so myself, how perfect is this? I’ve got my classic “righteous indignation” face on, Paul is giving me a deliciously toppy scowl, the hairbrush is in action, our body positioning is spot on. This picture makes me happy.

But then, there’s this floating around out there — why, I don’t know:

Why? WHY? Instead of looking pained and furious, I look like I was just force-fed cottage cheese. At least this one is an equal opportunity insult, since Paul looks kinda goofy too. 😀

What’s the message here? Please, people — producers, videographers, amateurs who love screen captures — choose your end product wisely. A piece of footage will have literally hundreds of screens you can grab as a still. Make the extra effort to freeze the shots where everyone looks good… rather than making us look stunned, stoned, stuporous, or like mouth-breathing morons. OK? Sheesh.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Spank-atica??

Yeah, I know. It’s not a word. Yesterday, it’s what Steve suggested should take the place of my back issues and sciatica. Have to agree with him, even though the term is ridiculous. 😛

So I’ve been having on and off issues with my left hip/hamstring/lower back. I can’t even tell what the origin is anymore. I just know it’s been sore and stiff and annoying. If I exercise and stretch, it hurts. If I do nothing, it still hurts. So, per the instructions of my toppy new chiropractor, I’ve been exercising and stretching, icing, and rolling around on a tennis ball to deeply massage the areas. Sounds weird, but it’s quite effective. I’m fully functional, not in major pain, just uncomfortable.

After an hour of deep tissue massage and manipulations on Monday, I was a little leery about having any heavy impact on my butt. Even though the pain isn’t there per se, the adjacent tissues seem to freak out nonetheless. So I told Steve, how about we go for pure sting and minimal impact today? I reallllly wanted to feel that bite and sting, but I didn’t want the underlying muscle spazzing out on me.

Turns out, that was just the ticket. 🙂

Steve went straight to the kitchen drawer to retrieve three different spatulas. (Why do I have all this crap when I don’t cook??) Those, plus the riding crop, made for a wonderful selection of sting, with wrist flicking and minimal thud, but my skin felt like I’d sat on a hornet’s nest.

You can see how, when we started, Steve was a little timid, not wanting to hurt me, concentrating all the strikes in the center. (That changed, of course. But I thought it was cute.) The picture quality is subpar, because he didn’t bring his camera, and therefore we used my antique phone.

As the sting spread and built, I had to remind myself to relax, give into it, don’t tense up. My body still wants to resist, even though my mind and soul crave it. Hearing Steve croon “Breathe, baby” is helpful. Basics. Breathe. Relax. Feel. Accept.

And as you can, by the time we reached the end, he’d spread the burn a bit more. I like the angle of this photo, but it’s also a little rude, so you get the edited version. No complaining. 🙂

It seems Operation Spankatica was a success. Last night and this morning, I felt a prickly residual sting and warmth, but no muscle pain. I’m going to see how the gym feels later. Thank you, Dr. Steve.

And back to my chiropractor for a moment — I swear, the man is a top. Or a wannabe top, anyway. I’ve seen him three times now and every time he’s said something that gives me that kinky startled pause. On Monday, when he had me twisted into a pretzel on the table, he gleefully exclaimed, “This is gonna SUCK!” And when I squirmed around, he said, “Where do you think you’re going? You’re not going anywhere.” Oh, Christ.

However, all kidding aside, he knows his stuff, and I feel like he’s going to be helpful. The one chiro I tried before I found him? She was the pits — barely did anything, her muscle stimulation equipment didn’t work (to which she said, “My machine doesn’t like you”), and she freaked me out, saying things like “I’m not happy with your back” and “This is not good at all” and “I can’t adjust you today; you’re too tight. You’ll have to come back.” (By the way, even though she claimed she couldn’t adjust me, she still charged me full price.) When I saw this guy for the first time and he assessed everything, I asked what he thought, if I was as bad as the other doc said. “Nah,” he said. “Sounds like she was just trying to keep you coming back. I don’t do that; you call the shots and come in when you feel like you need to. I’m not trying to finance a yacht.”

So, more to be revealed on this one, methinks. 😀  Happy hump day.

Revisiting the “Dreaded Mush-Butt”

How many of you go wayyy back with me, reader-wise? As in, when this blog was on MySpace? Six years ago, in April 2010, I posted about one of my biggest peeves in spanking photos. I decided, since I’m not seeing any improvement in this scourge, it was time to revisit the topic. Before anything else, I will repost the original piece of writing. Many of you didn’t see it the first time, but who remembers this? (Sorry, the photos are a bit blurry.)

April 13, 2010 — Disclaimer: The following is My Opinion Only. Your opinions may vary. Feel free to chime in either way.

Bet you guys know what I’m talking about just from the title, without seeing an example. Anyone who has ever been in spanking videos or photo shoots, had spanking pictures taken of them or simply viewed these pics online knows. Some call it an “impact shot”; I call it the “dreaded mush-butt shot” (hereinafter called the DMBS). A photo that captures the exact moment when the hand or implement strikes the bottom and flattens it.

A lot of men seem to like these shots. I can’t speak for all women, but I can (and do) speak for this woman — I detest them! I think they are criminal. Universally unflattering, no matter what kind of bottom the woman has. NOTE: This is not a weight commentary. It doesn’t matter what size, weight or shape the bottom is; when it’s photographed in this manner, the most perfect bottom on the planet will still look lumpy, squished and misshapen.

That poor girl. She must have cringed at the above shot. Who wouldn’t? What woman wants to see her bum smooshed out like that? Bottoms are beautiful things; full, rounded and smooth. Don’t show them like this, for God’s sake. Where’s your humanity?

We’ve all had the DMBS crop up amongst our photos. Yours truly has had them too. But I make damn sure, whenever possible, that they are swiftly relocated to the cyber trash.

Of course, some of this flattening is due to (again, My Opinion Only) poor technique. Look how these men are striking — completely flat-handed. Hello — your hand is not a board, and the bottom is not a tough cut of meat to be flattened. Take a minute to cup your hand to the bottom you’re spanking; form your fingers around it, take on its shape. Then your smacks will be delivered with a crisp SNAP instead of a dull thud, and the pain and sting will be imparted without pounding down your target like bread dough.

Such an otherwise lovely photo, a lovely behind. Too bad the spanker is plowing into her like a pile driver.

So to recap, folks — just stay away from the DMBS. Don’t take them. If you take them by accident, delete them. I really don’t think any woman wants to see her butt in that state on the Internet. Be kind. Be flattering. Show your spankees in their most flattering photos.

Of course, with some heavy, thuddy, flat implements like thick wooden paddles and solid, inflexible straps, the DMBS is inevitable:

The solution? Simple. Avoid these implements altogether. They suck anyway.  Oh, and while you’re at it, avoid that position too. But that’s another subject.

End of original. As I recall, this actually got Chrossed; his tag line for the post was “I guess I like them.” (It’s OK, sir, I forgive you.)

What brings this up again? Like I said, I’m not seeing any fewer of these atrocities. Here’s the latest one that got my cringe on.

An otherwise perfect photo. Hunky guy, beautiful naked girl, a lovers’ spat in the boudoir. He’s oh-so toppily gripping her hair (yes, I know that’s not a word. Shut up. Blogger’s license) and uttering a yummy challenge.

Aaaaaand he’s giving the poor girl a most unattractive case of Pancake Ass. Am I the only one whose eye is irretrievably drawn away from all the sexy aspects of this photo to focus on the flattened Frisbee that is her backside?

And finally, does this hand have a license plate? I’d like to report it.

By the way, I have no idea where any of these photos are from — I plucked them at random from a search of “spanking impact shots.” If you know the origin of any of them, please feel free to identify them.

But my point remains the same: The DMBS needs to be eradicated. There ought to be a law. Bottoms, rise up and let your voices be heard. Stop allowing the posting of pictures where a bottom is more flattened than roadkill. It’s just wrong. Some of us log too many hours in the gym to countenance our bottoms looking like a deflated ball the cat dragged in.

And on that note, I’m headed to the gym. Happy Monday.