It was 20 years ago today…

Yeah, I know, I’m dating myself with that song lyric, but whatever.

I’ve had a whole lot of “firsts” over the past twenty years. But on Memorial Day 1996, the ultimate first happened. Possibly even more monumental than the first time I had sex. On that Monday twenty years ago, I crossed over the line between fantasy and reality. After years and years of wondering and dreaming and fantasizing, at last I knew what it was like to be spanked for real.

And, as I’ve said many times in the past, it was even better than I’d imagined. I still live in the same apartment as I did then. I can look around and picture that day — the nerves, the excitement, the intensity, the sheer joy. The way my legs shook when I looked in the mirror and checked out my spanked backside for the very first time. I can still call up the man’s image in my head and hear his voice, even though he disappeared from my life as quickly as he came into it.

Twenty years! So many memories. So many spankings; hundreds, at least. Parties large and small. Video shoots. Thousands of words I’ve written, what with three books and countless posts (forums, blogs, FetLife, etc.). The parade of friends and play partners over the years. Gales of laughter. Buckets of tears. Sweet moments that touched my heart, and losses that broke it.

So many broken implements. 🙂

And, with the exception of the first three months, John has been with me through it all. ♥

The first few years involved a lot of fumbling and stumbling about, trying to figure it all out and determine my place in this new world. I think things began to fully solidify for me when Erica Scott was born in 2000. I have to laugh. Despite the evidence to the contrary in this old body, Erica Scott is merely a teenager.

When I was going through my darkness a couple of months ago, I was telling Steve how I felt like I mattered to no one and I could just disappear. That I was nobody. He said something like,”Erica Scott isn’t nobody,” to which I answered, “Erica Scott doesn’t exist.” That’s not true. She does. She’s me. Rather, she’s fully enmeshed within the soul and psyche of Erica [real name] — crazy, complicated, square peg me. As long as I live, Erica Scott will live too.

There is a sad irony to this occasion, and I’m a little embarrassed about it, honestly. On a day where the country is acknowledging so many brave souls who died, I am celebrating the day where a huge part of me began to live.

Where will TTWD take me from here? I have no idea. But I hope you’ll all stick around with me to find out.

Because, for now, I’m not going anywhere. 🙂

 

Hopping on the Meme Train

Memes — we’ve all seen them, and love them or hate them, they’re here to stay. You know, those ubiquitous pictures with funny, pithy captions that make their way across the Interwebs. You’ve seen the more common themes: Grumpy Cat. The Most Interesting Man. Batman slapping Robin. Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka. That scruffy looking guy from The Walking Dead (or is it Game of Thrones? Whatever). Some people take personal photos and create their own original memes. The possibilities are endless.

I have a major peeve about memes. (Gee, there’s a big surprise, huh?) I’ll see one that is clever and funny… and then there’s a blatant typo or grammatical error. And it ruins the meme for me. I can’t unsee the mistake, and I don’t want to forward what could have been a work of comic genius because of some glaringly stupid mistake.

The other day on Twitter, some guy I don’t know had posted a meme that was quite original. He had posted the letters T R U M P vertically, then spelled out a word corresponding with each initial. I can’t remember what the first three letters stood for, but the MP? Maniacal Putz. Pretty funny.

Except he spelled it “Manicial.” Arrggh.

Still, it was funny, so I clicked Like. Then I tweeted: “This would have been even funnier if maniacal had been spelled correctly.”

A minute later, I went to look at the meme again. All I saw was “Tweet is no longer available.” I clicked on the guy’s name. He’d blocked me.

Sheesh! Hypersensitive, much? I had to laugh. People have tissue paper for skin these days, it seems. Yeah, I know, I’m pedantic and some people find that to be a pain in the ass. Too bad, so sad. I wasn’t mean. I did “Like” it. But I guess pointing out the spelling error embarrassed him. Or he just didn’t give a damn and didn’t want to take a chance of hearing from me again. Oh well!

I know what you’re thinking. “Well, Erica, let’s see you do a better job creating memes!”

Challenge accepted.

I found a Meme Generator site, where you can take an existing template, or upload a picture of your own, and caption it. Instant meme! I figured out how to work it, and then my devious little mind was unleashed. So now I’ll share a few of my efforts. 😀

We all know this guy, don’t we?

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And while I’m on the grammar bandwagon, of course I had to make this meme, highlighting one of my biggest peeves:

I can still hear you — “What, no spanking meme?” Really, you should know better. 🙂 Here’s one with one of my favorite signature phrases:

Aaaaand finally, I felt the need to make a statement to people who aren’t fond of my particular brand of sarcastic wit. I chose the following photo, which you’ve all seen before — it’s about ten years old, but it still works:

I posted that last one on Twitter. It got sixteen Likes and two Retweets. 😀 Yes, the meme generator has generated a Frankenstein. I have seen the future and it is Erica memes.

All right, back to work for me, and then on to John’s. Have a great weekend, y’all.

That ITCH

Who knows what I mean, just from those two words? No, I’m not talking about a yeast infection. I’m talking about that urge that hits us bottoms (no pun intended) sometimes, the one where the craving for a spanking is So. Damn. Powerful, you feel like you’ll jump out of your skin if you don’t get some physical relief.

Many of us have spouses/mates/regular play partners. Some don’t. Some go to a lot of parties; others don’t have access or the funds for them. Some of us don’t play at all, just think about it, and for that, I am so sorry. We all have different spanking schedules. I am lucky enough to have a play partner whom I get to see fairly regularly, but you know, sometimes, life interferes. And most of the time I roll with that. But every now and then, that urge, that ITCH strikes so hard, I really do wish 1-800-SPANK-YOU was a thing. Order up a spanker, just like you order Uber or takeout food or whatever. You want it, you punch in the number, pull up the App, and poof. There he/she is. You even get to choose height, weight, age, hair color, banter style, level of intensity… imagine the possibilities.

It all started yesterday. Before I get into this, I want to make sure I’m being clear — yeah, I have a bit of a spanko-type crush on my chiropractor, because I really do get a toppy vibe from him. No, I don’t expect that anything would ever happen, nor would I want it to. But I’m having one hell of a lot of fun with these fantasies, so you all just get to bear with me and put up with ’em! 😀

When I walked into his office, he greeted me with, “How are we today?” To which I sniped, “I don’t know how you are, but I’m fine!” Without missing a beat, he said, “Thank you for the snark! Much appreciated. Of course, that will directly influence how hard I drive my elbow into your ass.” Right out of the gate, huh? The appointment went as it usually goes, with him working through the various knots of tension and trying to unkink me (physically, of course. No one will ever unkink my twisted little soul). He kept up a regular stream of banter, distracting me from the discomfort. At one point he was leaning his weight onto me while stretching out my hamstring, and he gleefully said, “I just love putting all my weight into pushing on such a tiny little person!” “Sadist,” I grumbled, and he replied, “Maybe a little.” AHA!! At the end of each session, he takes me into another room where they have tables with built-in massagers, and he lays me out on one of those with ice packs under my back, so I get a massage and an icing at the same time. Yesterday, he covered me with a blanket and then said, “Don’t you move for ten minutes.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “What if I do?”

So I come home from this, with my body feeling like overcooked spaghetti but my kinky neurons firing… and then Steve texts me. Poor thing… yet another sinus infection. I swear, that man is the most infection-prone person I know. Sinus infections, pinkeye, bronchitis, that thing that started out like a pimple and then damn near ate off his face… such a drag! Either his immune system is whacked, or he’s taken so many antibiotics, they don’t work for him anymore. So of course, I wouldn’t be seeing him this week.

No biggie, I thought. I had a lot of work to do today. But as I got into it this morning, I was restless. I felt snarky and prickly; I was definitely in Looking For Trouble mode, I could feel it. I wanted to be spanked like nobody’s business. No emotional involvement, nothing complicated, just the pure physicality of a man’s hand smacking my backside hard.

Times like these, it’s a damn shame that I’m not a self-spanker. It would be pretty simple if that were the case, kind of like masturbating for sexual release. But I’m not.

As I squirmed and bounced in my computer chair, eating way too much peanut butter, my mind wandered back to something that happened a long time ago, maybe 13-15 years? It was so long ago, I’d written about it on the old Southern California Spanked Wives Club forum. We were at a Shadow Lane party, sitting in the ballroom at dinner, and a very handsome young man came over to the table and started talking with someone there. My friend at the time and I started whispering among ourselves: “Who’s that?” “Damn, he’s cute!” “I’ve never seen him here before!” “He certainly is easy on the eyes, isn’t he.” We simpered on and on until John, overhearing it all, laughed at us and blurted, “Oh for God’s sake, you two! You’re making me sick! Shut up! Less talking, more action — tell you what. The first one of you who gets Mr. Dreamboat to spank you, I’ll give you $25!”

“You’re on!” we said in unison.

I won. 😀  Yup, I bratted him into it first, which was quite the triumph, considering my friend was a lot younger, had a killer body and was cuter than any one woman should be. Anyway… it turned out he lived in Los Angeles, and before the weekend was over, he gave me his phone number. “Any time you feel like playing, give me a holler,” he said. I didn’t think I’d take him up on it; he was maybe 15-20 years younger than me and I felt weird about it.

However.

There came an afternoon when I was home, back in the days when I didn’t have a regular spanking partner, work was slow, and I was feeling that ITCH. I was craving spanking so hard, it consumed my thoughts. It also overrode my pride, because I actually picked up the phone and dialed G’s number, which I’d saved. It had been a couple of months since the party, and I hoped he’d remember me. When he answered, I told him who it was and why I was calling. He sounded a bit distracted; he was polite, but it was pretty clear he was busy and wasn’t up for an impromptu play time. Feeling myself shrivel with embarrassment, I said, “OK, sorry to bother you, maybe another time,” and hung up the phone, swearing that I would never reach out like that again.

Two minutes later, my phone rang. I picked it up; it was him again.

“How bad do you want it?”

(Yeah, I know he should have said “how badLY.” But at the moment, I didn’t give a happy rat’s ass about his grammar.)

“Really, really, realllllly bad,” I murmured, feeling my heart race. Long story short, he was willing to meet up with me that evening, but I needed to drive to his place.

So. I dressed up, made up, fixed my hair, and drove approximately 35-40 miles. He lived in one of those beach communities that are notorious for having absolutely no parking anywhere. I’m not exaggerating; I drove around and around his apartment complex for twenty minutes before I finally called him in despair. He had to come out, guide me into his building’s garage, and show me where deliveries could park temporarily. What a hassle.

But I got exactly what I needed. 😀  My itch was scratched. I didn’t stay long, we didn’t talk much, it was just a spanking, nothing more. But I drove home relaxed, pleasantly sore and blissfully happy.

Spanker on Call. What a concept. That was the only time I did that with him, and I don’t think I ever saw him again after that. I don’t think I know anyone like that now, someone I can just call out of the blue, and I don’t even think I could pull it off now. I would overthink it, and think myself out of it. But damn, that was hot.

For crying out loud, there’s an App for everything these days. Why isn’t there a Spanko App?

Thanks for listening. Who else but other spankos would understand this??

Friday odds and ends

Want a few search phrases? Sure you do.

ho do shoot for spanking films

Who are you calling a ho?? I suspect they meant to type “how,” but having “ho” lead them to me is perturbing.

erica scott spanking poverty

I don’t think anyone’s ever gone broke buying my videos…

gay jewish spanking

Um… so this person is looking for spankos who are not only Jewish, but Jewish and gay? Oy. Quite a niche there, my friend. Good luck to you. In order to find what you’re seeking, you’ll need gay-dar, J-dar AND spank-dar.

doctor spanking me mom

I’m not your mom, honey. So this isn’t my problem. Why are you complaining, anyway? Haven’t you heard that medical fantasies are a hot trend?

boys spanked to tears

OK. This is a perfectly legitimate search phrase. But how, exactly, would this phrase lead people to me?? What’s the thought process here? Not that search engines think, but still.

In other news — I did it. I got a new phone. I went to Verizon yesterday and spent about 15 minutes on my own, playing with the display phones, checking out the features. I did try out a few Motorola Droids, but I was definitely drawn to the Samsung S7. Not the Edge, though. John has that, and although it’s considered the cooler, hipper phone, it’s also more expensive and honestly, I don’t like that weird curved edge with the display extending into it. So I went with the basic. I fooled around with the touch screen a bit, and made a pleasant discovery. On the Samsung phones (didn’t see this feature on any other phone; maybe the iPhone does it too), you don’t have to go to a separate screen for symbols when you’re typing. Each letter has a corresponding symbol, so if you want the symbol, all you have to do is press the letter and hold it down.

Then I found a sales guy — he reminded me a lot of Stuart on The Big Bang Theory, kinda nerdy, but he was very nice and helpful. He showed me a bunch of stuff and helped me make my decision.

The Samsung camera is superior to most of the other Androids. It will be nice to have a decent camera. The features are mind-boggling, and this is probably way more phone than I’ll ever need, but I did get an amazing deal on it because I was due for upgrades and there were promotions and so forth. My monthly bill did not go up, although now I’m on a plan with the lowest amount of data allowed. However, I barely use any now. I have all my music on an iPod, and I use my desktop to look at videos and so forth, so I can probably keep that cheapo plan. If that doesn’t work out, I can increase my data for $15 a month, no biggie. I already have unlimited calling and texting. And the $180 I paid yesterday got me the phone, the case, the protector, and the car charger. So I think I got a good deal.

Oh, and because everyone warned me, “Your stuff won’t transfer! They’ll tell you it will, but it won’t!”, I spent time downloading all my phone’s photos onto my desktop, and typing all my contacts into a Word document. I needn’t have bothered. Every single thing on my phone was transferred over cleanly, including photos, contacts, and even all my texts. It took a while; I was at Verizon for over two hours.

The first thing I figured out how to do when I got home was put up a picture of John and me as the wallpaper. Priorities, you know.

It’s Friday; off to John’s in a few hours. And guess what we get to do this weekend? Absolutely nothing!! No reunions. No dressing up. No putting on a face for a bunch of strangers. Ahhhhhhhhh. Oh, and we’ll make damn sure to go to a decent restaurant too. That new place we went to doesn’t have a Yelp page yet. When it does, I’ll have a few words for them. I think I’ll refrain from using John’s description, however. 🙂

And this Monday, I have another appointment with my chiropractor. Last time I was there, when he was helping me off the table, he held out his hand to me and said, “Come here, little girl.” I damn near died. Steve says I should toss out something like, “You know, you’re awfully toppy,” and see what his reaction is. If he asks what “toppy” means, I can just cover it up by saying it’s just another term for “bossy,” or something along those lines. Mind you, I know this is all just fantasy territory. But it’s fun. 😀

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Hump day already?

Considering that my work is super slow lately, this week is still speeding by. At least I have some fun stuff to post about.

First up, Steve’s visit yesterday. We had to skip last week, so both of us were more than in the mood for some play. My damn phone is acting up and I’m not getting all my texts, among other glitches… Steve sent me a text yesterday morning saying he was stalled at the car dealership where he was getting work done and he’d be at my place at 1:00 instead of 11:00. I didn’t get it, so by 11:45, I was stressing. But then I reached him on the phone and found out about the time change. Argh. The Phone Universe is telling me that I need to upgrade my 2012 Motorola Droid 3. But it has a pull-out keyboard and I hate touch screens! Wahhh! Must. Accept. New. Technology.

I digress. When Steve arrived and we’d caught up with everything, we decided to switch things up and take pictures before we played rather than after, mostly because he liked what I was wearing. We fooled around with lighting and positioning, trying to come up with something fun and different.

Apologies for all the busy-ness around me. And yes, I do have an “Erica” magnet on my desk lamp.

He took several pants-down pics, of course… but it turns out that my new favorite photo is myself is fully clothed. I’ve already posted this on Twitter and Facebook, but y’all just have to put up with it here, too, ’cause I like it. 😀

Of course, now we were more than eager to get to our spanking session, and it was deliciously intense. No implements this time, just a whole lot of his hand, which is formidable on its own. “I love that you need this,” he is fond of saying. Yes, I do. So much.

Still can’t believe that we’ll be friends and play partners for four years in just two months!

In other news — I’m figuring everyone knows by now that Alex and Paul Kennedy are engaged. Last Sunday, Princess Kelley gave her an engagement shower at a tea room. It was so lovely! Lots and lots of tea, all different kinds, plus finger sandwiches and scones and other treats, and wonderful service. Here’s a shot of what Kelley dubbed the “L.A. Brat Pack” — left to right, Harley Havik, Alex, Maddy Marks, Princess Kelley, and yours truly.

Look at us, all classy and stuff in our finery! 🙂 I’m the only one not dressed in spring pastels, but I look dreadful in those colors.

My aforementioned crappy phone takes poor quality photos, but I did snap this one of Alex reacting to the tiers of treats that the server had just brought us. How adorably cute is this?

One sad note: Our friend SpankCake was invited, but she wasn’t able to make it, due to other commitments. We missed you, SC!!

So yeah, my weekend wasn’t all about boring reunions and horrible food. 😉

Happy to report that Chross is alive and well! He posted after being absent for a little over two weeks. What would we do without our Fearless Leader?

Off to continue my mental preparation for a new phone…

OT: S#*t John says

Saturday was… interesting. I went with John to his 40th high-school reunion. Mind you, he went to a small-town private all-boys Catholic school, so his class was small. And it wasn’t a big fancy do, just a potluck at someone’s house.

(Warning: This is going to be a long story leading up to John’s words of hilarity. The buildup is all part of it and it wouldn’t be as funny without it.)

So, for those who know me — tell me, how much was I looking forward to going to this thing? A bunch of people I don’t know, inane small talk, having to put on an interested face when I couldn’t care less… yup, you guessed it. I’d rather go to the dentist. But this is one of those things you do when you’re part of a couple. The event was scheduled from 4:00 to 9:00; John promised we’d hang out a couple of hours tops, then he’d take me to dinner. OK, I can last through two hours. I figured we wouldn’t eat any of the potluck stuff, since we were going to dinner afterward.

It was OK at first. A flurry of greetings and introductions; looking at old yearbook photos; hearing some funny stories. I found out the host had four dogs, but unfortunately, they were all being kept in the bedroom upstairs. The table piled up with food, and I saw John starting to chow down on some hot hors d’oeuvres and homemade pizza. So much for not eating because we were going to dinner. And as he settled into various conversations, I felt my willingness to put on a face slipping away. The two-hour mark passed, and there I was, sitting outside (they had set up tables and chairs in the back yard), cold (I was wearing a sundress and it was overcast), hungry (I nibbled a few baby carrots, nothing more), bored out of my mind. I saw a few plus-ones sitting around, looking equally bored, but I didn’t have it in me to reach out to them. I went on my phone and entertained myself with that for a while… until the battery died. Finally, I went inside, went into their den and settled myself on a couch in the far corner, hoping I wouldn’t be seen.

Let’s see… no phone, so now what? I checked out the host’s bookcases. There was nothing in them but religious tomes and books about dogs. Speaking of which, I even entertained the idea of sneaking upstairs and hanging out with the dogs, but I didn’t think that would go over well if I was caught. So, realizing I wasn’t going to find any sort of distraction, I wrapped myself up in an afghan, curled up into the corner of the couch facing away from the room, and shut my eyes.

John found me there at 7:15. He promised we’d be out of there by eight. I groaned, but figured OK, I’ve made it this far. But let me tell you, kids — forget watching paint dry. There is nothing more boring than being a guest at someone else’s high school reunion. And did I mention I don’t do well with strangers? Or that it’s even worse when I’m hungry? By now, I was starving. I looked at the potluck table. The usual stuff — pizza. KFC. Chips and dip. Lasagna (now cold). Croissant sandwiches. Soggy salad. NO. Don’t start picking at that crap, Erica. You’ll be sorry. Wait for dinner.

(At least I got to see the dogs. They finally let them out.)

When we at long last left, I was lightheaded with hunger, but relieved to be out of there. John asked where I’d like to eat — of course, he wasn’t hungry, because he’d been chowing down for the past four hours! I said let’s just keep it simple; there’s a little Italian place in his town square, and he could maybe get a bowl of soup and I’d get dinner. So we drove to the town square; because everything is in a radius of few blocks, we parked in front of the Starbucks, which we’d be going to after dinner, and walked two blocks to our restaurant.

It looked the same as we approached, so we walked in. But once inside, I realized it was completely different. And then we were seated and handed menus… it wasn’t our Italian restaurant anymore. Apparently, that had gone out of business, and we were now sitting in a brand new Asian Fusion restaurant.

Translated? Pretentious foodie crap. Weird combinations and sauces and unidentifiable ingredients. I looked at the menu and my heart sank. Nothing simple, and certainly nothing inexpensive. Example? How about chicken salad sliders with truffles, currants and kewpie mayo? WTF is kewpie mayo?? Whenever I saw something I might have liked, it was immersed in something asinine. Yellowtail with jalapeno reduction. Who the hell puts jalapeno peppers on fish?? What the hell are “crispy kalettes”? Ooooh — “duet of beets”! What do they do for an encore — repeat on you? I can’t stand beets. I don’t even want a freaking solo of beets, let alone a duet.

It was too late to get up and leave, and my head was spinning at this point; I needed to eat something, anything. It was nearly 9:00. So I ordered a dinner salad and a bowl of soup with soba noodles, mushrooms and other vegetables. Can’t really go wrong with that, right? John ordered an appetizer Caesar salad. Naturally, it had kale in it, because kale is trendy.

My salad was fine; you can’t really screw up a dinner salad. Then I got my soup. The fact that the broth had a reddish tinge to it was my first hint that my taste buds were about to be assaulted. I then tasted it… it was So. Effing. Hot. And I don’t mean heat-wise. I mean spicy, burn all the way down to your gut spicy. And I hate spicy food. I don’t even like black pepper.

By now, I could have put my head on the table and cry. All I wanted to do was eat! John asked if I wanted to order something else, and I said no. I just wanted to make the best of this and get out — I ate my salad, and I managed to spoon the noodles and vegetables out of the broth and choke them down, drinking copious quantities of water every few bites. Mind you, John likes spicy food, so when I was done and the bowl of broth was left, he took it and tasted it himself, intending to finish it. But after one spoonful, he made a face.

“Forget too spicy,” he said. “This just isn’t good.”

“So it isn’t just me?” I asked.

“No, this is awful,” he replied. “It tastes like fermented rat pee.”

Aaaaand then the whole damn day and the tedium of the reunion and dead batteries and boring people and hunger and lousy food crashed down on me and I started laughing so hard, I thought I’d pass out. Tears were leaking out of my eyes and I had to clamp my hands over my mouth. “Please,” I wheezed. “Let’s just pay and get out of here.” Of course, the hostess tried to sell us on dessert (what the hell is Japanese cheesecake? Does it have seaweed in it? Miso crust? Wouldn’t be surprised!), but we politely refrained. While John was signing the credit card receipt, a man sitting behind him was looking at the menu, trying to decide on what to order. John grabbed his customer copy and scrawled, “Good luck trying to find something edible, dude!” Then he folded it up and kept motioning like he was going to toss it onto the man’s table. “NO!” I hissed, grabbing for it, and finally I snatched it from his hand and we hightailed it out of there, never to return.

So now, “fermented rat pee” is a permanent part of our private lexicon. (Guess it’s not so private now that I’m sharing it with the world!) Only for this wonderfully twisted man would I put up with such an abysmal afternoon/evening!! 😀

But here’s what I want to know: How does John know what fermented rat pee tastes like??