Heil to the Cheeto…

…and willkommen, Adolf Twitler. Or should I say пожаловать?

Don’t bother looking it up; it’s “welcome” in Russian. Hey, we might as well start learning it. Our new POS — er, POTUS has been, so he can understand his new owner when Putin says, “Suck my d$&k, my little orange pet.”

In light of the recent revelations, I wonder just what’s in that bottle…

Stay healthy, friends. And try to freeze your ageing process for a while. Because you won’t be able to afford getting sick or growing old once your health insurance, Medicare and Social Security are gutted. Oh, and ladies, stockpile your birth control, because Planned Parenthood is on the chopping block too.

To those who are sneering, laughing, gloating, and saying things like “Your tears taste delicious,” I’d say the last laugh will be mine, but sadly, I’ll be screwed along with the rest of you. And to the poor ignorant fools who are now screaming, “Wait… what?? The Affordable Care Act and Obamacare are one and the same? Nooooo! My health insurance!” I’d feel sorry for you, but… Nahhh. I don’t.

Think I’m making this up? It’s already happening. Behold one of the many examples from http://www.areyousorryyet.com. Two real tweets, one month apart, same person.

Schadenfreude? You bet your ass. This is what happens when you don’t believe what’s right in front of your face. We tried — and tried, and tried — to tell you.

Sleep well, democracy. Hope we can revive you before too much damage is done and we become even more of a laughing stock than we are already.

Vote for me?

So yesterday, as I was trundling along on the treadmill, my mind wandered as it is wont to do, and I had what I consider a brilliant brainchild.

Consider the following:

• I am one kinky, nasty woman;
• I speak my mind often and tell it like it is, even though some people would prefer that I STFU;
• I know zippity squat about how to run a country, but clearly, that doesn’t matter; and
• I tweet a whole lot (going on 20K now)

I should run for president in 2020!! Not just the first woman, but the first kinky president! Hey, if we can have a PeePee President, why not a Spanko President?

Imagine the possibilities for slogans!

• Embrace your inner safe, sane and consensual sadomasochist, America! Spanking pain is temporary; nuclear vaporization is forever!
• Healthcare that everyone can count on, permanently — no one will piss it away!
• Erica Scott’s promises are as solid as a frat paddle — with no (loop)holes!
• Erica Scott will stand with you — since she can’t sit!
• You can’t have America without Erica!
• Red is the New Orange!
• Erica Scott: Make America Black & Blue Again! #MABBA

Of course, John would be the First… what? We’re not married, so already, I’m breaking tradition. But so what? We’ve been together for over 20 years; that’s longer than a lot of marriages. (Just ask the upcoming Commander in Cheat.) So, I guess John could be First Switch, Top of your Bottom in Chief. And then there’s my cabinet — oh, so many boxer briefs and panties to fill. But I think I’d start with Paul Kennedy as Spanker of the House, and make Alex Reynolds Secretary of the Posterior. Perhaps Michael Masterson should head up the Lap of Justice Department.

My White House pet would be a giant white dog (she’d have to be white, so I could name her — what else? — Snowflake, and any breed would work except sheepdog). I would train my faithful companion to always hide (or bury) wooden implements. She’d never bite anyone, but she’d growl menacingly whenever she sees someone anything orange.

One of my first acts would be to declare the non-consensual grabbing of pussies to be a capital offense. (Just to be clear, I’m talking about real non-consent, not our type of “oh, please don’t… don’t… don’t stop” consensual non-consent.) And ladies? From now on, no one will be able to get up into your business — unless you want them to, of course!

Tolerant, respectful people — of all nationalities and colors, all religions (or none), all genders (whether born or chosen), all orientations, all sizes and shapes, all ages and income levels — will be treated in turn with tolerance and respect. Those of us who choose not to follow the tried and true societal dictates will not be shamed, but welcomed. None of this bullying/prejudice/discrimination shit on my watch! This is America, not AmeriKKKa. (And yes, your leader will be spanked often for her shameless word play.)

I would redesign the Oval Office, of course. My office would need corners. All staffers would be armed with guns — squirt guns. And corporal punishment would replace capital punishment (but only for vanilla offenders, since kinky offenders would like it way too damn much).

What do you think, readers? Can you add any ideas? Would you vote for me? Come on, I couldn’t possibly be any worse than what’s coming. You’ve got nothing to lose but your inhibitions — and possibly your underwear. 😀

What’s in a name?

Actually, quite a bit, if we’re talking about choices for scene/kink monikers. What prompted this? This week, I saw two of them that were such a turn-off, I wouldn’t even bother checking out the person behind them.

I’ve said before that I keep my profiles on the various kink sites, because I never know who’s out there and it never hurts to know more locals. I have many friends with whom I share TTWD, but so many of them are far away. One of said sites will sometimes email a notice to me if their algorithm somehow concludes that a potential match is brewing. So this week, I received this:

“Hey, Erica Scott! Have you met DrSausage? He’s ready to meet you!”

spraying coffee all over the screen  Dr. Sausage??? How does one get a doctorate in sausageology? Does the PhD stand for Perky Hard Dick?

When I tweeted about this, one of my friends cleverly replied, “But… he’s a doctor!” Which made me laugh. Suddenly, I was taken back over 30 years and remembering my mother, who had a dreadful habit of trying to fix me up. She’d attempted it many times, but her most egregious effort came one day when she called me and said I was going to be mad. I listened, feeling my blood pressure spike into emergency levels, while she told me about how she’d been at the beauty parlor that day and had struck up a conversation with a woman sitting next to her at the dryers. Turns out said woman had a single son. All my mother needed to hear was “single,” “Jewish,” and “doctor” — she didn’t even need a photo or any further description.

That’s right. She gave my phone number to this woman, who she’d known for about ten minutes. To give to her son, who she didn’t know at all.

I exploded. “How could you DO that?? You don’t know this woman! You don’t know her son! You don’t know anything about him — and you give my phone number to perfect strangers? And what kind of a man needs his mother to fix him up with unseen women?”

Her defense? “She seemed nice. And how bad could he be — he’s a doctor!”

Oy vey.

Yes, the guy called me, and I met him for coffee. Turned out he was cute, charming, funny and sexy, and we dated for a few years. And if you believe that, please allow me to sell you some magic beans.

Part of me was tempted to write to DrSausage and say, “Here I am, oh meaty one! Come and do your wurst!” But I decided against it.

And then, same week, I get, “Erica Scott, someone just checked you out!” I looked to see who it was.

GrannyLover.

Just shoot me now. No, wait. Shoot HIM. Yeah, I get it. He likes older women. But there needs to be a little finesse here.

News flash, pal. I don’t usually presume to speak for all women, but I’m making an exception here. There isn’t a woman on this entire f&#%ing planet who would find it a compliment, within a sexual and/or kink realm, to be referred to as “Granny.” “Mommy,” yes. I can certainly see that, even though it’s not my thing. But “Granny”? NO. What’s she going to do, bake you cookies until you beg for mercy? Knit you some ankle restraints?

I wanted to write to GrannyLover and attach a charming picture I found of a prim and proper white-haired grandma flipping the bird. But I decided against that as well.

Just another week in the life of a spanko. Have a great weekend, y’all.

The more I experience…

…the less I know, it seems. Specifically, about implements.

The above photo contains but a mere sampling of what’s out there to use on a spanking bottom. I’ve probably felt them all at some point or another. You’d think after 20+ years, I’d be an expert on implements and how they feel. But, aside from some general knowledge, I remain woefully in the dark. Which doesn’t help my ass any.

This post was precipitated by my getting together with an old FetLife friend for coffee last week, someone I haven’t seen in seven years. We chatted it up for a couple of hours and of course the subject of implements came up. He showed me a picture on his phone of his “punishment paddle” and I immediately said that would be a hard limit for me.

I’ve often said I don’t like wood and I prefer leather. However, “wood” is ridiculously general — it doesn’t account for the myriad types, thicknesses, etc. All wooden implements are not created equal. All woods are not created equal. I have heard many times that some are lighter, some are dense, some are quite tolerable and others are practically unbearable. But damned if I know which is which.

I do know that thick, heavy frat-style wooden paddles are a hard limit. When I said nay to my friend’s photo, he asked why. I said it’s just pure pain to me, no pleasure whatsoever, and the pain is BAD. I can’t absorb the impact; it thuds me down to the bone. “Even if it’s lower on the butt? Maybe people are hitting you too high with it,” he suggested. Nope. Even if it’s on the fleshiest part of my sit spots, I feel this horrible, heavy thud deep within my sit bones, and it’s wretched. I’m a tad more willing about other wood, like lighter paddles, hairbrushes and spoons, but even those are hard for me to take. I will take them on video a lot more willingly than in a private scene that’s for mutual pleasure, because they really don’t pleasure me.

So, generally, one would think leather is the ticket for me, right? Not necessarily. Because all leather implements aren’t created equal either, damn them. Thickness comes into play again, as well as wear. A buttery soft, well worn flexible strap feels entirely different from a stiff brand new one. Straps can run the gamut from a sensual snap to sheer agony. And I can’t tell just from looking at them which it’s going to be. I have made godawful mistakes in choosing implements at parties before: sometimes the most innocent looking items can be utter torture. Conversely, sometime the items that look the meanest can be fairly innocuous.

I like leather implements in general. But one of the worst things I ever felt was a double razor strap. Yeah, it was flexible. It was also thick, very heavy and very thuddy. I have made many people laugh by saying it felt like being hit with a side of beef.

And speaking of flexibility — if the give of leather feels so much more acceptable to me, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that other materials with give would also work?

Again, not necessarily.

I recall a scene at a party, many years ago, when I was playing with a top I knew well, and I knew the feel of his implements. He had a strap I loved to hate, and he wielded it with precision and evil intent. After I’d played a prank on him, he put a blindfold on me and then proceeded to strap the bejesus out of me. From the start, it hurt like hell, like nothing I remembered. I screamed and squawked and fussed, and he laughed at me. “What’s wrong?” he taunted. “It’s just my strap! You’ve felt it before! What’s the matter, are you losing your tolerance?” I gritted my teeth and bore it, took all he gave, even though my mind was screaming, “What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I take this? Why is this hurting so much?? Aaaaaaaagh!” Perhaps I was having an off night? A really off night?

It wasn’t until the next day that I found out from his girlfriend that the strap was NOT leather — it was rubber. Hence the blindfold, so I couldn’t see it. Grrrrr. I was marked like crazy, too. Deep bruises.

So now rubber is pretty much a hard limit as well. Although I guess Delrin is a sort of rubber, or similar? I will take a Delrin cane, although they hurt like a bitch.

Even canes don’t all feel the same. If I say in a general statement that canes are OK to use on me, what am I letting myself in for? I’ve never experienced a Singapore-style cane, nor do I want to. But a proper rattan caning, with a thin whippy one, in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing? Intense, but in the right head space, amazing.

I have felt everything, I think. From canes to belts to brushes to carpet beaters to tawses to crops to paddles to whips. I used to pride myself on what I could take. Nowadays, I find my desires changing. I still like to play hard… but only, ONLY if it’s someone whom I know is going to be measured, even, and careful. I no longer have any tolerance for stray shots–too high, too low, wrapping to the sides. I don’t like unevenness in cheekage. These days, I appreciate accurate and skilled players more than ever. The types I can trust with anything in their hands, no matter what it is, and know I’ll be safe and given just the right amount of pain. It’s a rarity, I’m afraid. Tops can be wonderful and kind and sensitive and skillful and many wonderful things, but still not adept with all the toys.

Perhaps now that I’m older, now that I’ve been doing this for a while, I don’t feel like I have to prove myself? (And to whom… to the scene, or to my own self?) I no longer have to show the world that I can get my ass beat all to hell with everything but the weed whacker. Or maybe I just don’t want that much pain and damage anymore? I really don’t know. But it does make me wish I understood the makings, the physics of implements better, so I could make the best choices for my play. Because, like everything else, I want quality over quantity.

But of course, there’s always hands. 🙂

Speaking of everything but the weed whacker — remember this?

Anyone else find they have been fooled by implements before? Or that something they used to like is no longer acceptable? Vice versa? Has anyone’s tolerance levels changed?

My doppelganger?

Greetings — I trust everyone had a safe and happy New Year.

Last week, I got a private message on Twitter from a friend/follower, who attached a picture with the question, “This is you, isn’t it?” I took a look, and even though I knew it wasn’t, it still took me aback.

Similar body type, and that’s a classic Erica face. I’ve been pulling that open-mouthed expression since my very first video, as is evidenced by this photo with Keith:

“It’s not me — you know how you can tell?” I told my friend. “I never bottom to women.” Also, I am not a big fan of naked spanking on video — I’ve only done it once in seventeen years — so that’s another giveaway.

So the question remains — anyone know who this is and where it’s from? I’ll bet Chross would know.

In case anyone was wondering what became of the Chiropractor Chronicles, since I haven’t mentioned him in a while, he’s still very much in the picture. Still says things that give me pause. In November, I had an appointment with on the very same day I had learned about the death of our friend, and I was already a basket case over you-know-what, so I was a wretched mess by the time I dragged myself into his office. After the opening chit-chat and finding out how I was, he said, “OK, belly down, and forget about everything except for the discomfort I’m about to inflict on you.”

If every bit of liquid in my body hadn’t already flowed out my eyes, I may very well have dampened myself over that one.

As he worked me over, he chatted up a storm, trying to get me to engage a bit. Daylight Savings had just switched over, so he commented, “Don’t you hate it when it gets dark at 5:00?” Yes, I know I’m the only one on the planet who feels this way — I answered, “No, I love it. I wish it would last longer.”

“What’s wrong with you?” he said. “You’re not a vampire!” “No, but I’m a very dark person,” I snapped back.

He scoffed. “You’re not dark. You’re very bright, you’re witty, and you can light up a room when you choose to. You’re just kind of a pain in the ass right now.”

(he should only know just how much of a pain in the ass I am)

I couldn’t see his face, as I was face down, but I could hear the gentle affection in the blunt words, and felt the brief accompanying pat on my shoulder. Funny how I can fully accept that sort of thing from someone when I know there’s no malice in it.

Back to work with me — busy busy busy. Have a great weekend, y’all.