We’re the same, and yet we’re different, part 952

Warning: Controversy and opinions ahead.

Since there are so many photo sites out there in the spankosphere, one is exposed to an infinite amount of spanking pictures on any given day. I happen to belong to a private spanking group on Facebook, of all places, and the group leader makes a point of posting all different types of pictures, for the widest variety of appeal. Recently, within a week of each other, two photos were posted, and they elicited fully opposite reactions from me, quite extreme ones. One, I loved. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I reposted it on FetLife and asked where it was from. I looked at it again. And again. I squirmed in my chair and couldn’t concentrate on my work. Yes, it was that intense. The second one, I hated. Passionately. Everything about it. It made me angry.

So I got to thinking about how different we all are, and how these pictures touch things in some of us and trigger things in others. And how one person can love a photo and the next person will loathe it.

I’m going to post both pictures and explain why I feel the way I do about them.
This is not, repeat, not a post claiming that my likes are better than your likes, that so-and-so’s scenes are wrong and my preferences are the correct ones, etc. Because I invite anyone who wishes to comment to tell me honestly about how you feel. I’m curious what makes people tick. It’s part of my never-ending fascination with This Thing We Do.

So, without further blathering on my part, here’s the first shot, the one I loved.

Yes, it’s clearly posed. Someone on FetLife thought it was from a commercial (and vanilla) photo shoot for lingerie or something like that. Yeah… if the person who conceived of this photo setup is vanilla, I’m a virgin.

What do I love? Everything. The lighting. The attractiveness of both participants. The blissful smile on the woman’s face, the sweet curve of her bottom, the sweep of her hair. His open shirt, his hand on her butt cheek, and the sexy, hungry way he’s gazing down at her. To me, this photo is art. This is something I would actually want framed and hanging on my wall. It’s gorgeous. And it’s so damned sexy, it gives me goosebumps. And other bodily reactions.

Next, the second shot.

Obviously, this is from RGE Films. I hadn’t heard of them, so I looked them up. They specialize in extreme pain and humiliation. OK, fine, to each their own. But that notwithstanding, this picture really pisses me off.

First: how much torture is one body supposed to withstand? Is it really necessary to have extreme caning, figging, soaping, AND kneeling naked on a hard floor all at once? One, maybe two, but not all four. Overkill.

Second, and one of my big pet peeves in the scene: Terrible technique. On both women, the right ass cheek is torn all to hell, way more than the left. Why do tops do this? I get it, I know it happens by accident sometimes in a session. But come on. They can see everything that’s happening to the bottom’s body. They can see that way more damage is being incurred on one side. If they can’t see it, then they shouldn’t be spanking without glasses. If they can see it and don’t care… well. I will censor my thoughts there. Besides being excruciating, I find the asymmetry to be aesthetically displeasing. But that could just be my OCD talking.

And finally, I freaking loathe this creep hovering over them, with his scruffy bald head in the viewers’ faces. He’s probably sneering at them. He just seems… mean. I don’t mind strict tops. I don’t mind tough tops. But I don’t like mean ones.

So, here’s where it gets interesting. Because I know very well that someone else will look at this pair of pictures and see the opposite. They’ll think the first picture is sissified, romanticized, fake, too pretty. Spanking Lite. Kink viewed through rose-colored glasses. And that the second photo is raw, real, and powerful. That it appeals to the dark side, to those who crave real punishment, real pain.

I like darkness too. I just think this photo is a poor example of it.

What do you think, readers? How do these two pictures make you feel? I am genuinely interested in varied viewpoints, because, like I said at the beginning, I find this utterly fascinating.

Happy whatever

If you celebrate it, Happy Thanksgiving! If you don’t, then happy Thursday.

I like the chief’s idea better, myself. 😀

Get your ho-hos here? Probably not.

It’s that time of year again, kids. The holidays. Where I get melancholy and grumpy. (Or more so than usual.) This year, for various reasons, seems particularly sucky. Not just for me, but for so many others. I’m not even going to mention the people who have been shot to death, or burned out of their homes. (OK, I just mentioned them. I suck.) I’m thinking about the average day-to-day folks just struggling to keep their heads above water and keep treading uphill.

Today on Twitter, a trending hashtag is #InternationalMensDay. Which grates on my nerves right off the bat, because it’s missing an apostrophe and I hate that Twitter doesn’t allow punctuation in hashtags. But never mind. Of course, there is all sorts of backlash to it, sneering about how “every day is men’s day,” and then a lot of counter-argument about how victimized men are and no one talks about it. But of course, then we’ll have #InternationalWomensDay and the same reactions will occur in reverse.

These days, it seems it sucks to be just about anyone.

Let’s review, shall we?

It sucks to be a man, because of the whole #MeToo thing and how any man can be ruined by an accusation. Because they’re supposed to be strong all the time and aren’t allowed to have any human weaknesses. Because they’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t a lot of the time. Because they’re either too macho or *gasp* “too sensitive.” And so on.

It sucks to be a woman, because unequal pay/sexual harassment and assault/being considered the weaker sex/etc./etc./etc. Because we’re responsible for birth control and yet old white men are trying to rule our bodies. Because we’re supposed to stay beautiful, fit, firm, and sexy, or else we’re rejected. And so on.

It sucks to be a person of color because racists hate you.

It sucks to be a Jew because antisemitic people hate you.

It sucks to be LGBTQ because homophobes and narrow-minded people hate you.

It sucks to be a millennial, because older people sneer at you and call you a whiny avocado toast eater.

It sucks to be older, because society basically rejects you as being past your prime and out of touch.

It sucks to be conservative, because the “tree-hugging snowflakes” hate you.

It sucks to be liberal, because the “MAGA-hat-wearing, gun-toting ‘Muricans'” hate you.

It sucks to be kinky, because vanilla people judge you.

It sucks to be vanilla, because kinky people think you’re boring.

It sucks to be an extrovert, because you need people all the time and people will ultimately fail you in one way or another.

It sucks to be an introvert, because when you finally really do need someone, there’s no one there.

It sucks to have family, because they drive you crazy.

It sucks to be alone, because you envy people who have family, even though you know that those families most likely drive them crazy.

Have I missed anything? I’m sure I have. I’m sure this list is infinite.

Now is the time to trot out all the adages, the homilies, the positives, the feel-good statements, right? Meh. I think the best advice I’ve gotten all year was this, from my delightfully acerbic and possibly kinky chiropractor, of all people:

“Life sucks. Learn to embrace the suckage.”

I’m trying, but sometimes I get so damn tired. And frustrated. And sad. And feeling like every damn step I take up, I take two back. And every time I think I’ve found people to trust and believe in, I’m proven wrong. Because no matter who you are, someone hates you. For whatever stupid reason.

For the most part, I like to think I’m a good judge of character. But this year, I have made such egregious errors, I’m questioning myself. And wondering if I can trust anyone.

As for all these #InternationalSoandSoDays on Twitter — since it basically sucks to be everyone in one way or another, and everyone is struggling to rise above the morass and be heard, can’t we just have an #InternationalEveryoneDay and be done with it??

I’m going back to work.

Did ya miss me?

I haven’t blogged for a little over a month, so I have a lot of catching up to do. Honestly? What with the insanity around the midterms, mass shootings, displays of antisemitism, and lately, the horrendous fires in my state (still burning), I haven’t really felt the kink mojo. It’s hard to be lighthearted and funny and flippant when it feels like everything around you is devolving into a massive sinkhole of shit. This has been me:

(OK, my boobs aren’t that big. But whatever.)

However, life goes on and I need to remind myself of that. So here I am.

And I got to play again last week, thank you very much! Much needed stress release! Mr. Woodland paid me another visit, last Thursday (you know, after the Thousand Oaks shooting, but before the Woolsey fire exploded). This time he showed up with his toy bag. Uh-oh.

But never fear, the good Mr. W. started me off with a proper warm-up. At some point, this exchange happened:

Him: Do you prefer your underwear up or down?
Me: That’s up to you.

Although it was more like “That’s up to y—,” because I didn’t even have the word “you” out of my mouth when my panties were unceremoniously yanked to my thighs.

“Well, that was an easy decision,” he said. Humph.

Warm-up passed in the blink of an eye, it seemed. “Time for some implements,” he announced. “Get up, please.”

Well, at least he said please.

We moved to my ottoman, and he said, “Set this up the way you want it.” I protested, “Why me? You set it up last time, so you’d have room to swing.” “Fine,” he said, and nudged it a few inches with his foot — which then sent the cushions askew. “Well, now it’s crooked!” I huffed, leaning down to straighten it.

“I have a belt in my hand,” he said. “Is this really a good time to be a smart-ass?” (What better time is there?)

And so the strapping ensued. At a good breaking point, he went to get his bag. “Let’s see what I’ve got for you in this bag of treats,” he grinned.

I sweetly requested a Snickers bar. He didn’t have any.

I then got to meet several of the items in his bag, including a tawse, some sort of leather thing, and a very thin, light wooden paddle. “This is a sting-y little bastard,” he commented about the latter. “Kind of like you?” I commented in return. He sighed. “That wasn’t smart.”

It was worth it, though. 😀

More chit-chat:

Him: Well, that’s about all I can use for now. The rest [of the bag’s contents] is wood.
Me: (sighing) What’s wrong with you?
Him: I like wood!
Me: That’s what she said.

Damn, did we play hard. I could feel the strength he was putting into it, and I was drinking it in like a freaking desert in a rainstorm. I just wanted more, more, and more. Even the tawse. Normally, I’m leery about those suckers. I have had experiences in the past where one of those skinny little tails snaps into nooks and crannies that I really, really don’t want getting snapped — and I damn near go through the ceiling. But then I took a deep breath and remembered.

He knows what he’s doing.

So much so that when he seemed to be wrapping things up, I blurted, “Are you done??”

“You want more?” he asked.

“Um… maybe?”

He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for…”

Holy crap. That last round pushed my endurance, for sure. I quickly realized my error of not tossing a pillow on the carpet before we started. First, because I was scraping my elbows along the carpet as I leaned over the ottoman. Not my choice of pain. And second, because I didn’t have anything to scream into. And sometimes, you know, I just have to scream. So I ended up clamping both hands over my mouth and screaming into my palms. And all the while, I could feel the stress flowing out my pores, out of my limbs, out of my head. Magic. So lovely when I can just put myself into a man’s hands and know I’m safe. As Mr. W. says on his Fet profile, he might hurt, but he doesn’t harm. Knowing that makes such a difference.

He was impressed. “You can take one hell of a spanking, Erica,” he said. Despite the fact that I was limp as a dishrag and so sub-spacey I could barely think, I managed to croak out, “You know, this is all your fault.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Because,” I squeaked, “if you hadn’t made me wait three weeks for this, I wouldn’t have been so fucking needy!!”

I wish I could have seen the look on his face at that. “Ah… well, I think we’ll have to address that next time.” Yeah, you think?

(I was kidding, of course. I am responsible for my own stress management; no one else. But a helping hand — or strap, paddle, etc. — is most welcome.)

And so we wound down. Then, I heard the two words that always melt me into the final oblivion:

“Good girl.” Of all the sweet phrases we love to hear, I think that’s one of the sweetest. Right up there with “That’s my girl.” 🙂

He hung out with me for a while, but had to get going before the traffic got bad (or worse, really, since L.A. traffic is pretty much always bad now). Have no idea what our schedules will bring over the upcoming holiday weeks… but I hope I get to see him again before 2018 is over.

As soon as he was gone, I thought, “Oh, damn! Pictures!” So, since I was still in living color, I grabbed my phone and tried to take a mirror selfie in the bathroom. I’m embarrassed to admit how many attempts it took to get this:

I still didn’t like it, but all the physical cogitations were making my back and neck ache worse than my butt. So I broke out the old-school digital camera and timer, and tried a different angle in the living room. Unfortunately, the lighting there didn’t show the red very well. But you get the idea.

I slept well that night. Sadly, the next day brought all new stress when the damned Woolsey fire blew up and I was worried about my stepmother in Thousand Oaks (all turned out well for her, thank goodness — she was without power for a couple of days, but didn’t have to evacuate). But such is life.

What else is going on… oh, yeah. Did I mention that my Twitter account was frozen for a week? “But, Erica,” I can hear you all crying, “what horrible, egregious, terrible thing did you tweet to earn this extreme penalty??” I called Tomi Lahren a bimbo.

(Never heard of Tomi Lahren? All you need to know about her is that she’s the millennial version of Ann Coulter. And if perchance you don’t know who Ann Coulter is — consider yourself fortunate.)

Let’s review. I’ve been insulted on Twitter over everything from my age (“granny porn”) to my body (“a poor man’s Olive Oyl”) to my face (I was likened to the character “Hatchet-face” from the movie Cry-Baby. Google her) to my background (“stupid @#$%ing Hollywood Jew). I’ve been threatened (“I’d love to watch you getting gang-raped”). But my saying “bimbo” is “hateful conduct”?? Yeah, Twitter. Bite me.

So, when my time in Twitter Jail was up, I put on my prison-stripe panties, brought out the trusty digital camera again, and took this, which I posted the day I came back:

I hash-tagged it #FuckCensorship. 🙂 Interestingly, I did not get reported and penalized for it. Imagine that.

(whew) Anyway. Work continues to be busy, for which I am grateful, not only for the bill paying but for the distraction. Crazy times, y’all.

Final thought — I wish I could hug every single firefighter in California right now. ♥ ♥ ♥