Legacy, shmegacy

Yet another bit of time-wasting nonsense on Twitter is a program called Curious Cat. You can set it up so your followers can ask you questions, anonymously. Also, the program generates a Question of the Day. Usually, it’s something fairly generic and insipid, like what book changed your life, what’s your biggest fear, would you be a kid again if you could, blah blah blah. The other day, CC asked: “What do you want your legacy to be?”

I had to think about that. Who has legacies, anyway? People who accomplish great things? People who lead, who contribute, who create, who entertain. Who paint, build, compose music. Who invent things we can’t imagine living without once we have them, even though we did before. Who cure diseases. These are but a select few. Most of us shuffle into this life in obscurity and shuffle off the same way. As my father put it, life is but an entrance, an exit, and a lot of bullshit in between.

Legacies are often in families — those who have children, who pass their names and their experiences on to future generations. Not a possibility with me, as I did not have children. Perhaps legacies, then, for childless people, are how others remember them. If they made an impression — good, bad or otherwise.

It seems you don’t really get to find out what others think of you until you die. And then, unfortunately… well, you’re dead. You don’t get to know. So you live your life the best you can, and hope that overall, you’ve had a good impact. If you have an impact at all. If you mattered.

This is where I find myself separating Erica Scott and Erica [real name], which is silly, because they are one and the same. But I can’t help thinking that Erica Scott has made much more of an impression. Erica Scott put herself out there, exposed herself physically and emotionally. Erica Scott is on film and in writing. Erica [real name], on the other hand, has lived a very quiet and reserved life. No marriage, no kids, no grand career, no accomplishments to speak of (with the exception of a successful relationship). If you Google her, you don’t find anything.

So what indeed would be my legacy? How would I be remembered? So many possibilities.

• The expressive writer with so much to say, who filled countless journals and blogs, who self-published three books, but who spent most of her time perfecting other people’s writing.
• The depressive, glass-half-empty kind of girl, spending her days doing her best to dodge the abyss.
• The snarky, opinionated bitch.
• The woman who cried way too often, but when she laughed, you could hear her in the next county.
• The empath who listened, who cared, who felt the pain with others.
• The introverted recluse who hated the phone and hated to travel.
• The survivor.
• The mercurial, moody, maddening and often misunderstood woman who people either loved or couldn’t fucking stand.
• The woman with the peanut brittle exterior and the marshmallow heart.
• The contradiction: Cynical, yet still hopeful. Bitter and sweet. Sarcastic and compassionate. Cussed like a sailor, but had an almost pathological revulsion toward the c-word. Independent and autonomous to a fault, yet hungrily craving attention and validation.
• And yes, the woman who broke all the rules in the fetish world, starting to act in spanking videos at an age where most bottoms are long retired — and continuing to do so for eighteen years. Who got into the scene late and made up for lost time in every possible way.

A segue at this point: One more stupid trend circulating the interwebs lately is the Ten Year Photo Challenge. People are posting two pictures of themselves, side by side, the pictures being ten years apart. Yeah, this is fun… if you’re like 15 to 25. Or 25-35. Or even a youthful 35-45. Anything past that is just a public, pictorial announcement: “Hey! Look how I’ve aged!” Fucking depressing.

So the other day on Facebook, I casually commented that I wouldn’t be doing this challenge, because I didn’t need another reason to feel bad about myself. Then, someone who I suppose thought this was helpful, commented to me, launching into a lengthy, rambling lecture about how we need to embrace the various stages of life, that we have to choose to be happy. (Excuse me, but if one more person says that latter thing to me, I’m going to explode into a million pieces.) That I should find another avenues, like volunteering. And she ended it with “Your [sic] worth more than some tacky films.”

Um… excuse me?

Yeah, I know. Spanking videos are hardly classic film. They ain’t Shakespeare. And I’m not naive — I know they’re mostly used for wank fodder.

But to me, they represented freedom. They represented my expressing a part of myself that I kept stifled for years and years. They were some of the best times of my life. Despite the fact that I was performing, I was often my most real, authentic and joyous self doing those tacky films.

I have had women write to me over the years, telling me I inspired them to explore their own kinks. I think they saw me and thought, “Hey, look at her. She’s not twenty. She’s not conventionally pretty. But she’s doing this. She’s got the guts to be who she is.” In this way, I touched lives, perhaps more than any other way. If that’s tacky, then so be it.

So, back to the legacy thing. I guess we all end up being remembered, within our own circles, by a hodgepodge of things. I think the following captures my own little personal hodgepodge concisely and with my signature sardonic humor:

Here lies Erica [real name], AKA Erica Scott.
Tongue was often too sharp.
Heart was often too soft.
Ass was just right.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Some things never change

No matter how many years you spend in TTWD, no matter how many experiences you have, how many things you try, how carefully you hone your own personal interpretation of your chosen kink to where it is fulfilling and joyous… there’s always going to be some nitwit out there telling you you’re doing it wrong.

A few years ago when I was playing regularly with He-Who-Is-No-Longer-In-The-Picture, we used to shoot a lot of goofy videos of our play, some of which I posted on Spanking Tube. One especially popular one was when I’d written a spanking parody of the Beatles song “If I Fell,” and he made me sing it on video — while being spanked.

I still get occasional comments on that one, positive ones saying that it was funny and entertaining. And then yesterday I got this — verbatim, poor grammar and missing punctuation intact:

A spanking not supposed to be fun its supposed to make her correct her bad behavior

Oh, yeah? Says you, illiterate one. Although you’re probably right in one respect: I doubt that spanking or any other kind of kink play is fun when you’re involved.

Who the hell are you, or anyone else, to say what spanking is “supposed” to be? Who are you to deny the unbridled joy that some of us feel indulging in a favorite pastime and fulfilling our desires? Spanking — and all other forms of kink/BDSM/what have you — means myriad things to countless people. There is no “supposed to.” There is no “one true way.” And to impose your rigid (and unsolicited) view and dump on someone else’s pleasure is most unwelcome.

Just a reminder, to anyone out there reading who is new to all this: Don’t let others tell you how you’re supposed to do this thing. Discover for yourself, through trial and error, through following your instincts, what works for you. If it’s discipline, great. If it’s for fun, that’s also great. If it’s a complex mix of the two, have at it. What pushes your buttons and brings you floaty joy, as long as it involves consenting adults, is what it’s supposed to be.

Tell you what, stupid stranger. I’ll go on doing my thing the way I like doing it; if that’s “bad behavior,” oh, well. Report me to the kink police, why don’t you. Or better yet, why don’t you work on correcting your bad grammar and mind your own fucking business, hmmm?

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Monday. Today, it is cold, dark and rainy outside. I have my heater running, warm clothes on, a full fridge, classical music serenely playing in the background, and plenty of work to keep me busy. I don’t have to go anywhere; I can work out in the apartment gym if I want to. I am safe and insulated and at peace in my little bubble.

I know the rain will end, outside life will encroach, and I will need to leave my bubble and re-enter a world that feels ugly and unkind to me. But for this moment, I wish I could stay in here forever.

So anyway…

I feel like I want to write something here, even though I’m not sure what that is. I used to think I had to have something special, something of interest or intrigue, to post, but perhaps this blog can also be a place for me to ramble.

I miss playing. I really do. No, it’s not physically essentially like air, food and water. But it is emotionally essential. It’s a part of my makeup. Even when times are funky and I’m down, the cravings come when I least expect them.

People ask, “Isn’t there anyone available to play with you?” That’s not the question. It’s more like “with whom I want to play.” Because despite my neediness, I still prefer quality. I would rather go without than settle for an experience that doesn’t fulfill me. That’s the weird dichotomy of spanking, for me. The good ones can be so rich, so intensely wonderful and memorable in every way. But the not-so-hot ones? They are almost repulsive. It’s like having sex with someone you’re not drawn to. Why would you? Just for the sensation of being screwed? I’ll never want sex — or spanking — that much.

And, unfortunately due to circumstances of recent times, I do not feel safe or comfortable seeking what I need. Because the last time I admitted to neediness, to vulnerability, it bit me in the ass. Not in a fun, sexy way, either. So even though there are those I would indeed enjoying seeing for some play, I will not be the one to ask.

Regarding the party at the end of February… because I know how the gossip train is in this scene, I figured my hesitation about it would get back to the host, and his feelings would be hurt, which I do not want. So I headed things off at the pass and wrote him a long message, explaining what was going on with me and that my desire to withdraw from everything had absolutely nothing to do with him and I loved him dearly. He wrote back to me with such sweet words, I wept. I am a treasured friend and the party wouldn’t be the same without me. That he really wants me to be there, so please, please come.

So. I booked our room. That has to be done in advance. As for the rest, I have a month and a half to think about it. Everyone says I should go. Part of me wants to, so much. But the ugly, bleak voice within that seems to have taken over in recent weeks keeps saying no.

What else am I thinking about… oh, just random stuff. Like, remember I mentioned watching the Twilight Zone marathon over New Year’s? We happened to catch “It’s a Good Life.” Y’all know that one, don’t you? It’s the classic about the town that is being held hostage by a monstrous child, six-year-old Anthony Fremont? A child with too much power, but a complete dearth of empathy or caring? Who hates everyone who doesn’t like him, eliminates necessary things simply because he doesn’t care for them? Just one tiny little man-child, running the town according to his whims, making everyone suffer.

I was especially remembering the part where the party guest gets drunk and loses it, pleading tearfully to the others in the room to please, PLEASE, somebody, grab something heavy when he’s not looking and lay it across his skull, and end this once and for all?? Of course, no one did, but they all wanted to. The poor guy died for his outburst. And then for good measure, the little bastard changed the weather so it would ruin all the crops.

Why am I thinking about this so much? Eh, no particular reason…

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Another year over…

… a new one just begun.

So I guess this is the time where we reflect on the accomplishments of the past year. Here’s mine.

No small feat, really. It was a tough year, the latter part in particular.

The good news? I have a lot more work. The first half of the year was so slow, I had to dip into savings to pay bills. Now I have more than I can keep up with, which, even though it stresses me out sometimes, I’m happy about.

In other news? I am slowly disappearing.

I spent Thanksgiving at home working. My choice.

I spent Christmas Eve and Day at home, working. Also my choice.

I have not been on FetLife in over a month, and have no desire to return to it. I tweet, and I play games on Facebook. But my online footprint is fading.

I have not played in nearly two months. I miss it. But I don’t push for it, either. Because damned if I’m going to allow myself to appear needy again.

There is a big spanking party coming up end of February. Normally I am counting the days toward this event. This year, I am seriously considering skipping it. I really don’t believe anyone will care whether I’m there or not, and I am having a hard time imagining putting myself out there, making the effort to go. Not when just getting out of bed each day is a Herculean effort.

Did something happen? Yup. What? Sorry. Not going into it. There was actually a buildup of several somethings, but one last thing piled on and my personal house of cards collapsed. Suffice it to say that I am now questioning everything. Who my friends are. Who I can trust. And above all, myself. My instincts in people. My place in things. My worth — not just in this scene, but in this life.

No conclusion jumping, please. John and I are fine. We spent New Year’s Eve together, see? He is my one constant, through it all, through all the comings and goings of others in my life. He stays. He loves me. He keeps me going.

So, for 2019. With all the talk out there about walls, perhaps it is time to build up my own. Tuck away and protect my vulnerability. Enjoy what I can, when I can, but stay guarded. Because I’m tired of hurting. I just want to be numb.

I truly understand why people drink. Or use drugs. There’s a whole fucking lot to escape in this life. Fortunately — or unfortunately — I need control too much. My heart may be battered, but hey, my liver is in great shape. Guess that’s something.

Anyway. This is where I am. And now I need to get back to work, and back to the gym. Life goes on.

I hope my friends out there had happy, safe holidays. Be kind to each other. Have some extra fun for me.