Help with Drop

You know what helps with drop? Well, yeah, more spanking. But besides that?

Cake. Cake is good for drop. Chocolate cake, even better. German chocolate cake = best.

Drop is real

This morning, I watched Jillian Keenan’s latest video about Spanko Drop, something that many of us can relate to. It’s the sucky side of what we do, the what-goes-up-must-come-down reality of it. I think she detailed it well and covered all the salient points. We all need to know what this is, that we’re normal, and that we’re not alone.

And that it will pass. I am reminding myself of that right now, actually.

Last week I got to play. It was intense and lovely and stimulating and exciting. C was sweet and did all the right things, checking in with me in the days that followed. I wish more tops understood about how some of us need those check-ins. Then again, we bottoms need to make that need known more, it seems. We just expect that the top knows. Not always the case.

My stress levels have been off the charts recently for various reasons. After my scene last week, I think my body finally rebelled, everything surfaced, and my legs erupted in hives. I get these periodically, stress hives, and there’s nothing I can do about them except take Zyrtec, douse them with calamine lotion, Benadryl cream, and aloe vera, and wait them out, willing myself not to scratch them and trying not to fixate on how ugly they are. Then I went to my chiropractor with my right hip hurting and he said those muscles were in spasm. Oh, goody. So I slogged through the rest of the week itching and hurting and struggling to keep up with work and do what needed to be done.

Now I feel a little better physically… but my mood is blech. And I’m recognizing it as drop. “Yeah, but you got to play!” I hear people saying. I did. But I don’t know when I will again. I’m feeling so out of the loop with the community I once called home. I’m missing friends I once had. Still dealing with Covid isolation and struggling to figure out what’s okay and what isn’t. I don’t want to live in the past. I want to forge ahead and make new memories, have more joys. And have them more frequently.

So yeah, I guess I’m droppy today. Which is totally normal. Knowing that makes it much more acceptable. I am grateful I have a name to put to these feelings, a very real physiological and emotional reason for them. It’s the adult version of post-birthday crash. Or post holidays, or whatever thrilled us and wound us up as kids.

Here’s to self-care. Here’s to compassion and empathy for people dealing with this. And here’s to knowing that we are okay.

The face of fulfillment

Right here. This woman.

Why do I take a selfie every time I play? Simple. I want to remember how good I felt.

It was a bit late, but I finally got my birthday spanking yesterday. I still can’t believe that C drove 10 hours from Oregon, played with me for a couple of hours, and then turned around and drove back. I feel… special. ♥

We met at the same hotel he’d stayed at last time, around 10 a.m. Because he was leaving that same day to head back, we didn’t have a long preamble, just got right into our play. I saw that he had laid out several implements — two straps, a hairbrush, a cane, and… what?? A skinny wooden paddle?? I squawked at that, and he said that there had to be just a taste of wood. (Who says?? Humph.)

This room had a couch, so we made immediate use of it, with a nice long warm-up OTK. C warms up so slowly and gradually, I’m never fully aware of just how hard it ends up being. By the time he is going full bore, I’m so zoned out, I’m absorbing it like a sponge. Soon, it was time to move to the bed, lie over pillows, and feel the implements, along with a lot more of his hand.

I felt the magic happening from the start. All the stress and anxiety of recent weeks slipped away, and I was in the moment, soaking up the sensations. Because I have trained myself (for the most part, anyway) not to scream and yell (video was one thing; playing in my apartment is another), I heard my telltale sounds slipping out into the pillow — the groans, the yips, the squeaks, the gritted-teeth growls. I could tell he ramped things up a bit from last time; I had to hunker down, breathe deep and concentrate through some of the flurries. So damned intense.

I vaguely remember the two straps. One of them felt completely sublime; the other had a real bite to it. I meant to ask him which was which, but of course, I forgot.

He went up and down my thighs, even a little bit on the insides of them. He’s a big fan of the sit spots. Holy crap… by the time we got to the cane, I was feeling tenderized. He stood at my left hip, tapping the cane up and down, throwing in hard strikes, mixing it up, surprising me every time. It was delicious. At one point, he stopped and walked around to the other side of the bed, so he was now striking from my right. My bleary mind went “Huh??” but I waited to see what he had in mind. I felt the tip of the cane tap-tap-tap on my left upper thigh, and then swat, a stinging cut hit me there, making me rear up and screech a bit. “Ah, there it is,” he mused, and then went on to explain that I had a cane stripe on my right thigh, and he had to create a matching one on the left so I wouldn’t be lopsided.

Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do I harp on and on about? Uneven coverage! (Although I think it was Ten who trademarked the phrase “Make it even.”) It’s true… I hate it. You’ve all seen them — the pictures where the bottom’s left cheek is pink and red, and the right cheek looks like it was run over by a tractor and thrown on a barbecue grill. Blech! So, of course my words and sentiments were coming back to bite me. In the best way, of course.

I do look nice and even, no? See, one stripe on each thigh.

“Do you remember when I said this was going to be challenging,” he asked, back at my left side, hunkering close to me. “Ye-e-e-s?” I answered. “Take a deep breath,” he said.

Hard, long, fast flurries followed. He did this two or three times, I forget which. Once for sure with his hand and once with the hairbrush. He held me tight so I could barely squirm as I screamed into the pillow. And then we were done. I collapsed into the pillows, breathing hard, dimly aware of him moving around, putting lotion on me, rubbing my back, lifting my hair and wiping the back of my neck with a towel (we had the AC on, yet somehow, things got very warm).

We wound down a bit and talked, but he needed to get on the road, so I put myself to rights and he walked me to my car. He said next time, he’ll plan to stay longer, so we can hang out a bit more. I would like that. But I know how very busy his life is. I was beyond grateful for what he gave me.

When I got home, I was wired. I felt no pain. I felt nothing but the fizzing in my veins. So I worked, I worked out, I was a machine, cranking things out. Because I knew the crash was coming. Sure enough… this morning when I woke up, I felt like I’d been hit by a bus (again, in the best possible way). Somehow, with the help of caffeine and Tylenol, I got moving. But all day so far, my brain has felt like oatmeal. Ah, for the luxury of hunkering down under a comforter all day. Adulting blows.

But I wouldn’t change a thing.

Thank you, C. ♥