2021…

… can go fuck itself with a 2 x 4. Sideways. With nails sticking out of it.

I was all prepared to post something altogether different for the last day of the year. Following the example of other bloggers doing top tens and favorites lists, I was going to write up my favorite things that tops say and do, with plenty of pictures. It was going to be sexy, sassy, and fun.

But today, Betty White died. The internet exploded in grief. And so did I. And I no longer give a rat’s ass about ending 2021 on a happy, positive note. Because it’s impossible, and to try to pretend otherwise would be disingenuous.

Look, I know she was ninety-nine years old. Even though she was a much-beloved national treasure and we all wished she’d live forever, she had a good long life. But what I cannot stand is that it was a mere eighteen days before her 100th birthday. A day that promised celebration, commemoration, live streams of Betty herself, retrospectives, the sheer joy of this incredible woman reaching such a milestone. That as I write, the goddamn newsstands are plastered with copies of the latest People magazine, with Betty smiling joyfully on the cover and the headline, “Betty White Turns 100!” Ugh.

Eighteen fucking days. But no. 2021 had to have one last punch to the gut. This miserable year had to send us all out in tears.

Yeah. I know that New Year’s Eve is the day we reflect, we think about the past year, our accomplishments, the good things that happened, things we’re grateful for. Ring out the old, ring in the new. You know what? Fuck that.

Tomorrow a new year begins. I’ll be with the man I love. I’ll take a few deep breaths, dry my eyes, and do my damnedest to look forward. To hope for better days. But right now, I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m crying. I hate life’s random cruelty, its inherent unfairness. I am beside myself with grief over all the sadness and pain of this past year. And I’m just going to let myself wallow in it for this one day.

Monday, January 3, will be a reset. On that day, I’m seeing Chris (I hope; there is a concern about snowstorms and a 12-hour drive probably should wait until better weather). Not only will it start my year off with a good experience, with something I need with all my heart and soul, it will help erase the utterly shitty play experience I had in recent months that left me feeling so lousy. It will restore my faith that there are men out there who get me, who know what I need and want, who want the same, who know how to deliver it. I told him I was worried about his drive, but he said he just got new snow tires and he’s very confident that it will go fine.

But right now, I am more than ready to kiss this year goodbye. Fuck off, 2021. Fuck off, Covid, Delta, Omicron, and all your other goddamn variants. Fuck off, anti-vaxxers who are keeping this pandemic going. Fuck off, Q-Anon and GOP. Fuck off, MAGAts. Fuck off, gun nuts. Fuck off, wildfires and all the other casualties of climate change, and the people who don’t want to cooperate with trying to save the planet. Fuck off, deaths of beloved icons. Fuck off, bazillionaires playing around in space while zillions are homeless. Go right to hell, every last one of you.

(sigh) And to my friends… I’m sorry. I really wanted this last post of the year to be better, funnier, happier. I still love you all, and wish the very best for you. Please take care, be safe, and hug your loved ones.

See you on the other side.

Festivus follies

You guys know I’m not into the holidays. When I first started seeing John, Christmas was a huge affair with multiple gatherings — his parents, his siblings, his nieces and nephews, etc. For years, I went to these things… and honestly, I hated them. Dreaded them every year. They felt forced, John’s family was never nice to him, there was too much rich food and way too much alcohol, and I always wanted to pass on it all but couldn’t. Cut to the present: his parents have passed, two of his siblings have moved away, the nieces and nephews have grown and moved on to their own lives, and the one remaining sibling in town is a hopeless drunk with a lecherous husband, and John has pretty much fallen out with them. Hallelujah — free at last.

So, these past few years, I’ve done exactly what I wanted to do for the holidays –absolutely nothing. I send cards, I get gifts for John and a few friends, but that’s about it. A few years ago, John, as a joke, made a Festivus pole from a steel pole he’d found, even attached two pieces of wood at the bottom so it would stand. And from then on, it took on a life of its own. Over the years, a tree skirt and pine cones were added, I wrapped the pole with holiday paper, and John added the topper, a knitted duck in a Santa hat (which he christened the Festiduck). I added the gold tinsel and the beads. So now, each holiday, we get into it, putting up the pole, putting cards and presents under it, and John tacks up other odds and ends of Christmas decor throughout his house.

Behold:

Festivus pole with Festiduck

Is this a reindeer, or a bear with antlers?

Mr. Snowman… bring me some snow…

That’s right — John put up mistletoe still in the box.

But wait, there’s more.

Anyone remember the video on Saturday Night Live, about 12 years ago, the Christmas satire called “D*** In A Box,” with Justin Timberlake and Andy Samberg? If somehow you’ve managed not to see or hear that, Google it. It’s hilarious. Anyway… at one point on Christmas night, John left the room for a minute, then he came back in, holding his phone. Blaring from it, I could hear the opening lines of “D*** In A Box,” the guys crooning “Hey girl, I’ve got somethin’ real important to give you…” I looked over, and damn near died laughing. John had taken a rectangular gift box (with wrapping paper on it), cut holes and threaded a shoelace through it, and tied it around his hips, so the box was directly in front of his crotch. And he was dancing and bobbing around with this ridiculous thing along with the video. Oh. My. God.

And yes, I got a picture.

There is no being a Grinch with this goofball. ♥

So, it was a nice day. I got some fun surprises from friends, and got to be with the most important person in my life, and oh! It even rained. Really couldn’t ask for more.

I hope everyone had a good holiday, whatever you chose to do. As 2021 draws to a close, I have several thoughts about this past year, and what’s ahead, but you know… I just don’t feel like talking about them right now. Too depressing. So I’ll let my hero, the incomparable Ruth Bader Ginsburg, speak for me this fine December day.

Happy holidays, y’all.

How hard IS it?

(Oh, get your minds out of the gutter.)

A few years ago, I shot a video with Lily Starr called The Secret Life of the Kinky Wife. In it, Robert Wolf plays my new husband who discovers I have a spanking fetish and that I’ve been secretly seeing another man for spanking sessions. He is understandably upset, and I try to make him understand that I’m not having sex with the guy, that it’s purely spanking, and I’d already been seeing him for years and he was so good at it that I didn’t want to give him up. Robert then scoffs, “How hard is it to give a spanking?”

(We’ve all heard this one, haven’t we? In other words, what’s the big deal? You have a lap, a hand and a butt, and the hand hits the butt. It’s not rocket science.) I hasten to protest that it’s harder than it seems, that there’s an art to it, a technique, a lot of nuance, its own language, and trying to teach someone how to do it is like training a puppy. (Yeah, that didn’t go over well.)

In the video, of course, hubby turns out to be a naturally great spanker right out of the gate and we live happily ever after. Ah, fantasy.

In reality, if someone doesn’t have this je ne sais quoi thing we seem to have wired into our DNA, a natural flair and instinct for it, it is damn hard to give a proper spanking. And it seems there are more ways to do it wrong than correctly.

I haven’t been writing about this, but I will now. Recently, I met a man from Alt and we hit it off beautifully in writing. He was smart, funny, we had a lot in common in the vanilla realm, and he seemed to know his way around kink. He said he hadn’t done a whole lot of spanking, but he had done some, and he found it all very intriguing. He was local, and unlike so many men I’ve played with, he could actually host in his own home. So I thought, let’s do this.

Well…

I won’t drag this out with too many details. We played a total of four times. I really liked him as a person, and I kept hoping that he’d improve technique-wise, so I kept giving him more chances. The first time should have been the red flag — he hit so high, I had bruises along the tops of both cheeks, and a substantial mark from where he wrapped me with the belt. I took a picture, showed it to him, and told him which places to avoid.

But something was off each time. He’d still hit too high on occasion, which would snap me out of scene space. He overcompensated and hit way too low. He was uneven; after the third session, I was marked and bruised all down my right leg, while the left side was completely pristine. And then came the fourth session… the one where my skin got broken.

My skin does not break easily. Not even after four days of a party and a lot of spanking. I’ve been playing for over 25 years and I can count the times I’ve had broken skin on one hand and have digits left over. This was it — I’d reached my limit.

He was apologetic. He checked in with me the next day. It’s not that he didn’t care. But for whatever reason, he just wasn’t grasping the fine points. The more we played, the more I realized he really wasn’t familiar with this at all. Besides the technique flaws, the little nuances were missing. He didn’t take me OTK; just put me over the edge of the couch or bed. He didn’t work over layers, just stripped me from the waist down at the outset. All those little things add up. He was a very nice host; always made sure I had water and gave me fresh fruit after each scene to help me through the dip. He made me laugh. He was sweet and complimentary. But the spanking wasn’t going to work, no matter how much I wanted it to. And broken skin is completely unacceptable for me. It took me two weeks to heal.

Last week, I worked up my courage and wrote to him. I said I really liked him, but that the spanking part of our relationship wasn’t working. I said I hoped we could remain friends. I was so concerned, so worried that I’d hurt his feelings. I really didn’t want to. The next day, he wrote back — said he agreed, that it had been “interesting,” but that he “really didn’t get the whole spanko thing.”

Well. Geez. That left me feeling… deflated. I wish he had told me that a whole lot earlier. So what was I, an experiment? A curiosity? Something new and fun to try?

Kids, I’m too old for this shit. At this stage in life, I don’t want to be something new that you try because you think it sounds fun. I want to be able to put myself in your hands and relax, knowing that I am safe and will have an experience that hurts in the right way, not harms. I do not want to have to give an indoctrination. I don’t want to top from the bottom. Granted, there are always little tweaks to be made when you have a new partner. When I played with D a couple of years back, in our first session, he thudded a bit, hitting flat-handed. I suggested that he cup his hand a bit more to the butt cheek so that he’d get that satisfying smack instead of the dull thud. And guess what — no more thudding.

I have been depressed and frustrated over this. It was like trying to force a puzzle piece that doesn’t quite fit, and I invested too much time and too much of my body in it. If I haven’t liked him so much, the first scene would have been our last. But… lesson learned. From now on, I will have radar up strongly. Unless someone identifies as a spanko and has a fair amount of experience, I will not meet with them. Because there is no faking this. It’s either there or it isn’t.

Fortunately, my friend Chris is driving down from Oregon to see me again; we have a date on January 3. It will be so lovely, being able to hand myself over to him, close my eyes and blissfully absorb, knowing each and every strike will be spot on, all will be precise and even, and I will hurt so good in all the right places. I need this so, so much. Especially since it doesn’t seem like parties are ever going to be a reality for me anymore. Covid is exploding once again, all over the place, and breakthrough cases are happening with people who took the vaccines. Shadow Lodge will be in February, but I can already see that it won’t happen for us. It doesn’t matter that we are vaxxed and boostered; John still feels it’s irresponsible and risky to gather in large indoor crowds, to travel. And I’m not going without him. So, my scene life has ground to a halt. And thanks to the FUCKING ANTI-VAXXERS, indefinitely. Yes, I’m using all caps. I detest these selfish, ignorant, awful people. (No, I’m not talking about the small percentage who have allergies or other medical reasons to not be vaxxed, so don’t jump on me.) Therefore, finding a local and available play partner is still my Holy Grail.

So, yeah. Next time someone says, “How hard is it to give a spanking?” you can answer, not hard at all. But to give a proper spanking, a good spanking, a satisfying, safe and fulfilling spanking? That’s a whole different story.

Ho ho, Fa la, etc., ad nauseam

What time is it, kids? It’s Xmas carol parody time! My faithful readers out there know that I do one of these every year. (For a refresher, here’s last year’s efforts.) My offering for this year is brief, but you know, Covid and all the other BS kind of put a stopper in my creative flow. Still, the show must go on.

Some of you may recall that a couple of years ago, I parodied “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” with “Donald, the Orange Menace.” But that didn’t really count, since it was politically oriented and had nothing to do with our favorite pastime. So this year, I present to you, “Rudolph, the Red-Palmed Spanker.” Oh… and yes, this is written in M/F orientation. Sorry, y’all, that’s just how I roll.

You know paddles that sting you and canes that can ding you,
Brushes and straps and the pain that they bring you,
But do you recall
The hardest spanker of all?

Rudolph the Red-Palmed Spanker
Had a very heavy hand
And if you ever felt it
You would swear that it’s a brand

All of the small-town housewives
Used to laugh and sneer “That’s lame,”
They never let their husbands
Play in any kinky games

Then one night the men got peeved
And they came to say
“Rudolph, with your hand of might
Won’t you spank our wives tonight?”

Now all the brats respect him
And they line up for his knee
Rudolph, the Red-Palmed Spanker,
Takes their panties down with glee!

And so it goes, another year. At least we’re having some seasonal weather here in CA for a change and I got to blow the dust off my sweaters. No holiday plans, but you know me… not my thing anyway. Doing my best to avoid the endless loops of Xmas music and schmaltzy commercials, and hoping that my kind of fun will be happening soon. Be safe and well, everyone. Happy holidays of your choosing. Scrooge out.

Holiday Mood

Any questions?

Yeah, I know. It’s holly, not mistletoe. The photo edit program had a whole bunch of seasonal crap, but not mistletoe. Close enough.

I’ve never had a tattoo and I never will. But if I were to get one, this would be a top choice — mistletoe right above my butt. Either that, or an arrow pointing down with the words EXIT ONLY.

Ho ho freaking ho.

OT — I Kissed a Far-Right Republican

Yeah, I know. Shocking. But it was a long time ago.

(Just for the record: people think I’m a far-left liberal, but I’m really not. If I had to define myself politically, I’d identify as center left. But yeah… after the past five years, I am strongly anti-right.)

When my dad passed away in 1998, he was living in a high-rise condo complex in West Hollywood. A few of his friends and I spent several days clearing out his unit. One time when we were heading back and forth and were outside my dad’s place, the elevator door opened and a man with a distinctly recognizable face came out. He saw us and approached, asking about my dad. I asked if they were friends, and he said more like building acquaintances, but he’d always liked my father. He was sorry to hear about his passing, expressed his sympathies, and asked if we were having any sort of memorial for him. I said yes, told him where it was, and then we went about our business.

Cut to a month later, at my father’s memorial, a well-attended function with a lot of TV writers and a few well-known faces. I suppose some would say this crowd was the Hollywood liberal elite; so be it. After the speeches and tributes were given and people were milling about, I was making the rounds through the room and saw someone hovering alone in the back of the room. I approached, and saw it was the man from my dad’s building. He seemed kind of hesitant and shy, hanging back there, just quietly observing. I came up to greet him, and asked him if he’d like to get something to eat or drink. He said, “No, thanks… I just wanted to pay my respects to your father.” I took his hand, and impulsively, I leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you so much,” I said. Shortly after that, he slipped out.

So…. who was the mystery man?

Ben Stein.

If you don’t know who Ben Stein is, Google him. He’s had quite a career, and when I refreshed my memory by reading his Wikipedia article, I cringed more than once. Iconic appearance in “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” notwithstanding, he’s pretty awful. And of course, now I know why he was so reticent at my dad’s memorial — he didn’t fit in with that crowd, and he knew it. I mean, come on. Ben Stein wrote speeches for Richard Nixon… and one of the men in attendance had been on Nixon’s “Enemies List.” No lie.

Still… he liked my dad. For a few minutes, that transcended politics.

I think back on that and sigh. How times have changed. If something like this were to happen now, what would I do? Would he have still shown up? What would I say?

Probably nothing different. Probably would have politely thanked him.

But I wouldn’t kiss him.

Life is strange, and strangely sad, sometimes. Have a good weekend, y’all. Be safe. ♥