Ever Have One You Just Can’t Forget?

I really don’t like admitting vulnerability on here; while it helps readers relate to me, it also opens me up to ridicule from haters who have nothing better to do. But sometimes, in the process of letting go, one has to first admit there’s something they’re holding onto. I know this won’t be relatable to those who only play with their spouses/mates, but for those who have known the unique connection of a play partner who isn’t your primary, hopefully you’ll get this.

In 2019, I was in a bad place, emotionally. In the second half of 2018, I’d had a friend/play partner I’d let in and trusted completely, who ended up hurting me so badly I dropped out of the scene. I deactivated on FetLife and stopped going to parties, so I fell out of contact with a lot of people I was once close to. And then, in the summer of 2019, I met the man I referred to on here as D. He had answered my long-standing Alt ad.

Mind you, I was in a fog of depression. My spanking libido was nil. My confidence was even lower. But this guy tweaked my deadened nerves. He was warm, friendly, full of questions about me, open about his own experiences. We exchanged copious quantities of email. And yes… he was gorgeous, if I could go by his pictures.

We met for coffee… from the get-go, the attraction was mutual and intense. I remember the way he looked at me, the sparkle in his eye. I remember sitting at the table with him, staring at his face, his big hands, his beautiful physique in a suit. I felt that old familiar stirring, one I thought was long dead and buried. That click. That chemistry. That elusive, indescribable something that’s either there or it isn’t. And daaaaamn, was it ever there in this case.

In the following months, we had three incredible scenes at my place. He brought me chocolate each time. He was fun, sexy, good with his hands and with implements, great with the talk, and very eager to learn and improve. Very caring about how my experience had been, how I was feeling. And the attraction? I am not ashamed to admit that my physical attraction to him made our scenes all the more amazing. I can’t explain what it was or how it was happening, but I was like a teenage in hormone hell around this man. My legs would tremble so hard, I could barely stand. My body came alive in every way. No, we didn’t do anything sexual, just played very intensely and I wept in his arms. But yeah. After feeling rejected and horrible for so long, it was pure joy to feel this alive and sexy and wanted again. Plus, I liked him. I liked talking with him. I saw this as something that could be a real friendship that lasted for years.

But it didn’t.

As you guys may remember, he slowly slipped away, got more distant, wrote less, texted less, told me again and again how busy he was. I knew he worked two jobs… but as I’d said then, he’d always had those two jobs and he still found the time to write and text before. And of course, all the old insecurities kicked in, wondering what I’d done or said, blah blah blah. And then, in a moment of weakness, I posted this blog entry.

And he read it. Shit.

He wrote a long email, apologizing, saying he didn’t mean to make me feel that way, that it wasn’t me, it was him… and then admitted that he was back with an on-again, off-again girlfriend. Our play had been great, he learned a lot, I’m sexy and beautiful, and anyone would be privileged to play with me.

I read between the lines. I reread what I had posted and cringed. More than likely, he thought I was a neurotic, needy nut job and he was backing way off, as kindly as he could.

And I was heartbroken. I couldn’t believe I’d found this kind of special friendship again, only to have it yanked away. It took me a very long time to move past it. I’d see his profile on Alt still, and I could see that he had looked at mine. Several times, long after he ended things. But then his profile was deactivated.

Life went on. I played with others, eventually went back to FetLife, and went back to parties. The person who had broken me in 2018 was no longer around. Then Covid hit and I didn’t play with anyone for 15 months. I found C and reunited with Mr. Woodland, and kept up my search for someone regular. I had moved on, or so I thought.

Last week, I had a coffee date with someone who had been giving me the runaround for, quite literally, months. He was interested, he wanted to meet, then he’d disappear. Then reappear, and start up the correspondence again. He told me one name, and then another name. We were writing on Fet, and then he gave me an email address… that didn’t work. We made a plan to meet… and he stood me up. And then apologized profusely and pleaded for another chance. I said okay… and then he disappeared for seven weeks. By then, I’d said screw it, this isn’t happening. Until he contacted me again. I was skeptical, but he seemed sincere this time. He gave me a proper email address. He sent face pictures. He answered messages in a timely manner. And I thought, what the hell. I was curious. After all this, I just had to see who this was.

Long story short — we met last Wednesday. He was 40 minutes late. The pictures he’d sent me were of a much younger man. And the vibe was all wrong. When I said I was sorry but I just wasn’t feeling what I needed to feel, he abruptly got up and walked away. And I went home.

And on the drive home, D flooded into my mind unexpectedly. I couldn’t help but compare the difference between this coffee date and the one I had had with D in 2019. Oh my God, I wanted that again.

When I got home, before I could talk myself out of it, I emailed D. Kept it brief — just said I didn’t know what his situation was these days, but if he should ever want to play again, my door was open. I also said that if the answer was no, that he didn’t have to reply, and I’d have my answer.

Of course, he didn’t reply. I knew he wouldn’t.

I wish I could talk with him one more time. I wish I could tell him that I’m really not a needy, neurotic nut job, that I’m an independent woman with a partner I adore, but I have specific spanking needs and they are hard to fulfill. That he came into my life at a time when I was at a very low and vulnerable point, and that I developed an attachment to him probably too quickly. I wish I could tell him that I don’t want anything from him except play now and then, friendship, and that lovely bliss from great scenes with someone who gets it, who gets me. But I can’t. And I have to let this go.

It’s disconcerting, to say the least, to have all these feelings come crashing back three years after the fact. I am not sure why last week’s encounter made this happen. But I gave it one last try, and now I need to let go.

The other night, feeling defeated, all I could think was, “I am just so fucking tired.” And then, out of nowhere, a lyric from an old Electric Light Orchestra song, “Hold On Tight,” came into my head.

When you need a shoulder to cry on
When you get so sick of trying
Hold on tight to your dream

I guess that’s all any of us can do.

Have a good weekend, y’all. Be safe. ♥

Contrary to popular belief…

… I do show restraint when it’s called for.

There is a big difference between some classless, clueless fuckwad getting in my face, and people who mean well but their words don’t come out quite right. In the latter case, I am measured and kind. I look at the intent rather than the actual verbiage.

I went to a spanko munch last week, which was a lot of fun. Everyone was friendly. It was a little weird for me, because they all knew each other and I felt like the odd one out, but they were welcoming. Then a very nice young woman asked me, “So Erica, what was the L.A. spanking scene like back in the day?”

Um…

I don’t know if I’d call twenty-five years ago “back in the day,” but I suppose when you’re thirty, that’s exactly what it is. I just said that back then, the people who ran Shadow Lane lived here and they had their finger on the pulse of all that was going on in the local spanking scene, so if you were connected to them, you had an in.

I resisted the urge to say that we all used to meet up in each other’s covered wagons. (sigh)

Last Friday, a woman wrote to me on FetLife. She said she loved my writings on Fet, and asked if I would like to join her group.

The name of the group? “Grandma Needs Love Too.” You know, for “mature” spankos.

Every fiber of my being was screaming, “Are you @#$%ing KIDDING me right now with that name??” But I kept that to myself. I wrote back, politely declined joining the group, but thanked her for the compliments on my writing.

And then this morning, another very nice young woman reached out to me, and during the correspondence, she said, “Full disclosure — I had no idea who you were.” Then she apologized and said she didn’t mean that as an insult.

I know she didn’t.

So I answered, “It’s okay. ‘Were’ is the operative word here.”

JFC. No chance of having an inflated ego in these parts.

In an attempt to find a silver lining (and no, I’m not talking about my freaking hair roots), I’m kinda grateful and relieved to be older now. I really, really, really wouldn’t want to be a woman of child-bearing age right now, not with SCOTUS and the GOP up in my uterus and demanding that I be a baby factory, or else. It was nice, enjoying the peak of my youth in a time where I had other choices besides “reproduce or keep your legs closed.”

Meanwhile… this ain’t yer grandma’s butt. :-Þ

Escape

People cope in different ways.

Some drink. Actually, many drink.

Some dive face first into a half-gallon of ice cream. (Been there.)

Some people have mood enhancers of choice.

Some disappear under the covers and don’t come out.

Some binge-watch their favorite shows. And then binge-watch them again.

Me?

I go for the sweet oblivion, the deliverance from pain into pleasure that is spanking play.

I sink into the depths of dopamine, the excess of endorphins, the orgy of oxytocin.

And I float away in that blissful, fragile bubble of unreality.

Because… reality is pretty damned intolerable lately.

Everyone be safe. ♥

Off topic: where I stand

I am just going to leave this here. It’s been posted many times on Facebook and I think it speaks well for those of us who are feeling impassioned and angry over what’s going down right now. Yeah, I’d rather talk about fun butt stuff. But this is too damned important… and as a woman, I cannot keep quiet about it.

I am glad my mother is not here to see this giant backward leap. 😦 When gun owners have more rights than women, there is something horribly fucking wrong. Our Supreme Court is packed with conservative judges that the Orange Menace picked, hoping for this to happen. And it makes me sick. I am grateful I came of age in a time of choice. My heart breaks for the young women in this country.

Anyway, here goes — again, not my writing.

I’m not pro-murdering babies. [Erica’s note: And they aren’t freaking babies yet, goddammit, they are clumps of non-viable cells.]

I’m pro-Becky who found out at her 20-week anatomy scan that the infant she had been so excited to bring into this world had developed without life sustaining organs.

I’m pro-Susan who was sexually assaulted on her way home from work, only to come to the horrific realization that her assailant planted his seed in her when she got a positive pregnancy test result a month later.

I’m pro-Theresa who hemorrhaged due to a placental abruption, causing her parents, spouse, and children to have to make the impossible decision on whether to save her or her unborn child.

I’m pro-little Cathy who had her innocence ripped away from her by someone she should have been able to trust and her 11-year-old body isn’t mature enough to bear the consequence of that betrayal.

I’m pro-Melissa who’s working two jobs just to make ends meet and has to choose between bringing another child into poverty or feeding the children she already has because her spouse walked out on her.

I’m pro-Brittany who realizes that she is in no way financially, emotionally, or physically able to raise a child.

I’m pro-Emily who went through IVF, ending up with six viable implanted eggs requiring selective reduction to ensure the safety of her and a safe number of fetuses.

I’m pro-Jessica who is finally getting the strength to get away from her physically abusive spouse only to find out that she is carrying the monster’s child.

I’m pro-Vanessa who went into her confirmation appointment after years of trying to conceive only to hear silence where there should be a heartbeat.

I’m pro-Lindsay who lost her virginity in her sophomore year with a broken condom and now has to choose whether to be a teenage mom or just a teenager.

I’m pro-Courtney who just found out she’s already 13 weeks along, but the egg never made it out of her fallopian tube so either she terminates the pregnancy or risks dying from internal bleeding.

You can argue and say that I’m pro-choice all you want, but the truth is:

I’m pro-life.

Their lives.

Women’s lives.

You don’t get to pick and choose which scenarios should be accepted. It’s not about which stories you don’t agree with. It’s about fighting for the women in the stories that you do agree with and the choice that was made.

Women’s rights are meant to protect all women, regardless of their situation.

Overturning Roe does not stop abortions, it stops safe abortions.

Abortion is healthcare.