Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the category “anxiety”

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:

stressedwoman

(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:

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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.

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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:

DSC00038

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. ♥ ♥ ♥

Friday odds and ends

MIA again — busy! All work and no play is making Erica very dull. I haven’t seen Steve in two weeks, but I’ve been so work-crazed, I really didn’t have proper time for him anyway. In fact, I actually had to turn down a girls’ night out with Alex and SpankCake last week, which sucked! But life interferes with one’s fun. But fun is coming next week! Shadow Lane, here we come (leaving next Friday morning). I’ve already arranged for a work break, so my plate will be cleared.

Meanwhile, how about some weird search phrases for your Friday amusement?

First — folks, my name isn’t that complicated. Really, it isn’t. So why did I find these in my search phrases?

earica scott

euricka scott

jane erika scott

EAR-ica? Really?? I know I have big ears, but that’s just mean. :-Þ

For those who like it rough:

belt spanking video not for the squeamish brutal

dress down brutal girl belt spanking stories!

That last one especially confuses me. Is the belt spanking brutal, or is the girl brutal? And is her dress down, or does she get dressed down? And why the ! ?

I can’t resist spanking my gf

What do you want, my permission?

my boyfriend spanking to red ass desi story

WTF is a desi story? Lucyyyyy! You got some spankin’ coming!

And while we’re on weirdness, I got a bizarre tweet last night. Some guy I don’t know, has a really creepy profile, clicks “like” on a bunch of my tweets. OK, fine. But then he tweets to me:

I love you erica. Thought u wuz dead.

The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. I’m not THAT old, for Christ’s sake!

Anyway… so last Friday, I had a bit of a meltdown. I was overwhelmed with work, John was having major problems with his own work, I’ve been having computer issues, and I was so stressed out, one side of my face had broken out in hives. (Either that or something or things bit me — I never did figure out what it was. It went away after a few days.) I seriously considered cancelling Shadow Lane — it seemed like too much work and hassle to prepare for, I didn’t have time, I wasn’t in the right head space, blah blah blah. Fortunately, when I went to John’s that night, he convinced me that we’d be OK, everything would work out, and we really do need the getaway. “When am I going to get stuff done for the party?” I asked. “I’ve been so slammed with work, I haven’t even had a chance to go shopping.”

“Let’s go to the mall tomorrow!” he suggested. “I need pants, and we can shop for a dress for you.” And so we did; we made an afternoon/evening of it. And what did John do? He picked the perfect dress for me, straightaway. We walked into H&M, and there were some dresses at the front of the store. He plucked one off the rack and said, “This is it.” I demurred, saying we should look at everything else, so we wandered through the store and selected a few more items. But in the dressing room, it was clear… the dress he’d chosen was THE dress. He zipped me into it and it fit perfectly, looked fabulous. “Who knows you better than you know yourself?” he teased. “Who’s the perfect boyfriend who picked the perfect dress?” I also managed to slip into a store this week and buy some new panties, so I am set.

My enthusiasm for the party has been restored. And so, I am looking forward to next week. Monday, something special is happening, but I don’t want to jinx it so I’m not going to talk about it until after the fact. Tuesday, John and I will have been together for twenty years (the Shadow Lane trip is our celebration). And then we head off early Friday morning for three days of spanko debauchery with our friends. I need to play. I need to laugh. I need this so, so much.

But for now, I still have work to do, including some more of that nasty medical stuff. However, thanks to my most excellent computer tech friend Jesse, I now know how to set placeholders for the photos, so instead of those disgusting images, all I see are plain white boxes. 😀  And unfortunately, it does seem that my computer needs a new hard drive, but that can wait until I come back. It’s still working, and every time it’s crashed so far, I’ve been able to fix it with Disk Check, so fingers crossed.

Life is good today. Have a great weekend, y’all.

Still here…

…but frazzled.

stressedwoman

No, this graphic is not really intended to represent me. I don’t have her boobage. But this is how I’m feeling lately. It’s good stuff — lots of work — but it’s stressful.

I was already busy with work, but last week, a client I hadn’t heard from in at least a year burst out of the woodwork and slammed me with projects. And informed me that there are many more to come. Meanwhile, they sent six documents and wanted the first two ASAP.

(groan)

Two things I’d forgotten about this particular client. One, they want everything yesterday. And two, they produce online medical courses… complete with graphic and gross photos. You guys know how horribly squeamish I am. Do you know how hard it is to focus on dry medical copy when it’s surrounding a closeup of an ulcerated foot??

But it’s work. Still, I find all my craziness kicking in. “No, you don’t have time to work out!” “No, you don’t have time to blog!” “No, you don’t have time to run errands/do chores/socialize with anyone!” “No, you don’t have time to breathe! Gotta work, gotta work, gotta work work work…” Ugh.

However, I know this is nuts, so Tuesday I did take a break to see Steve for a couple of hours. He was stressed out over his own work situation, and I was tense and preoccupied — we thought perhaps we might skip playing. But of course, after a few minutes of relaxing and talking, our natural instincts kicked in and we got down to pleasure.

I so welcomed the stress release; it was like blowing steam out of a pressure cooker. Yeah, I know, a lot of you don’t know what those are. Do they even make pressure cookers anymore? I remember my mother having one. I never understood how they work or why they were used; I just know that you had to watch them carefully, because if you left them unattended, they might explode, and then whatever you were cooking in there decorated the entire kitchen.

Of course, since time was of the essence, Steve decided he needed to choose an implement with the most bang for the buck. I rolled my eyes when I saw what he went for: the dreaded Lickin’ Stick. Have I mentioned lately how much I hate that @#$%ing thing??

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There it is, peeking out in the right corner of the photo. I swear, if I had a fireplace, I’d reduce that thing to ashes.

Ah… but you all see through me, don’t you. You know I’m just bitching and moaning. When all was said and done, I was a happy girl.

My Gorgeous Girl

Well, for a little while anyway. The stress came back. But the respite was nice while it lasted.

Anyway, kids, I don’t know how much posting I’ll be doing in the next couple of weeks. The Shadow Lane party is coming over Labor Day, so once August is over I’ll have a couple of new adventures, but until then, posts will probably be brief. My readership is way down, and I’ve come to accept it. Things just aren’t the way they used to be, especially since Chross has stopped doing Spankings of the Week. I used to average between 1000-1500 views per days, skyrocketing to nearly 3000 if I was Chrossed. Now I’m lucky if I break 500. Such is life.

Oh, and in case anyone is wondering, no, I’m not watching the Olympics. John is. Me? I couldn’t care less. We were watching last weekend at John’s — he was doing excited running commentary on the biking, while I struggled to stay awake. I know, I’m awful. What else is new. (I do like gymnastics. But swimming? Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and… YAWN!!)

And now I must get back to work, so I can head out to John’s with a (relatively) cleared deck. Have a great weekend, y’all. 🙂

I’ll like two of those, please

Ever feel like this? And ever feel like you don’t have any right to complain about it, because everyone else is dealing with their own troubles and they don’t want to hear you whine?

I’m not sure what’s gotten into me lately, but I’m all over the map. Could be the ongoing emotional fallout from all the weeks of worrying about John. Could be worry about John’s future. Could be the onset of the holidays. Could be hormones. Maybe it’s all of the above.

Today, I started out sleepy and dragging. Later, as I sat working, one of those melodramatic weepy songs came on the oldies station… and I promptly and unexpectedly burst into tears. After that, I went into my bedroom, pulled the shades and closed the door, and burrowed for an hour. When I got up, I had this crazy urge to go to the self-service yogurt bar and gorge myself silly with creamy caloric sweetness. Waited that out, thank goodness. Then I went on FetLife and saw a disgusting photo, and felt incredibly, righteously pissed off. Now I feel like I want to jump out of my skin, but I need to compose myself, because I’m not going to endear anyone in this sort of mood. And John’s going to call shortly and I don’t want to worry him.

Sheesh! What’s it like to be an even-keeled person?

A friend on Fet suggested that perhaps I need a spanking. Well, duh. That’s a given. I always need that. 🙂  But it’s a Band-Aid, a temporary distraction. It calms me down and centers me for a while, until the effect fades and then I’m back into bitchiness and angst. Damn — I’m addicted! That’s it! I’m suffering withdrawal this week!

OK, I’m being silly. But I wish I knew what the hell is going on with me. Last Friday, I remember feeling quite serene, like all was well with my world. Nothing has changed since then; where did that good feeling go?

And yes, I do feel like I don’t have the right to grouse. Everyone I know is dealing with something or another. Everyone has pain and anxiety to some degree. Everyone has stress. So what does one do? Air and share? Shut the hell up and deal with it? Admit one’s humanity, self-centerness and imperfection, one’s struggles, or go do something else until the mood passes? Some people ignore their own needs and give to others… but then who gives to them? Where’s the right balance?

I often use humor to deflect my struggles; I suppose that is a tool I inherited from my father. Someone recently described me as brave. I don’t feel brave. I feel like a loony tune with precious little coping skills. But hey, I’m a damn funny loony tune.

I may very well regret the vulnerability and “me-ness” of this post. But sometimes, folks, this is where I am. I apologize.

So where are my pills? And can you give me enough to get me through until January 2?

Edginess

It’s official — Mother Nature has lost her mind. A week ago Monday, it hit 113 degrees in downtown Los Angeles. And it could have been higher, but we’ll never know. The National Weather Service thermometer downtown, which has been keeping the temperature since 1877, broke at 1:00 p.m.

A week later? Cool, cloudy, rainy. Last night, I actually put on a bathrobe.

And by this weekend? Supposed to be back up into the 80s and 90s, and absolutely bone-dry. Blech.

For the moment, it’s gray and cloudy. My window is open, and all is blissfully quiet save for the drizzle coming down and the occasional car sloshing by. My favorite kind of day. I’m still feeling some pleasant residual soreness from Monday night. Yesterday, I got the last of my dental work over with, and amazingly, my teeth aren’t hurting today. I should be quite serene right now.

But I’m not. I’m edgy and nervous, feeling that free-floating anxiety that plagues me sometimes. I’m worried about J. Yes, it’s stupid. He has the flu. Granted, it’s a really bad flu. But he’ll get better. I hope. See? There I go again. Of course he’ll get better.

Yesterday was his birthday; I spoke with him last night. He sounded horrible; no better than he was last weekend. I hurt for him.

This coming weekend, we had plans. We have an annual ritual with a dear friend; each year, she gangs my birthday with J’s and takes us out for dinner. We usually go back to her place afterward for coffee and birthday cake, and she fusses over us. Last year, she took us to a Groundlings show. Today, she emailed me to confirm… and I had to write back to her and postpone. I know he won’t be well enough by Saturday to enjoy himself, and I don’t want her putting out money and effort when it will be wasted. God, I hated doing that. I was so looking forward to seeing her.

Here’s how crazy I am, kids. In my worried state, my mind starts to wander into projection, into future nightmares. This is what getting old looks like. This is what we have to look forward to; one thing after another. If your body doesn’t fall apart, your mind disintegrates, or vice versa. And if you’re lucky enough to stay healthy, then you end up being a caretaker to someone else.

Jesus! Am I a freaking mess, or what? No wonder I need stress-relief spankings.

Sorry to be such a downer. I thought about posting something else, coming up with some sort of interesting and controversial topic, but you know what? Fuck it. This is where I’m at today. This blog is nothing if not honest. This is Erica, tears and fears, self-centerness and all.

I will stay in the moment. Breathe deep, and listen to the rain. Feel the peace of this day. After all, this moment is all we have; the rest is unknown. And that’s probably what drives me the craziest… but I won’t think about it. Thinking is not good for me sometimes.

Breathe in, breathe out

Bear with me while I remind myself to observe basic bodily functions. I forget the simplest things when I’m in the throes of nerves.

Oh, enough already, Erica. Yeah, I can hear people thinking that. What’s with you and your freaking nervousness? You’ve done these parties for years and years. You have friends there. You know you’ll have fun. You’ll get incredible spankings and lots of hugs and all the attention your little inner narcissist could possibly want. What’s with you?

Well, here’s the deal. Part of it is all the standard insecurities and worries and anxieties we’ve discussed ad nauseam (and yes, it’s nauseam, not nauseum). But another part of it is a result of my own wiring.

Most of you know this, I think — along with depression, I also have mild OCD. Some people hear that term and instantly think of compulsive hand-washing and checking lights and jiggling doorknobs over and over to make sure they’re locked, but those aren’t necessarily the manifestations. The evidence of my OCD is in my need for routine and predictability. For some, unexpected occurrences are exciting. For others, they are mildly annoying. For me, they can be panic-inducing.

I derive tremendous comfort from familiarity and daily routines. Each day has its own particular basic order, with some variation but not a whole lot. I know what I’m going to eat, when I’m going to the gym, when I’m doing certain chores, what I’m going to buy each week at the market. J and I talk on the phone at the same time every evening. On Fridays, I know I’m going to pack up my bag and go to his house, and when I get there, we’ll go to dinner. You get the picture. For some, this type of life would be excruciating. For me, it’s essential to my well being. One of the reasons why J gets me so completely is that he has a bit of this himself; he has his own rituals. For example, when we get up, we must make the bed before doing anything else. If I help him with laundry and I hang or fold things, he’ll end up redoing what I’ve done because I didn’t do it just so.

Of course, life is rarely predictable. The unexpected happens at any given moment. And if you have any sort of life at all, you sometimes have plans that disrupt your routines. I love love love the party weekends. But let’s face it — they take my normal Friday-Monday and throw them in a blender. Nothing is the same — my schedule, my location, my food, my sleep, my amount of interactions with others, what I wear, blah blah blah. It’s kind of like being catapulted into another life for a few days.

Bottom line — even when it’s for something fun, something I love with all my heart, it’s still anxiety-inducing because it’s different. Couple that with the other normal party anxieties, and it’s a wonder that I have any kind of sanity left. Yes, folks, I am a loony toon.

So when these nerves hit, my mind works overtime and I start my horrible-izing about all the disasters that could keep us from getting there, or prevent us from having fun once we get there. There will be a terrible accident on the highway that will keep us stranded for hours and hours. One of us will get sick or hurt. There will be a family emergency. Actually, these things have happened. One year, we did get stuck in a SigAlert on the 15. Another time, J had a bad bike accident and shattered his collarbone one week before the party. I’ve gotten raging colds right before the party. And yet, we always made it.

How freaking STUPID is all this?? I’m laughing at myself as I sit here picking at the cuticle on my thumb. Look up “basket case” on Wikipedia and there’s my picture.

So what do I do? I remind myself to breathe. I put one foot in front of the other, do what I need to do each day, check things off my list. I write about it and invite the blogosphere to laugh with me over how nucking futs I am. And I show up where I’m supposed to show up. The rest is out of my hands.

I’ll shut up now. I haven’t drawn a breath for the past five minutes and my fingertips are turning blue.

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