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 “FetLife”

If at first you don’t succeed…

… fuck it up one more time. Oh wait, that’s not how it goes. Well, something like that. Keep trying, in other words. Eventually, hopefully, something will happen.

So earlier this week, I got a message from a guy on FetLife. Local, wrote a nice note, interesting in spanking. Also tickling, which is not my thing. But I figured since he was polite, I’d be polite back, and wrote my own nice note in return. Figured that was it, but he kept writing, so we exchanged a few messages.

I thought, maybe? Who knows. He seemed smart and interesting. But a couple of things were bothering me. One, he had no profile filled out, only a lot of different quotes. He had no pictures of himself, only one of his arm. And he wrote in slash/speak.

For those who aren’t familiar, it’s a D/s protocol. The dominants refer to themselves in upper case, and the subs in lower case. The dominant will write Me and My and so forth capitalized, whereas the sub writes their name in lower case, “i” in lower case, etc. And if they are talking about both people? Slashes. W/we. O/our. Etc.

If, and I mean IF, you are in a relationship with that dynamic, and both parties are good with it, it’s fine. But if you’re talking to a stranger who doesn’t necessarily subscribe to that protocol, you shouldn’t assume to use it. It’s annoying and distracting, and comes off as arrogant and pretentious to someone like me who isn’t into it.

So I kidded him about it. He said I was bratting (which I was). Meanwhile, we had established that our schedules were opposite, we lived far from each other, I hate phone calls and he hates texting. It wasn’t looking good. But you know, desperate times. I tried one more time. I said that I’m a writer/editor, and it offends my sensibilities to see otherwise good writing hacked up with a bunch of slashes and unnecessary capitalizations, or improper lower casing. That I don’t respect capital letters; I respect people. And I added a smiley face to soften it.

On Thursday night, he wrote back. One portion read, “I don’t care what you think about capitalization, little one. Deal with it.” He added a winky face. It didn’t help. All that resonated was “I don’t care what you think.” And at this point, I was a stranger. I was not his “little one.” I was done.

I wrote a polite note back, saying that I didn’t think we were compatible, there were too many differences in what we seek, but I wished him luck and thanked him for the outreach.

His last communication to me read: “Very well, young lady. I’m not one to jump through hoops nor am I one to change My ways just to get into a lovely woman’s panties. Be good.” Sheesh. At least he didn’t call me a girl.

However, this mini-saga has a good ending. I was so damn frustrated after three days of wasting time with this exchange, and left at square one once again. I was sick to death of all work and no play. So I got up my nerve, and contacted someone I’ve known for some time, who is local, but so far we have only played with each other at 50 Freaks and Shadow Lane. And every time we do, we have a great time, and say “We should get together in L.A.!” and then promptly forget about it until the next party. I decided to put myself out there and ask him if he wanted to play.

I wrote a nice message, saying that I was dealing with a dearth of play lately, and while I didn’t have the time or desire to go through the whole vetting process of finding a new play partner, it sure would be fun if I had a local friend with whom I could get together, hang out and play when it suited our busy schedules. I said that he and I had already played, we knew we had good chemistry, the trust factor had already been established, so this could be mutually beneficial. What were his thoughts on making this happen?

Within minutes, he replied. “My thoughts? Count me in! When are you available?”

So, long story short, he’s coming over this Tuesday afternoon. I am slam-jammed with work and truth be told, I am not available, but screw it. I need this. My mental and emotional health need this. I’ll get the work done somehow, and if I skip the gym, screw that too. My body needs a different kind of workout right now. 😀

I guess I should thank Mr. Slash/Speak. If I hadn’t had the encounter with him, I don’t think I would have had the frustration-fueled nerve to put myself out to this other man.

Fingers crossed that it doesn’t fall through. Wish me luck.

Onward… where to, I’m not sure

So here I am, staring another birthday in the face. Didn’t I just have one of the damn things? Look, I enjoy birthday festivities as much as the next attention whore hog, but I can do without this ageing business.

And — confession time. I don’t have a birthday spanking to look forward to. Because as it happens, I do not have a play partner at this time.

I feel kind of ridiculous and thought perhaps if I just didn’t talk about it, people would forget that big announcement I made a few posts back. I thought about deleting it, but I really didn’t want to. That would be denying it ever happened, and it did. And it was lovely and lots of fun, however brief.

Please don’t ask me for details… it is what it is. I will tell you this much. I have not lost a friend. Ulf is a dear, kind-hearted and special man I am privileged to know and who I hope to keep in my life for a good long time, as my friend, part of my chosen family.

It just seems he’s not meant to be my play partner.

So. Once again, I am adrift in spanko land. And you know what? I’m tired of looking. I’m not going to make a thing out of finding another partner. If it happens, it happens. But the process can be so damned disheartening and frustrating, and many times, the best relationships have happened organically and not when I was specifically seeking them. So I won’t.

Of course I will miss regular play. I’m not going to kid myself and say no big deal, I won’t miss it, I’m busy, I’m working, I spend weekends with John, spanking isn’t everything, so on and so forth. It’s a huge part of me and I feel a sadness, an emptiness when I don’t have it in my life. However, I would rather go without it than to settle for anything less than what fulfills me. I’m not going to play with just anyone, simply for the sake of feeling a hand on my butt. I need the connection. I need the trust and chemistry and the humor and the attraction and all those wonderful things that come together to make the potent cocktail that sends me into bliss.

In recent times, I’ve befriended a couple of lovely young women on FetLife — very young (early twenties). Both have been lucky enough to have positive and caring early experiences with good men, which is so very important. Both are eager sponges, wanting to soak up everything about this kink and learn about where they fit in all of this, and with whom. One of them recently told me that she was concerned it wouldn’t always be this good, and she was setting the bar too high. “It can’t always be this perfect, can it?” she asked.

In a word, no. Nothing is always wonderful. Even chocolate cake isn’t always wonderful. (Come on, you know you’ve had a dry piece or two in your lifetime.) Yes, spanking is readily available pretty much anywhere if you look for it. So is chocolate. But sometimes you get See’s or Godiva… and sometimes you get Russell Stover’s. Don’t settle for the latter. It just makes you want the former even more.

This is what I said to both these women — I told them they were given a very special gift, getting to play with good partners early on. They would go on to have a lot of experiences with many different people, if they kept on this path, and not all of them would be so hot. BUT… they would always have a benchmark. They would always know how it was supposed to feel when it’s right. And when it wasn’t, they wouldn’t have to question themselves. No. I don’t like this. Doesn’t feel right. Next.

Well, guess what. I’m taking my own advice, because I too have benchmarks. I have had some incredible play partners. I have had dozens — hell, hundreds — of positive experiences. And yeah, I’ve had some really crappy, unsatisfying, and even a few traumatic ones as well. But they were anomalies. And I knew there was something better, something worth waiting for. Because when it happened, when all those elusive factors came together and made for that connection, it was blissful. Quality over quantity.

Recently, a good friend asked me how I deal with all the losses of play partners I’ve had over the years — how could I stand having my heart broken again and again? I told her that’s the risk you take. It’s an unusual relationship, often times a fleeting one. And yes, it hurts to open my heart, give my trust, and put my body and soul in a man’s hands, only to have him go away. But the alternative is not playing. The alternative is not experiencing the closeness, the intensity, the magic. And that’s worse. That’s so empty.

Yup, I know there are those who think I’m too picky. That I have too many hard limits, my play focus is too narrow, I should open myself up to more experiences and some different types of people, should experiment more, should be more scene-inclusive, blah blah blah. Yeah, maybe. But you know what?

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That’s right. Screw this whole PC thing that says we’re supposed to embrace all varieties of our kink. That we’re supposed to “evolve” — implication being that if your scene tastes don’t broaden, you’re a dinosaur. Well, call me Erica-sauras. Or sore-ass. Whatever. I’m too old for this shit, y’all. I’ve tried other stuff. I tried to push my square peg self into some other round kinks and just got scraped and chafed and miserable. I have been doing this long enough… I know who I am. I know what I like, I know what works for me and what does not. I know where my comfort zones are. I get to say I don’t like stuff and I don’t want it. That doesn’t mean I don’t accept when others do it. People are welcome to do their own consensual kinky-fuckery. But acknowledging/accepting it and embracing it are very different things. For example? The recent Shadow Lane party and the extreme scene I mentioned that was stopped. It’s. A. Spanking. Party. If a man wants to kick and stomp on a woman while wearing heavy boots, and she wants him to kick and stomp on her while he’s wearing heavy boots, fine. They can knock themselves out… at a dungeon. Not at a spanking party. I don’t want to see it, and I shouldn’t have to.

If I were younger, newer, then I’d say sure, experiment. But I’ve done that. Sometimes I wish I did like more varieties of play — I’d certainly have more opportunities for fulfillment. But we are who we are.

So, here’s what I do want.

I am a bottom, a strong woman who happens to enjoy the power exchange of being spanked by a man. I am not someone who needs to be held accountable, except in a playful realm — I hold myself accountable. I am a living, breathing human — I am not an object. I am not something to be owned and controlled. Yes, you can push me, test my limits. You can break down my walls, break through my defenses, touch my soft center. But you do not get to break me. Don’t break my heart or my trust. Be my friend and give me loving firmness. Make me sting, make me sore, but don’t harm me. I can take a lot of pain from you if it is done with caring and proper technique. But if you slap/strike anything other than my butt/thighs, you will not like my reaction. You want to punch/kick something? Go to the gym, and stay the hell away from me.

Make me laugh, and let me make you laugh. There is great joy in what we do; it is not a dark and serious thing. Embrace it with me.

Yes, I like playing with younger men. Enough with the cougar crap and other ageist insults. I’m not a predatory beast. I’m a woman who is young at heart and in mind, in good shape, and I just happen to relate well to people who are younger than I am — both male and female.

And for sweet Christ’s sake — don’t disappear, don’t ghost. I have seen more damn disappearing acts than the Magic Castle, and I’m tired of them. Yes, I get that lives are busy. Mine is too. I don’t ask for much of your time and attention. I just want to know you are in my life and you care, and know in my heart of hearts that I will see you, get to spend some time with you, sooner or later. Shoot me a text or a tweet when life is crazy. It takes seconds.

I guess time will tell if my dream play partner will materialize. Meanwhile, life goes on. John is making a big fuss over my birthday and I love him for it. He’s already sent me beautiful flowers, and this Saturday (the actual birthday), he’s taking me to the Walt Disney Concert Hall to hear a live performance of Mozart’s Requiem. I have never been to this particular venue, and I love classical music, so this is a huge treat.

So, like I said, onward. I am a bit melancholy, a bit adrift, but I am okay. It is what it is. And life has a way of surprising me when I least expect it. We shall see.

Ladies and gentlemen, my play partner

OK, so enough of this depression crap for a while. Time for fun.

Back in September 2016, in my Shadow Lane party write-up, I spoke of playing with Ulf Sayer for the first time. I had met him at a previous party and felt an immediate connection, but we didn’t have the chance to play at that time. This first scene was intense and fun; he enjoys clever bratting and I started in right away, calling him a hockey puck (he is Canadian).

Oh, and I assed his hand. 🙂

He was doing videos and so forth and I thought perhaps we’d be seeing a lot more of him, but then he left the scene for a while.

Cut to last March, when I heard from him via Twitter Direct Message. He was now living in L.A. and would love to touch base. We met for coffee and talked for hours. Started texting. Then he came over for coffee… and asked if I’d like to be play partners. Oh, yes, I would. He wasn’t ready to ease his way back into the scene proper just yet, so I promised I would not mention him by name anywhere. I would just post pictures of play results.

But now he is fully returned — back on FetLife, back on Twitter, shooting again, attending parties, and I have the green light to talk about him all I want.

So what does one say about Ulf? By his own admission, he is a very silly man. Very playful, loves spanking banter. Smart and thoughtful, he’s someone I can talk with for hours (and have). He is caring and kind. Oh, and it’s way too damn easy to get into protracted nonsensical battles with him online.

For example, a while back on FetLife, he noticed that several bottoms (myself included) feel that they have earned chocolate, ice cream or other treats after a spanking. He then decreed that “brats don’t deserve treats, they deserve a spanking and nothing else” and that treats were forever banned.

Yeah, you can imagine how well that went over with the bottoms on FetLife. This quickly escalated into an epic battle known as the #WarOnTreats, #TreatsForAll, and several other hashtags. Pictures and posts ensued. Everyone talked about the various treats they had purchased and were consuming, and Ulf would scold and natter about how we should learn to like vegetables and how all the treat monsters were going to be punished.

Here he is chastising me because I bought two bags of Hershey’s dark chocolate almond nuggets. Hey, I had a two-for-one coupon. I thought I was being industrious with savings.

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One of my responses to this insanity was to encourage all the women involved on FetLife to take a selfie eating a treat and flipping the bird. I started the ball rolling with this one (that’s a Lindt truffle, BTW):

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I wish I could post all the other pictures this inspired — they were marvelous. The sisterhood is still alive and well!

Of course, I had to pay the price for encouraging all this anarchy; he had to make an example of me, in the hardest scene we’ve done to date. Ouch.

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By the way, my left butt cheek isn’t dented. That’s an illusion of the lamp light. I got lotion and cuddles afterward; he bought me lunch, too.

And I’m still assing his hand.

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Perhaps he needs to toughen his hand more instead of having so damn many implements.

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I did not make this face of my own volition, incidentally. I believe his words were, “Come on, let’s see that tongue, brat.”

So this is my play partner. I don’t call him my top, even though I am a bottom and he tops me. He’s my friend and we play. I saw a term on another blog that I kinda liked: SSO (Spanking Significant Other). I think this needs to be a Thing.

Here are a few random facts about Ulf:

  • He can’t spell “fascist.”
  • He has forbidden treats for bottoms, but he indulges in them himself. I have pictorial evidence of this pinnacle of Top Hypocrisy.
  • If you follow him on Twitter, be forewarned that his tweeting persona is often irreverent, blasphemous, and off-color. Then again, so is mine.
  • Some of his nicknames are Olaf, Snowman, Your Plaidness (the Canada thing), and Ulfiekins. I came up with that last one.
  • Oh, and he’s cute AF, but don’t tell him I said that.

So everyone welcome him back to the kinky family. He was missed greatly. ♥

If not “brat,” then what?

As I expected, once the Shadow Lane party was over and the situational camaraderie dissipated, FetLife returned once more to its usual state of arguments, accusations and pontifications. I haven’t been on much, mostly to “like” pictures or wish a kinky friend Happy Birthday. But last week, I admit I got caught up a bit with one person’s essay on yet another subject that’s been done to death: Brats, and how much domly doms hate them.

This guy really let it fly, with a long, scroll-down post, basically taking all bottoms who aren’t purely submissive and painting them with the same broad brush — they’re obnoxious, they’re destructive, they’re nasty, they’re demanding and manipulative, they care only about themselves, etc., etc., blah blah blah. Oh, and how put upon the poor tops are, having to tolerate their behavior.

“Dominant” is not spelled “D O O R M A T,” he exclaimed.

No, it isn’t. In your case, pal, it’s spelled A S S H O L E.

Look, I know about the kind of brats he’s talking about. Yes, they can be annoying, destructive, manipulative. I have news for this guy, though. These particular bottoms aren’t brats. They are narcissists. Some of them are borderline psychotic. And yes, they are to be avoided. But to paint all playful, provocative, spirited and clever bottoms into the same corner with the nut cases is egregiously unfair.

I confess, I couldn’t resist adding my own comment. (The posting has received 140 comments so far, spanning the spectrum from “Hear hear!” to “Screw you.” This was my contribution:

Not all brats are destructive, willful monsters. And not all tops hate bottoms with a bit of spirit.

But it’s OK. We get it. Some Doms don’t want to have to make the effort to engage in a battle of wits with a clever provocateur. Some Doms don’t want to hear any words other than “yes, sir.” And the only time an Uber-Dom wants to see a sub’s tongue sticking out is when she’s about to suck his dick.

Don’t like brats? By all means, avoid them. But there’s no need to malign them so thoroughly.

(snicker) I waited with bated breath for the fallout on that one. But it didn’t come, amazingly. One person commented “Well said,” and another called me a “fabulous wordsmith.”

This post, however, is not about good brats vs. bad brats and who hates them and who loves them. This is about the term itself: Brat. The very word conjures up negative images. Spoiled kids, whining and stamping their feet. Defiance, childishness, acting out, tantrums, generally unpleasant behavior.

But what if a bottom doesn’t fit into the quiet, acquiescent, submissive mode that this Uber-Dom prefers? Is she (I’m using the feminine pronoun here for simplicity, but this can include male bottoms too) doomed to accept the opposite moniker of brat? What if she just likes to tease a bit, play, challenge? What if she is clever and funny, rather than obnoxious?

Yeah, I hear you. Labels suck. But they exist, and they’re here to stay, like it or not. So my issue is, people like me need a different name, a different category. Because being lumped in with the brats doesn’t work, and it’s automatically assumed (by some), if we call ourselves “brats,” that we’re going to be “snotty little shits” (one of the many colorful descriptions the post writer used).

Granted, I’ve done and said some pretty awful, bratty things on video. But anyone with common sense knows that the situations in videos and stories are exaggerated to make the bottom deserving of the punishment, and so the viewers/readers will root for the top. However, in my real-life play, I challenge, but I don’t insult. And I won’t be playful with a top unless I sense that he enjoys it.

Here’s a random example of my “bratting.” Years ago at a party, my friend Andy wanted to cane me in one of the suite parties, but he’d left his canes in his room. So he borrowed one from a gentleman named Ben, who had cheerfully offered it up. After our scene (which drew a crowd; this was back in the days when people actually gathered round and watched party scenes), Andy handed me the cane, pointed to Ben across the room and said, “Go bring this back to the nice man, and say ‘thank you, Ben.'” Slowly, I ambled across the room, several pairs of eyes upon me, and when I reached Ben, who was grinning in anticipation, I said, loudly and clearly: “Up yours, Ben.”

Yes, that’s my bratting style. Hardly fits into that nasty picture painted by the brat hater. Bratting is also a matter of degrees. I’ve been known to toss implements across the room. Hardly submissive, I know. But it’s not like I tossed them out the window, into the Dumpster, or into the fireplace. I’m playful. I’m not destructive.

So here’s my question: Can we come up with a term that describes the brats who aren’t really brats? The bottoms who fall between the polarities of must-to-avoid, disrespectful little twits and fully compliant submissives? I like the term “provocateur,” myself. Even the word itself is clever. However, I know it’s a bit of a mouthful, and for simplicity’s sake, I’d rather come up with something shorter. But what? A synonym for provocateur is “challenger,” but that too is awkward.

I’m serious, kids! Language is always in flux, and kink terminology is too. There are always new terms being introduced. Let’s come up with a term for “clever, non-destructive, non-manipulative, respectful and sensible brats.” You know, the ones that make a top want to spank them, not wring their neck.

Thoughts? Put your creative caps on and let me know.

In other news, life goes on. My computer is finally fixed, but my landline is on the fritz again, after being fixed not two weeks ago. John’s ongoing issues at work are worrisome, but my own work is keeping me busy, which is good. No news with my stepmother; I had emailed her asking if she needed anything, but she didn’t reply. And I have another birthday coming up, with all the usual ambivalent feelings. Meh. First world problems. I am stuck here all day waiting for AT&T, so I guess I should get back to work. I will be seeing Steve tomorrow, and he plans to take me out for a birthday lunch. 🙂 There should be a spanking or two in the plans as well.

Because I sure as hell need one. Or two.

Social media, spankos, and me

It’s not secret that I’m a bit of a social media addict. I currently have nearly 15,000 tweets on Twitter (I’m not proud of this, BTW). I enjoy Twitter; it’s a fun way to stay connected with everything that’s going on, and I’ve made some interesting friends on there. I stay out of the flame wars and enjoy the hashtag games. But of course, it’s limited. You can’t exactly be profound in 140 characters. And oftentimes, as I’ve said before, it feels like the 21st-century techno version of talking to yourself.

Then there’s Facebook. Vanilla land, although there are many spankos on there. I straddle two fences there. I use Erica Scott, as I do pretty much everywhere. But because I have many vanilla friends on there, or spanko friends under their vanilla names, I avoid spanking talk and photos. Oh, there’s hinting and playing at it. But I’m discreet. What do I like about FB? I love to play Scrabble and Words With Friends. I like looking at my friends’ pictures. I’m a sucker for all the cute animal videos. I like keeping up with the authors of spanking e-books, as I copy-edit several of them. But I can only hang around there so often. The political and religious stuff is hot and heavy there and I find myself getting angry. I realize that underneath my anger is a lot of fear over what the hell is happening to us and what’s going to happen, but I can’t fix that and immersing myself in it is not good for me and my depressive tendencies.

Aaaaand then there’s FetLife. From which I’m still deactivated, and have been for about a month now. It feels a little strange, like there’s a hole in my online life. But I feel like in many ways, going there was like beating a dead horse. It simply wasn’t what it used to be: a fun place to connect with all my kinky friends, talk about spanking, share thoughts and fantasies and memories, make new friends. FetLife currently has millions of members; I was member number 16,919. So we go way back.

There’s a lot I don’t miss on FetLife. For example:

  1. “[Our party] is the best/most well attended/most inclusive party and has the most cool kids and spanking models!” “No, [party B] is!” “No, [party C] is!” “[Your party] sucks!” “No, yours does!” “No, yours!” “You suck!” “No, you do!”
  2. Dick pics, twat shots and wide-open back door pictures where you can practically count the feet of intestines.
  3. Endless pontificating from the handful of “experts” who could post the Gettysburg Address and have it land on Kinky and Popular.
  4. Stuff like “[A well-known top] is awesome, and if you don’t like him, then fuck you!” Worship of false idols.
  5. The never-ending barrage of accusations — an almost daily report of whose consent got violated. There was an epic flame war over a woman who claimed her consent was violated at a private spanking party. Why? Because the host jokingly referred to her as “naughty.” I kid you not. This one did this, this one said that… and the result is when someone really is raped/violated, it’s not taken seriously.
  6. Inappropriate comments and insults on women’s pictures. I say “women” because I honestly haven’t seen them on men’s photos, but I’m sure those exist too. Treating the spanking models like they’re sexy life-sized dolls there for your entertainment, rather than like the real people they are.
  7. “Which celebrity would you like to spank/be spanked by?” “What’s your favorite implement/position/word for bottom?” “Is spanking sexual?” being brought up and discussed for the 11,527th time in a new thread.
  8. Flaming, bullying and sock puppetry. So many fakes that one never really knows who and what is real.

Oh, but… I do miss things too. Such as:

  1. The way the community could band together when someone is in need. A couple of years ago, a beloved long-time member of the scene had a massive heart attack and nearly died. He was incapacitated and couldn’t pay a lot of his immediate bills. A GoFundMe (or something similar, I can’t recall for sure) was organized for him, with a goal of $10,000. That was surpassed in just two days. I think they ended up with about $17,000 for him. Another member had serious complications with a high-risk pregnancy and ended up giving birth prematurely — she too nearly died. A collection was taken up for her as well.
  2. Fun, silly, playful stuff, friends enjoying each other. One of my favorites: when our friend Piper was “grounded” from FetLife and a bunch of us were pleading with her top to “free” her and let her come back. Some of us even taped little videos of our pleas, including yours truly. I actually sang.
  3. Post-party discussions about our favorite memories.
  4. My wall filled with greetings on my birthday.
  5. Unexpected messages/comments that brightened my day.
  6. Connecting with my friends and feeling “a part of.” Right now, I feel disconnected and sad. I feel unmissed and insignificant. But then again, they are probably feeling like I abandoned them. I read a depressing meme on Facebook recently: Something along the lines of “If your disappearance didn’t affect your friends’ lives, then your existence probably didn’t either.” Ugh. Not what I needed to see.

So where does one go to connect online with other kinksters? Is that a place that simply doesn’t exist anymore? Is it all about photos and hookups and parties and little else? Part of me wants to go back to FetLife; another part says, “Why?” I know I don’t want to just yet, not when the national party season is in full swing. I’m not going to any of them and I don’t need to read about them.

It’s all part of the “where do I go from here” thing I’ve been dealing with. I had a sense of belonging for a very long time, something I spent most of my life without. Now, I am questioning where I belong. With John, of course. With Steve. In video archives. But where else? That’s a rhetorical question — I’m not expecting any answers. The spanking community is and has been important to me for a long time, and I want to continue to be a part of it, to contribute to it. I’m just not sure how.

Anyway. Enough of this meandering. I have to go get a pedicure. Tomorrow, I’m going with John to his high school’s 40-year reunion and he wants to show off his “hot girlfriend.” (Looking at my sloppy self at the moment and thinking “WTF??”). I don’t think he needs me there, really. He has a good job, a good career, two residences, and will probably be the only guy there who is still fit and trim and has hair. But what the hell… it’s just a couple of hours. I won’t know anyone there, but I’ll smile and nod and fake my way through it. Like I did for years and years at his family events, of which we have been relieved, thank you very much. And I’ll get to go home with the best guy there. ♥

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Back, sort of

So, yeah. Two and a half weeks ago, I went dark. Life’s stresses had piled up and knocked me out of balance, and the final straw was when Steve went for a job interview in Santa Barbara, a hundred miles away. In my fragile mind state, I instantly projected that he was going to take the job (because the man has to work), move away, and that would be the end of our times together. I went deep into my inner bomb shelter and stayed there, only surfacing to function as needed. Because no matter how bad I feel, I still function.

I stopped blogging, and I temporarily deactivated my FetLife profile. I couldn’t stand all the BS there, all the bickering and back-biting, the comparisons of parties, the consent police, the pontificating of the know-it-alls, the insensitivity and unkindness, the misguided worship. I worked. I tweeted some, but not much. I didn’t tell Steve what I was thinking/feeling. The only person I talked to was John, because he wouldn’t let me withdraw from him. He was very sweet, sending me little email messages every day, trying to cheer me up. He was the only one who could make me laugh.

The longer I stayed withdrawn, the more I was convinced that it didn’t matter. People’s lives went on and I was a blip on the radar. In the overall scheme of things, we are all microscopic bits, destined for oblivion and being forgotten. Such is the insidious nature of depression… it fills one’s head with the worst of lies, the cruelest beliefs.

A week ago Tuesday, Steve came over, and we talked about his finding work. He told me he didn’t want to move away, and that somehow, he would find something in the Los Angeles area, even if he had to take a job at Costco. That I was not going to lose him. That I could be sad and depressed and scared about anything else, but this was one thing I did not have to fret over. We’re going on four years, and he’s not going anywhere.

We didn’t play. All I did was cry while he held me.

Another week passed. I functioned.

Then last Tuesday, Steve was here again. We talked for a long time, and then decided to play. It had been three weeks, and I’ve had this ongoing sciatica business, so I was a little concerned. But once we got into it, I felt myself start to shift, to get into it. To feel. He lectured me while he spanked. “Do you know that you have people who love you?” I wanted to say “no,” but 1. I knew that wasn’t true, and 2. I knew he’d spank a whole lot harder if I did. “Yes, you do, and don’t forget it.” My thighs got a little attention too.

I thought I might cry. But no tears came.

We moved into the bedroom and he collected some implements. What followed took me to the very edge of my limits. He deliberately hit the same spots over and over until I thought I’d go through the ceiling. By the end, I was writhing, struggling to stay still, pleading, “Steve, please. Please. Please.”

But I still didn’t cry.

He took some pictures, and then got me some ice packs, which felt wonderful. But I still hadn’t achieved that emotional release. Perhaps I was simply cried out, after the past couple of weeks.

After a while of coming down, Steve asked, “Do you need your toy?” Translation: do I need to get off with my vibrator. At first, I thought no. My libido hibernates during depression. But then I thought, eh, why not. Couldn’t hurt, right? Besides, he likes to watch me do it.

I guess I needed it more than I knew, because the first orgasm happened very quickly. But then I kept going. Steve, watching me, said, “You have another one in you, don’t you.” He can tell, just by looking at me, by reading my body.

Then it happened. The second wave rose, but along with it, I felt a tidal wave of grief. The two sensations crested, peaked and intertwined until I couldn’t tell one from the other. I snatched a nearby pillow, shoved it over my face, and screamed. And as the waves kept crashing, I bawled. I hollered. Tears poured. I guess I wasn’t cried out after all.

Somewhere in the emotional haze, I could hear Steve. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Let it all out, give it to me. I’m here. I’ve got you.” I clung to him like a life raft in churning water next to a sinking ship, my eyes shut, my mouth open. I cried, and cried, and cried. And it wasn’t pretty or sexy. It was red-faced and noisy and drippy and mascara-smeared.

It went on and on. Every time I’d start to wind down, he’d say something like, “Do you know I care for you? Do you know that I want to protect you?” and I’d start up again.

He kept saying “Thank you” to me. I was too far gone to ask, “What for? I didn’t do anything.” He was the one who needed thanking, for being here, for providing a safe haven for my anguished release. But I knew what he meant. He was thanking me for my trust in him. For giving him my deepest vulnerability. Only two people in my life can see me come apart to this degree: Steve and John.

Later, after I’d finally calmed: “How are you feeling?” “Drained,” I replied. I was so tired. My eyes were swollen and scratchy. But I felt cleaner, clearer. I knew I was on my way out of this latest visit to the abyss.

Anyway. It’s Friday. The problems and worries haven’t gone away. I’m still feeling kind of sad and tired. But that awful blackness has receded.

I’m on the fence about reactivating to FetLife. It’s kind of nice taking a break from it. Steve gave me the password to his account, so I logged in under his name to see what was going on. Same old, same old. I did notice that dear, sweet Joe had posted a status about how he missed me and wished I’d come back. He’d also texted me after I disappeared, which did my heart good. At least someone noticed, I thought. I looked to see if anyone had commented to his status… yeah. Two people. (sigh) So no, I’m in no hurry to return.

But of course, despite the emotional excess, there must be pictures. You’ve slogged through all this touchy-feely stuff, so here’s the fun part. I’m posting this one so you can see my most excellent socks (and Steve’s feet):

DCIM100GOPROGOPR9978.

 

And here I am with ice packs “strapped on” by my underwear:

DCIM100GOPROGOPR9992.

 

Again, for all those who commented and dropped me private messages, thank you. I appreciated it, even though I was non-reactive.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

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