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 “holidays”

Happy 2020

Happy New Year, everyone. I hope everyone had safe, happy and healthy holidays. Mine were quiet, exactly as I wanted them. Now it’s time to get back into work mode.

Also, it’s time for a fresh start, to dip my toes tentatively back into the scheme of things. I can’t believe it’s been nearly a year since I wrote Notes on the Scene. Back then, I was coming from a place of sadness, hurt and disillusionment. Now, after coming out the other side of an ocean of tears, I think I’m more in a place of clarity. This past year opened my eyes to many things, and I will never again look upon the kink scene as I once did. However, I feel like I can now start to take back what’s good, and leave the rest.

To that end, I reactivated my FetLife account after being off for eleven months. And I plan to go to 50 Freaks in Vegas at the end of February, after a year off from parties. It’s a scary prospect, going back, but there are people I look forward to seeing. As for local play partners, the search continues. But I am hopeful.

For everyone out there reading this who is having a hard time, please hang in there. This time last year, I was going to bed each night and wishing I wouldn’t wake up. But the worst of it seems to have passed. There is a flip side to the darkness. And once again, I recall this expression of hope and comfort: May the depth of your despair be the height of your joy.

So, here’s to a new year, to new beginnings. Because I want to come out from under the covers and get back into this part of who I am. To bring some color back into my life.

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Cheers. ♥

A little holiday fantasy

I’m a couple of days late with this, but it’s still December, soooo… I was doing some file cleanup on my computer and ran across this story I wrote several years ago and never publicized — not sure why. I thought some of you might get a kick out of it. Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday! 🙂

MY Kind of Christmas

It was Christmas Day; actually, to me, it was December twenty-fifth, a day like any other. Christmas meant nothing to me and I was spending it alone, which didn’t bother me in the least. I didn’t believe in all that sugarplum crap anyway. I was bundled up in comfy sweats with the heater on, had plenty of chocolate, and the TV, books or internet if I got bored. I was content in my grumpiness.

I was watching the TV Land marathon of classic Christmas shows. Oh, crap. They were just starting that insipid Brady Bunch episode where Carol loses her voice before she has to sing in the Christmas choir. Picking up the remote, I was poised to change channels when the doorbell rang. Who could that be? Had to be a mistake. I ignored it, but the bell rang again, more insistently. I lowered the volume, got up and shuffled to the door, looking out the peephole. Whoever it was, he/she was standing outside of view. Irritably, I yanked open the door.

WTF? There stood a tall, handsome man, dressed in a Santa suit. Who was playing tricks on me? I squinted at him. “Uh… can I help you?” He smiled at me, although it was more like a smirk. “Nope. I’m here to help you.”

I stared at him. “Ohhhhkay. Who are you?” “Silly woman,” he replied. “I’m Santa Claus, who else?”

Oh, good grief. Apparently, the local nuthouse had an escapee. I started to slam the door, but strangely, it wouldn’t budge, no matter how hard I pushed on it. “Don’t believe me, huh?” he taunted.

I was getting nervous now. “No, I don’t,” I snapped, looking him up and down. “You don’t look anything like Santa Claus, except for that stupid suit. You’re not fat.”

He made a face. “Ever hear of Jenny Craig? I needed to lighten the load on the reindeer. Blitzen was getting a hernia and Rudolph’s face was as red as his nose. My cholesterol was off the charts. I figured it was time to ditch the fruitcake and pick up the celery sticks.”

This was ridiculous. “Okay, where’s your beard?” I challenged.

“Oh, that,” he said, sticking his hand in his pocket and then withdrawing it, something white and fluffy in his fist. He slipped a fake beard over his face and then hooked it behind his ears. “Happy now?”

“It’s fake?” I blurted. “Of course it is,” he replied impatiently, pulling it off. “I could never grow a real beard like this. Besides, this damn thing itches; I take it off whenever I can. Are you going to let me in, or what?”

“No! I have no idea who you are, but you’re creeping me out. Who do you think you’re kidding? If you were Santa, you’d come down the chimney. And why are you here, instead of delivering presents to all the boys and girls in the world?”

He rolled his eyes and leaned against the doorjamb. “Uh… you live in an apartment. No chimney.  And it’s Christmas Day. I delivered all the presents last night. Don’t you know anything?”

That did it; I tried once again to slam the door, but it still wouldn’t move. He shook his head at me. “You know, you’re trying my patience. I suggest you let me in. And turn that TV off; it’s rude to have it on when you have company.” Then he waved his hand, and the TV went black. I stared at the blank screen in shock. Numbly, I moved aside, and he stepped into my apartment, closing the now-unstuck door behind him.

“That’s better,” he said, walking over to my recliner and settling into it. “Got any eggnog?”

I stood in the middle of my living room, gawking at him. Clearly, I was dreaming. “No, I do not have any eggnog,” I said rudely. “That’s not on Jenny Craig, anyway.”

“You’re right, it’s not. Okay, how about a Diet Coke?”

What the hell was going on here? “Sorry, fresh out of that too,” I answered, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “But I guess you could whip some up yourself if you want it, no?”

“Don’t mind if I do,” he smiled, and once again waved his hand. Within a second, he was sipping from a tall, frosty glass of bubbling soda. Bobbing at the top, instead of a slice of lemon, was a bright red maraschino cherry. My legs suddenly felt weak and I sat down abruptly. “What—what are you doing here?”

He started to put his drink down on the coffee table, hesitated, then snapped his fingers. Once a coaster appeared, he placed the glass on it and sat back. “Simple, my dear. You don’t believe in me, and I can’t have you going around implying to anyone who will listen to you that I’m not real. You’re such a Grinch, you don’t deserve any presents, but I thought I’d pop by and grant you one wish. Then perhaps you’ll get a little Christmas spirit infused into that cranky system of yours, finally.”

Oh yeah, right. Some sleight-of-hand tricks were one thing, but if he expected me to buy this, he’d been dipping into the rum balls once too often. Before I could say a word, though, he scowled at me. “I did not have any rum balls, young lady. They’re not on Jenny Craig either. Don’t be so disrespectful.”

My heart pounded; I was getting truly scared now. Apparently he could read that as well, because his face softened. “There’s no reason to be scared; I’m not here for any other reason except to give you something you want. Now come on, spit it out. I want to go home; I was up all night and I’m dead tired. What do you want? A few million dollars? A fully furnished and soundproofed townhouse, mortgage free? A portrait that ages while you don’t? What?”

I shrugged and looked away. “I don’t want any of that,” I muttered.

“You really are hard to please,” he grumbled. “Dammit, it’s warm in here.” He unbuttoned his suit jacket, opening it to reveal a rather chiseled torso. I couldn’t help staring; I was beginning to feel a bit warm myself. After all, I couldn’t remember the last time someone came down—or up—my chimney, if you get my drift. Suddenly I wished I was wearing something a little less… unsexy. He caught me ogling. “Don’t even think about it, little girl. Let’s have it—tell me something you want. The reindeer are double-parked on this insanely crowded street of yours.”

I looked him straight in the eye. “Okay, if you’re really Santa Claus, this is what I want. It’s not for me; it’s for my friend Bill. I want him to not have lost his job. I want it to all be a bad dream, and he’ll wake up from it and everything will be as it was, and he’ll have a wonderful holiday with his family.”

He stared at me. “That’s what you want? That’s it? You can have anything, and that’s what you’re gonna wish for?” Squirming under his gaze, I nodded my head and looked down. I’d been very worried about my friend, and wanted things to be better for him. He had a wife and three children.

He continued to watch me for a long beat, his eyes searching. Then he spoke.

“Well. I can see I’m going to have to adjust my assessment of you, Erica.” (He knew my name?) “That’s a remarkably unselfish and generous wish. You sure?” Once again, I nodded, and he shrugged. “Okay, then.” He closed his eyes for a moment, waved his hands around a bit, then clapped them together. “It’s done.”

“It is?” I said skeptically. “How do I know?”

He stood and buttoned his jacket, his face impatient once again. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it, won’t you? Trust me, it’s done. Your friend is home celebrating Christmas with his family without a care in the world. His job has been reinstated and he got a promotion. Good thing, since that highfalutin private school his kids go to is expensive. And I’ll tell you what else—I wasn’t going to do this, but you know, I’m feeling extra generous today. I’m giving you another wish, just for you. What would you like?”

Oh, my. I didn’t see that coming. From his body language, I could tell I didn’t have much time to think about it. As I stood there watching this hunk in my living room, I realized just how long it had been since, well, pretty much everything. Underneath my sloppy clothes, I felt some long-forgotten sensations stirring. Lust. Desire. A craving to be anywhere else but here, be anyone else but me, just for a little while. Anything I wanted, huh? Right then, I knew exactly what I wanted.

“Hmmm… okay, but I don’t know if you can do this. I want to suspend time for twenty-four hours. I want everyone out there to just freeze, for everything to stand still. And during those twenty-four hours, I want to be with you in a luxury five-star hotel, where we can do whatever we want, no distractions, no one calling or needing us. That’s my wish.”

He stared at me once again. “That’s it? You flatter me, my dear. All right, are you ready?”

“Really?” I stammered. “You can, just like that? You’ll do it? But you’re married… no judgments?”

“Oh, please,” he scoffed. “I’ve been around for hundreds of years and been in millions of homes. You think Mrs. Claus has been my one-and-only, all this time? Some of those grateful moms rewarded me with more than milk and cookies, you know.” I clapped my hand over my mouth, stifling giggles. “Hey!” he added, giving me a stern look. “You keep that to yourself, now. I have a reputation to maintain. Now shut your eyes.”

“Wait a minute!” I pled. “How is this going to work? How will I get back into my life when the time is up?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he said irritably, with a dismissive gesture. “You think you’re dealing with some amateur here? Don’t worry about it. When the twenty-four hours are up, you’ll end up back here. Simple as that, with no one the wiser but you. It will be the same day and time as it is now.”

“But—” I said, but he cut me off. “Enough with the questions, or I’ll leave you with a lump of coal. Shut. Your. Eyes.” I obeyed him. I felt a sensation of being airborne, with a whooshing sound in my ears. Fighting the temptation to see what was going on, I kept my eyes closed tightly until I felt myself settle. A delicate scent filled my nostrils, and slowly, I opened my eyes. And gasped.

I was lying on a beautiful four-poster bed, made up with satin sheets and strewn with red rose petals. Looking around, I could see that I was indeed in a luxuriously appointed hotel room. There were flowers, fruit, chocolates and a bottle of champagne sitting next to a bucket. I looked down at myself, then jumped up and ran to a full-length mirror. My sweats were gone, replaced by a sexy, lacy black nightie with a matching lace thong. My face was flawlessly made up and my hair was perfect. I had high heels on, but my legs were bare. Oh, God! I reached down and swept my hand up one leg, then sighed in relief. Good old Santa had taken care of everything—even my legs were shaved. I peeked underneath the nightie. Well, now. He’d seen to the landscaping too.

The door opened and Santa walked in, carrying a small bag of ice. His red suit was gone; he wore dress slacks and a crisp shirt and tie, no jacket, and looked impeccable and delicious. Jolly old fat man, my ass. “There you are,” he smiled, going over to place the champagne in the bucket and dumping the ice around it, and then crossing over to me. “Mmmmm… look at you. You clean up well. Or should I say, I cleaned you up well.” Immediately we were enveloped in each other’s arms, and his mouth sought mine. For a guy who was centuries old, he was a damn good kisser.

“Well, hello to you too,” I murmured against his lips. “Merry Christmas.” He pulled back a bit and looked at me in amusement.

“What was that? Did I just hear ‘Merry Christmas’ from you, Miss Grinch?” he laughed. I squirmed a little. Okay, so I’d been a wee bit cranky the past month or so, cursing the holiday and wishing it would be over and done with. “Why the change in attitude?”

Of course, he knew damn well why, so I didn’t bother explaining. I was going to enjoy every minute of this fantasy. “I dunno—does it matter? I’m here, aren’t I?”

His eyes swept me from head to foot, hungrily. “Indeed you are.” He crossed his arms. “But don’t you think we should address your behavior over the past few weeks before we move on to fully enjoying our stay here?” Nervously, my eyes skittered away from him and fell on his toy bag, on the floor by the dresser. I got the feeling there weren’t any Legos or Barbie dolls in there.

Still unable to look at him, I shifted from foot to foot, knowing I was getting excited despite myself. “Ahh, come on, Santa…” I mumbled.

“Come on, what?” he said, his tone taunting me. “Don’t you think you deserve to be punished, at least a little bit?” I was silent, and he added, “I didn’t hear an answer from you. Answer me when I ask you a question, please.” “Okay, okay,” I snapped, suddenly feeling very… unclothed. “Maybe a little…”

“Yeah, maybe a little.” He stared at me a while longer, then turned toward his toy bag. As I stood and watched, he pulled out a strap, a small paddle and a flogger. And then, to my shock, several lengths of rope. “What—what is that for?” I sputtered.

He didn’t answer me, just glanced toward the four-poster bed, and then I understood. Oh, my. I bit my lip, speechless, and shivered, even though it was comfortably warm in the room. He gestured to the bed. “Take off your clothes, please, and then lie on the bed, face-down and spread-eagled.” With my hands trembling, I pulled the nightie over my head, then took off the thong. “You can leave the shoes on,” he said. “They look hot.”

I assumed the position on the bed, my arms and legs stretching toward the four corners. Deftly, Santa tied my wrists and my ankles to the posts, snug but not too tight. The ropes felt soft and did not chafe my skin. I continued to shiver, half with trepidation and half with arousal. I was completely vulnerable, open to him. I heard him moving around, and shifted my head to the side to look at him. He was unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves, and he caught my eye and held it. My face burned and I looked away.

The message was clear: my Scrooge-ish demeanor had been inappropriate. After a brief warm-up spanking with his hand, he used the paddle on my bottom and upper thighs, covering them thoroughly, increasing the intensity and tempo subtly but surely. I squirmed and writhed, jerked against the ropes, but they held me fast. “Stop wriggling,” he chided. “I can’t help it! It hurts!” came my muffled whine from the pillow. He paused, and I heard him snicker. “So what’s my line now?” I groaned and thumped my head against the soft bed in frustration. “Yeah, yeah… it’s supposed to hurt,” I mumbled. Freaking know-it-all.

Then I felt him place the paddle between my widespread legs, up against my crotch. It was startling at first, but then I realized why it was there—for protection. It was to shield my genitalia from the strap he had just picked up, to avoid stray shots. Despite my pain, I smiled. Once again, I knew I was safe and cared for.

The strapping was intense, precise and stung fiercely. He didn’t make me count, just told me to keep still. (Like I could move, anyway?) Then he finished me off with a flogging all over my back, bottom and legs. My blood thrummed under the strikes and I felt my body tingle and respond, heard moans escape from my throat. I closed my eyes and buried my face into the satiny comforter, knowing I was staining it with my arousal, and not caring in the least. This was so fucking hot. Who knew Santa Claus was so kinky?

At last, he stopped, and I heard him say, “All right. Do you have something you want to say to me?”

“Yes,” I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I was such a Grinch. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in Christmas. I didn’t deserve my wish to come true, but I’m really glad it did. I’m going to look at the holidays differently from now on.”

“Good girl,” he said softly, caressing my heated flesh with gentle hands, his hand dipping teasingly between my legs, then kneading my back, caressing my hair. Slowly he untied me, and as I lay there, rotating my ankles and wrists, I watched him strip. (Guess what? Santa Claus has a tattoo of a mistletoe sprig on his right butt cheek.)

The next few hours were a blur of sex, kissing until our mouths were raw, employing every position known to Santa-kind. We played again, more sensually this time, until I was deliciously sensitized and sore. Screw sugarplums, whatever those are. Santa’s candy cane was far more satisfying.

And then speaking of sweets, we feasted on grapes, wonderfully sweet strawberries, rich chocolate truffles and champagne, with nary a doorstop fruitcake in sight. Even better, Santa proclaimed that since it was Christmas, none of the calories counted. Works for me.

As we settled down under the covers, spent, sleepy, sated with alcohol and sugar and sex, I glanced at the nightstand clock. Only six hours had gone by; still so much more time left. I sighed with contentment.

But alas, time passed, or it seemed to, anyway. “I have to get going home for Christmas dinner,” Santa said, yawning and stretching. “Mrs. Claus said that if she saw roast goose and yams once more time, she’d throw them against the wall, so I promised to bring home a pizza.” Once again, after we said our goodbyes, I was commanded to close my eyes. Again with the whooshing and swirling. I opened them and saw I was back in my living room and in my sweats. I turned on the TV, just in time to see Cindy Brady lisping to the department store Santa about how her mommy had “larry gitis.” Taken aback, I looked at the time stamp on my phone. It was still the afternoon of Christmas Day; Santa had spoken the truth. No time had passed.

Mystified, I wandered into the bathroom and glanced in the mirror. My hair was its usual disheveled mop, and there wasn’t a speck of makeup on my face. But what was different? Ah, yes… the tingling, tenderness and somewhat pleasant soreness in my nether regions. Pulling down my sweatpants, I took a peek at my butt. Wow. It certainly looked a lot like Christmas back there. You would even say it glowed. And there was no mistaking my stiff walk of (non)shame; Santa had filled a whole hell of a lot more than my stocking. Repeatedly. Still in a state of disbelief, I went back into my living room, and then did a double take. There, on my coffee table, still fizzing merrily, was the glass of Diet Coke.

Thanks, Santa. I believe in you now, albeit my image of you is far removed from your public one. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about your true being. Who would believe me, anyway? But from this Christmas forward, whenever I see one of your chubby impostors and hear them bellow “Ho, ho, ho!” I will smile enigmatically and think to myself, “Why yes, I certainly am.”

It’s parody time again, kids…

xmasornament

What, you were expecting something sentimental and Yuletide-y? Do you know me?

Anyway… it will surprise no one to read that I’m not feeling the holiday spirit this year. I’m actually working on Christmas Day, by choice. 1. I’m a Grinch, and a Jewish Grinch at that. 2. John is invited to his sister’s house for Christmas dinner. He made an excuse for me without even double-checking if there was a ghost of a chance I might want to go. Good man. I am so done with those people. So he and I will exchange our gifts this weekend.

However, even though I haven’t done this for the past couple of years, I felt the need to carry on my past tradition of writing spanking Christmas carol parodies. This year’s offering is to the tune of “Sleigh Ride.”

Just hear those paddles paddling, crack-crack-crackling too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you
You know the hands are falling with miscreants calling “Boo hoo!”
Oh yes, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you

Pull ‘em down, pull ‘em down, pull ‘em way down, go
Right down to your toes
We’re starting with a bottom white as snow
Smack it up, smack it up, smack it harder, pow!
It’s getting red now
We’re spanking along with a song
Of a bratty girl’s dressing down

Our buns are red and rosy and sore and toasty are we
We’re planning pranks together like brats of a feather we’ll be
They’ll say “Oh, you’re in trouble!” and spank our bubble butts too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you

There’s a Red Room party at the home of Christian Grey,
He’s a poser but oh well we’re going anyway,
We’ll be writhing on laps of tops we love, and hoping they won’t stop
At the gathering while we watch the paddles pop: Pop! Pop! Pop!
There’s a stinging feeling nothing in the world can buy
When they pass around the spoons and straps and belts, oh my!
It’ll nearly be like a photograph in Janus Magazine
These wonderful toys that abound we’ll remember when we sit down!

Just hear those paddles paddling, crack-crack-crackling too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you
You know the hands are falling with miscreants calling “Boo hoo!”
Oh yes, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with you

Pull ‘em down, pull ‘em down, pull ‘em way down, go
Right down to your toes
We’re starting with a bottom white as snow
Smack it up, smack it up, smack it harder, pow!
It’s getting red now
We’re spanking along with a song
Of a bratty girl’s dressing down

Our buns are red and rosy and sore and toasty are we
We’re planning pranks together like brats of a feather we’ll be
They’ll say “Oh, you’re in trouble!” and spank our bubble butts too
Come on, it’s wood or leather, for a spanking together with youuuu!

I should throw in a disclaimer that never have I ever heard anyone actually say “Boo hoo!” But you know, artistic license. And I made myself laugh when I transformed the line “There’s a birthday party at the home of Farmer Gray.”

In closing, remember, Grumpy Cat sings,

“Deck the halls with clumps of furballs
Fa la la la la, go elf yourself!”

grumpycat8

Have a great weekend, y’all. And all snark aside… I hope your holidays, whatever you celebrate, are happy. We could all use some cheer, I think. ♥

Get your ho-hos here? Probably not.

It’s that time of year again, kids. The holidays. Where I get melancholy and grumpy. (Or more so than usual.) This year, for various reasons, seems particularly sucky. Not just for me, but for so many others. I’m not even going to mention the people who have been shot to death, or burned out of their homes. (OK, I just mentioned them. I suck.) I’m thinking about the average day-to-day folks just struggling to keep their heads above water and keep treading uphill.

Today on Twitter, a trending hashtag is #InternationalMensDay. Which grates on my nerves right off the bat, because it’s missing an apostrophe and I hate that Twitter doesn’t allow punctuation in hashtags. But never mind. Of course, there is all sorts of backlash to it, sneering about how “every day is men’s day,” and then a lot of counter-argument about how victimized men are and no one talks about it. But of course, then we’ll have #InternationalWomensDay and the same reactions will occur in reverse.

These days, it seems it sucks to be just about anyone.

Let’s review, shall we?

It sucks to be a man, because of the whole #MeToo thing and how any man can be ruined by an accusation. Because they’re supposed to be strong all the time and aren’t allowed to have any human weaknesses. Because they’re damned if they do and damned if they don’t a lot of the time. Because they’re either too macho or *gasp* “too sensitive.” And so on.

It sucks to be a woman, because unequal pay/sexual harassment and assault/being considered the weaker sex/etc./etc./etc. Because we’re responsible for birth control and yet old white men are trying to rule our bodies. Because we’re supposed to stay beautiful, fit, firm, and sexy, or else we’re rejected. And so on.

It sucks to be a person of color because racists hate you.

It sucks to be a Jew because antisemitic people hate you.

It sucks to be LGBTQ because homophobes and narrow-minded people hate you.

It sucks to be a millennial, because older people sneer at you and call you a whiny avocado toast eater.

It sucks to be older, because society basically rejects you as being past your prime and out of touch.

It sucks to be conservative, because the “tree-hugging snowflakes” hate you.

It sucks to be liberal, because the “MAGA-hat-wearing, gun-toting ‘Muricans'” hate you.

It sucks to be kinky, because vanilla people judge you.

It sucks to be vanilla, because kinky people think you’re boring.

It sucks to be an extrovert, because you need people all the time and people will ultimately fail you in one way or another.

It sucks to be an introvert, because when you finally really do need someone, there’s no one there.

It sucks to have family, because they drive you crazy.

It sucks to be alone, because you envy people who have family, even though you know that those families most likely drive them crazy.

Have I missed anything? I’m sure I have. I’m sure this list is infinite.

Now is the time to trot out all the adages, the homilies, the positives, the feel-good statements, right? Meh. I think the best advice I’ve gotten all year was this, from my delightfully acerbic and possibly kinky chiropractor, of all people:

“Life sucks. Learn to embrace the suckage.”

I’m trying, but sometimes I get so damn tired. And frustrated. And sad. And feeling like every damn step I take up, I take two back. And every time I think I’ve found people to trust and believe in, I’m proven wrong. Because no matter who you are, someone hates you. For whatever stupid reason.

For the most part, I like to think I’m a good judge of character. But this year, I have made such egregious errors, I’m questioning myself. And wondering if I can trust anyone.

As for all these #InternationalSoandSoDays on Twitter — since it basically sucks to be everyone in one way or another, and everyone is struggling to rise above the morass and be heard, can’t we just have an #InternationalEveryoneDay and be done with it??

I’m going back to work.

grumpycat5

Correspondence Hall of Shame, End of Year Edition, and more

Greetings, readers. As this will be my last post of 2016, I thought I’d present a hodgepodge of treats for you. So grab a beverage of your choice, whack off a chunk of that stale fruitcake with a hacksaw, and settle in.

First up, a few CHoS entries:

Mmmmmmm
I swear this sounds lile so fucking fun and a turn on
Lolol love it when a women love other thing beside sex 
You do have a sexy ass that should always be SMACK!! Good when that se,y booty is out

Uh… what? I’m sorry, I’m not bilingual; I don’t speak Moronese.

hi cutie, my name is Xxx and we have the same sexual interests.. I enjoy passionate kissing, foreplay, oral sex, anal sex, FWB, LTR, BDSM, role playing and doing anything to please you. I would love to explore every inch of your body with my hands and tongue. I like hard and fast sex, but prefer marathon all night sex.. I may be older than what you are looking for, but age is just a number and PLEASURE, weather it comes from yourself, someone younger, or older, is still PLEASURE. I am always horny and available. If this is what you are looking for, check my profile to see if we match and message me back

I don’t know whose profile you were reading, but it wasn’t mine, since mine said I wasn’t seeking sex. Yes, age is just a number, and so is IQ. Yours, apparently, is in the double digits.

You may have seen this comment before, since it was left right here on this blog. I thought it deserves its own special message. What a shame this person thinks they’re so clever.

I bet you only get spanked on the left side of your ass

Wrong again, Breitbart Breath, as is evidenced by this recent photo:

1gmv1l

And finally, to my special hater out there: Really? You think my last blog was all about little ol’ you? Tsk… now who’s vain, hmmm? My upbringing in the “entertainment world” had nothing to do with my political views — I am a well-educated woman and I have a mind of my own — so you may can the condescending claptrap. But hey, thanks for saying I have a pretty face. I do believe that’s the first time in all these years that you’ve ever said anything nice about me. 🙂

Interesting side note: Someone very close to me — who is a conservative and voted for Trump — read my last blog. He could have been pissy about it, but all he had to say about it was that it’s a funny and satirical piece, and some of the best writing he’s seen from me. How about that. I thanked him for his civility, and he said, “I’m the norm. The people who act like a-holes are the exception.” I’m afraid I disagree with that; I think it’s the other way around. But we’ll see.

Moving on — did you guys miss my annual sniping about fruitcake? Then this is for you. Our ever-trendy coffeehouse, Starbucks, unveiled a Christmas treat this year, available for one week only: the Fruitcake Frappuccino. It was described as a blended iced coffee drink with hazelnut and cinnamon, topped by whipped cream, caramel and matcha (whatever the @#$% that is). What’s fruitcake-y about this, you might ask? Well, also blended into the beverage are bits of dried fruit. That’s right, so you can eat your Frappuccino as well as drink it. It’s creamy! It’s chunky! It’s chewy! It’s disgusting!

And if you’re not already sick, here is a real view of it:

fruitcake

I’m sorry, but this doesn’t resemble anything drinkable to me. It looks like the inside of a Times Square toilet on New Year’s Eve.

Did everyone have a nice holiday? Mine had some pleasant moments, although I was struggling a bit. Earlier this month, Alex and Paul had a lovely little party, and I did my best to get into the spirit, dressing myself up, complete with black stockings that had red bows at the top, red pumps, and a black shirt that had “Naughty” on the front and “Nice” on the back. Last week, Alex, SC and I had a long-overdue girls’ night out, where we chatted for hours and exchanged presents. I got some nice things, including a beautiful, soft and plush robe from Alex, and SC gave me a Lego set… to build the Yellow Submarine! I haven’t played with Legos since I was a kid; this should be fun. But I think my favorite gift was one that came as a surprise in the mail: it was from Lily Starr, and when I opened it, I smiled, then giggled, then guffawed. It was a crystal pendant… of a snowflake.

I think this might have been the beginning of a turnaround for me. I felt my humor, long dormant, kick back in a bit. And my feistiness. Damn right I’m a snowflake, and I’ll accept that term, meant to be insulting, with pride. In fact, Lily’s gift inspired me to shoot this little video. 🙂 Screw with me, and I’m screwing right back. I may go down in a nuclear holocaust in the coming year or so, but I’m going down laughing.

* * *

Now, if I can be serious for a moment. This has been a brutal year. No, not just because of the obvious, but for so many other miseries befalling people I care about. Job losses, illnesses, broken relationships, getting outed. Deaths… so many deaths. John lost his own closest friend last month, and we are still reeling from that. And this was a terrible year for our beloved icons, with an unbelievable count of losses. Actors. Musicians. Authors. Sports figures. Astronauts. Just this week, we lost Carrie Fisher and Debbie Reynolds, one day apart. Reportedly, Ms. Reynolds’ last words were “I want to be with Carrie” before she had a massive stroke. I guess it is possible to die of a broken heart. My own heart breaks for Todd Fisher, who lost both his sister and mother within 24 hours, and for Billie Lourd, who lost her mother and grandmother. Sometimes life is very cruel.

If you have never seen Singin’ In The Rain, I am telling you to do so. Even if you say you don’t like musicals, see it anyway. It is so much more than song and dance, although those numbers are dazzling, and it’s impressive to watch a 19-year-old Debbie Reynolds, who’d never danced professionally before, holding her own with two of the best dancers of the 20th century. It’s funny, clever, energetic, romantic, and if it doesn’t put a smile on your face and lift your spirits, you might want to check for a pulse.

What’s my point? Life is short. Hold your loved ones close. Hang in there, and do the best you can. I say this as much to myself as I do to my friends. I’m going to put on my rain gear and boots, and plow bravely forward into the crapstorm that 2017 is looking to be, determined to have fun and experience love and joy where I can. May you all do the same.

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

A (not so) sweet holiday fantasy

My regular readers know that, at this time of year, I like to write a naughty Christmas carol parody. However, due to the grim circumstances of 2016, I’m not in the mood to do so. For those who would like to revisit last year’s parody, I present “Elves Gone Bad,” here. In the meantime, my gift to you, in lieu of a parody, is a sweet (well, sweet for me) holiday fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a forlorn crybaby named Erica. She was unhappy all the time, now that her country had been taken over by a large orange fascist blowhard named The Trump, and she no longer felt safe or assured of her future. Despite the fact that his opponent got nearly three million more votes than he did, he still won, due to an antiquated electoral college and most likely Russian some outside influences. He was filling his cabinet with elitist millionaires, and everyone but the richest of the rich and the whitest of the white was basically as fucked as Ivanka in her daddy’s fantasies.

To add insult to injury, some* of his supporters were especially hateful people, members of a white supremacist movement called the Alt-Reich, gloating and sneering and name-calling. They were the ones who had labeled her a crybaby, among other nasty names such as “libtard” and “snowflake.” This last one especially puzzled Erica. She lived in the grand blue state of California, on the west side of the DSA (Divided States of America). She’d gaze out her window at the perpetually sunny sky and wonder, “What’s a snowflake?”

Another thing the Alt-Reich people were fond of saying was, “Suck it up.” “Suck it up, whiner!” “Suck it up, buttercup!” Suck what up? Erica couldn’t quite figure out what “it” was. She combed the Internet, seeking answers, but as was often the case, there were too many answers and not enough real information. At one point, she saw this picture of Mitt Romney groveling like a pussy eating dinner with Trump…

romney

…and was horrified. After all, everyone knew what Romney had to choke down for dessert at that meeting. “Oh, no,” she thought. “Surely they don’t mean suck that up? Ugh!”

So what was she supposed to suck up? After much thought (in between bouts of weeping), it dawned on her: California had just legalized marijuana. Erica was not a big fan of mind-altering substances, but in this new order, she figured reality was intolerable, so perhaps an alternate reality would be a pleasant escape for a while.

She then consulted her younger, hipper friends, whom she knew would be able to steer her in the right direction to the good stuff, and procured a huge blunt of the best weed she could afford. Settling herself at home into her favorite chair, ensuring she had plenty of peanut butter Oreos and Hershey’s Nuggets for later, she lit up and took a deep, deep suck inward, drawing the sweet, pungent smoke into her lungs.

Ahhh. Suck THIS.

As Erica grew dreamily stoned, she watched lazily as the smoke curled from the joint, drifting across the room and gathering into a cloud over the couch. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them, and blinked rapidly. “What’s in this stuff?” she muttered. For she could swear the sweetly scented puffs were coalescing and morphing into a shape, slowly but surely. She rubbed her eyes and looked again; to her shock, the amorphous cloud had settled into the form of a man, sprawled on the couch. As he came into focus, Erica could see he was in faded jeans, barefoot and shirtless, with long dark hair. His eyes were heavy lidded and slightly bleary, and in one hand he clutched a can of Pringles. His other hand came up into a lethargic wave.

“Who are you?” Erica spluttered.

“Just call me Gene,” the stranger said, stretching his legs out, then tipping the Pringles can to his mouth. As he crunched, she stared. “What’s your last name?” she asked.

He swallowed and yawned, then gave her a languid smile. “Everstone.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Erica groaned. “Everstone. Initial E. Gene E. I get it. What are you doing here?”

“You’re always crying,” he drawled. “It’s bad for your eyes. So I’m here to cheer you up with four holiday wishes.”

Erica shook her head. I’m really wasted, she thought. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed. “And isn’t it supposed to be three wishes?”

“What, you’re complaining ‘cause it’s more?” He shrugged. “Four is the standard these days. Inflation, I guess. So come on. What do you want? A few million dollars? Eternal youth? And please don’t bother me with that ‘world peace’ crap. Everyone knows that’s completely impossible.”

Erica took another hit, savoring it as she thought about her options. She sat up, curling her legs under her. “No,” she mused. “I want some things that will help restore the country to sanity.”

Gene munched a few more Pringles. “Go for it,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Wish Number One,” Erica began, her eyes lighting up. “The Trump resigns. He’s like, ‘Hey, I just wanted to win the presidency; I didn’t actually want to be president! This job is yuuuuge! It takes too much time away from my own self-serving interests! And people are mean to me!’ He then gathers up his entire family, including these two ghoulish greaseballs…

trumpsons

…and of course, his eldest daughter, whom he has lusted after since her adolescence  adores…

trumpivanka

…and moves them all to Russia, where he spends the rest of his days with his nose firmly embedded in Vladimir Putin’s ass.”

Gene snickered. “You sure it’s just his nose?”

“Ewwwww!” Erica moaned. “Please! Don’t go there; you’ll make me throw up. I’m high and I might aspirate.”

“OK, OK. Anything you wanna add to that one?”

Erica thought for a moment. “Yeah. The Trump has to wear electrically wired underwear at all times. Every time he tries to tweet, he gets a big jolt of juice to his junk.”

“You really should get stoned more often,” Gene laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “It gives you a wicked imagination.” He waved his hand. “OK, it’s done. But honey, now your people are stuck with Mike Pence, Mr. Funerals-For-Fetuses.”

“Ah, that’s Wish Number Two,” Erica grinned, extending her hand for a chip. “I have special plans for Mike Pence.”

“Do tell.” Gene stretched back, reached into a smoke ring and pulled out a bottle of microbrew. He cocked one finger and the top snapped off.

“Mike Pence finds himself trapped in a large room that’s locked from the outside. On one side, he’s flanked with a mob of angry LGBTQ folks who didn’t appreciate his views on how they should be forcefully converted; and on the other side is a group of very angry rape victims who were denied abortions, because, you know, Jesus.”

“And what happens then?” Gene smirked.

“Mmmmmmm,” Erica said, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t wanna know. Let’s just say that after they’re through, er, expressing themselves, ol’ Mike isn’t fit to lead a Boy Scout troop, let alone the country.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. OK,” Gene said, placing the Pringles can between his legs and waving his hand once again. “Consider it done. So now what? What about Speaker Ryan? What about The Trump’s clown car of idiocracy?”

“Wish Number Three,” Erica smiled. “In which Paul Ryan, Steve Bannon, Jeff Sessions, Ben Carson, Kellyanne Conway, Rudy Giuliani, Newt Gingrich, Michael Flynn, Rex Tillerson, Corey What’s-His-Face, and all the others in The Trump’s elitist parade are shipped to a newly discovered planet, an angry little red orb called Ignoranus.** Oh, and we throw in Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin too, because Coulter is Conway’s long-lost twin and Palin is… Palin. Here, they will govern over the planet’s citizens—snow white, sheep-like creatures—and spend their days in activities such as flag waving, burning books written by women and minorities, and target practice. Oh, and we build a giant wall in the sky so they can’t return to Earth, and so that all their hot air and noxious gases don’t infiltrate our atmosphere.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Gene chuckled. “OK, done. But what about those alt-Reich fuckers? Don’t you want to do something with them for your fourth wish?”

Erica pondered for a while, taking the last hit off her blunt and closing her eyes. Opening them again, she said, “Hmmm. If I were a deplorable like Mike Pence, I’d say they should all be put in conversion camps and given shock therapy until they see the light and realize they’re in the Alt-Wrong. But this is still a free country, so I say leave them be, let them go on with their miserable little lives.” She paused. “Well, sort of.” She gave Gene her best beguiling smile. “Can I have five wishes?”

“Wha—?” Gene said, with as much indignation as a stoned hippie genie could muster. “Now you want another one? What for?”

“Well, it’s sort of a two-parter. Please-please-please?” Erica wheedled.

“Geezus,” he grumbled, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re kinda spoiled, you know that?”

“So they tell me,” Erica murmured, blushing slightly. “But hear me out. Can you make it so the alt-Reichers wake up a different race? Doesn’t matter which, it can be random, as long as it’s not Caucasian. Pretty hard to be a white supremacist if you’re not white. Let them experience what it is to be persecuted, profiled and hated and see how they like it.”

“Very fitting,” Gene agreed, his soporific nature back in place. “Where does the fifth wish come in, then?”

“Well, they’re going to be mighty pissed off, and we can’t take away their guns and all their other macho toys, because who wants to listen to them whining about the Second Amendment for all eternity? Personally, I’d choose to let them all have muskets, which were the only arms in use when their precious fucking Second Amendment came to be, but that would be silly, I guess. So for those of us who just want to live in peace and equality, make us bulletproof, and make all our homes, offices, venues, etc. fire- and bomb-proof. Does that work?”

Gene sat up, put his beer bottle on the coffee table and did a slow golf clap. “Works for me,” he said approvingly. “That way they can still have their weapons, but no longer harm innocent people with them.” He snapped his fingers, twice. “Well done, Erica. Have a good life.” And as Erica watched incredulously, he faded into a haze of smoke. The Pringles can and beer bottle remained; otherwise, she would have thought it had been a dream.

After indulging in copious quantities of chocolate (because this was a fantasy, so there were no calories), Erica cleared up and went to bed, thinking that had been a nice high and she’d deal with reality in the morning. That night, she had her first nightmare-less sleep in months, and when she woke, it was to the realization that her wishes had indeed come true. Gene, the Stoner Genie, hadn’t been a figment of her weed-infused imagination after all. When she turned on the television, the first thing she saw was the newly elected President Kamala Harris. Ms. Harris had chosen Elizabeth Warren for Vice President, and for Speaker of the House, she had picked George Takei, who everyone knew was the wisest man in the land.

And so, that was how Crybaby Erica sucked it up and saved the country. She lived happily ever after, and she no longer cried. Her mojo was restored and she was able to engage in kinky adventures once again. And they were even better, because all men were now respectful of women and safe words were no longer necessary.

You’re welcome, America.

* Notice I said some, not all. Of course I don’t think all Trump voters are ignorant white supremacists. That would be generalizing on my part, and heaven forbid I do such a thing. I almost feel sorry for the swing voters who just wanted a change and thought they were doing the right thing, as they’re going to be screwed along with the rest of us, but they brought it on themselves. Voting for a man who publicly mocks the disabled; is personally endorsed by the KKK; who is so fucking stupid that he spells “unprecedented” “unpresidented,” and who brags about how he can get away with sexually assaulting women “because he’s a star” is never a good idea.

** Ignoranus: One who is both stupid AND an asshole.

Just a few notes, because after this, I am going to do my best to avoid politics on here altogether: No doubt I’ve pissed some of you off with my flagrant disrespect for the office of the president. You’re right; I’m a very bad girl. Tell you what: I’ll give your CheetoFace NaziPants Donald Trump respect, just like you respected President Barack Obama, mmmkay? Remember all those memes, likening the Obamas to monkeys? Remember Michelle Obama being called an “ape in a dress,” or an “ape in heels”? Remember the picture of the White House lawn, with watermelons Photoshopped all over it? I sure as hell do.

And all your snarking about how Trump is payback for how you “put up with” Obama for eight years? I’m calling bullshit on that too. Obama restored the country after your idiot frat boy George W. Bush took us down the dumper for two excruciating terms.

potusstats_fb_20141124

So for those who don’t like this post, to them, I give back their own words: Too bad. Suck it up. You’re more than welcome to read something more up your alley, like Breitbart News. Oh, and this too…

14rk2q

(Of course, I mean that in the figurative sense, not literally. Because I wouldn’t actually let any of you anywhere near my ass.)

To my friends and faithful readers, I promise I will be back when my kinky mojo returns and I feel like posting on topic again. In the meantime, Merry Christmas HAPPY HOLIDAYS, y’all. 😛

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