On my mind

Been thinking lately about the effect words and phrases have to those of us in the kink persuasion. How certain terms can push all kinds of buttons — positive and negative. How a word or set of words can mean something to one person, and something altogether to another. Many of these have been discussed again and again and I’m not here right now to discuss the psychology of what turns whom on or off. Just thinking about a couple of terms I take exception with, and why.

I was emailing with a top last week, one I hope to meet up with when we can finally get our vaccinations and life can return. I made an offhand comment about how I was concerned that I’ve lost my tolerance, not having played now for over a year. He wrote back, “Nah, it’s like riding a bicycle. Once a pain slut, always a pain slut.”

I don’t have a problem with the word “slut” when it’s used in this sort of context. As long as it isn’t slut shaming, I’m okay with it. However, I don’t think I’m a pain slut.

I’m a spanking slut. When it comes to that specific fetish and everything around it, I am insatiable. But do I crave pain?

No. Not really.

Is “pain slut” synonymous with “masochist”? I don’t consider myself a masochist. Maybe others do, because within the realm of spanking play, I play hard. But even despite that, I have plenty of limits.

When examining the various posts/tweets/etc. of fellow spankos, I see so many other things being discussed, everything from nipple play to bastinado. Face slapping to leg caning. It seems that many people who share my fetish also have a taste for other flavors of pain.

I don’t. Honestly, I hate pain. I have no tolerance for it, except on my bottom. Somehow, pain inflicted on my butt is wired into my endorphins and sexual feelings. But it’s shocking how little pain I can take anywhere else. When I read about nipple torture, for example, I practically fold in on myself. I can’t even stand to have mine touched, let alone struck, pinched or clamped.

My kink, my fetish, my love of pain has a sharp and singular focus. How many others can say this? I wish I knew more people like me. So many things I can’t relate to. I wish I could, but I can’t. And then, of course, people aren’t comfortable discussing their own predilections with me, because they know I’m not relating.

Regarding the gentleman’s comment, I wrote back and explained my preferred term and why. He understood. He also said that he hoped I hadn’t inferred any desire on his part to cause me any pain over and above what I want, and then when we play, it will be safe, sane and consensual always. I appreciated that more than you can imagine… and in particular, I loved that he said when, not if.

Moving on — in 2018, I chose to retire from shooting spanking content. It was time, I thought, and I don’t regret it. I don’t think I ever publicized what led to that decision. It was a lot of things… but it boils down to an essential two.

One, I no longer enjoyed the way I looked on camera. I used to. But in the last couple of productions I watched, I saw changes in my body and my skin that I found unflattering. Simple as that. And if I wasn’t enjoying this anymore, there was no reason to do it. It had always been about fun and self-expression to me.

And two… I saw a hateful person refer to me still doing videos as “granny porn.”

I’d never heard or seen that term before. It made me sick. MILF and cougar are bad enough. But this term was so unflattering, so mean, it really shook me up. I instantly envisioned those awful cartoons of the old Playboy magazines, with the horny, predatory old woman and her saggy boobs.

I then learned that was a real term, a real thing, a genre within porn. I started seeing women using the term. And that made me even sicker.

It’s bad enough living in a world where women aren’t supposed to age. But when some of us buck the trend and exhibit our sexuality past society’s cutoff age, we shouldn’t have to tolerate such degrading terms. And we sure as hell shouldn’t be perpetuating them.

I saw a performer I have always admired use that term about her work, and I begged her to please, please, please don’t refer to her good work that way. She replied that it was a standard term in the industry and she saw no reason to sugarcoat it.

No, don’t sugarcoat it. How about fucking eliminating it?

I am proud of the fact that I started shooting spanking content at an age where most bottoms have retired, and that I continued it for 18 years. But I didn’t want to become a joke, an object of ridicule. And to me, the terminology around older women doing fetish film is degrading. We’re made to look like fools.

On Twitter, there’s a guy who does nothing but post spanking pictures from other people’s work and then captions them with insulting and embarrassing descriptions. “Fat MILF gets her ass spanked.” “Grandpa teaches a lesson.” One time, he posted a photo of me with Danny Chrighton… and captioned it, “Erica Scott plays with her son.” Really?? For fuck’s sake, Danny’s eleven years younger than I am. Is it really that outrageous? Men shoot with women one half to one third their age, but a woman can’t shoot with a man who is a few years younger without evoking that kind of ageist crap? I really didn’t want any more of that, and I could see the writing on the wall: it wasn’t going to go away. As time passed, it would only increase. The bad would outweigh the good. The compliments would dwindle while the mean-spirited critiques would escalate. Time to stop.

What’s my point? Women out there in the industry, particularly those of you who are no longer in your twenties and thirties — please don’t perpetuate this terminology. We can’t change society, but maybe we can change a few minds. Maybe if we don’t condone degrading terms, fewer people will use them. One can hope.

I’d love to hear what people think about either of these terms I’ve mentioned, even those who disagree. I miss spanko chats, truly I do. I feel like play and enjoying this thing I love is so tantalizingly within reach. Maybe another month or two? Fingers crossed.

I get by…

…with a little help from my friends.

Hey, that’s catchy. Someone ought to set that to music sometime.

This happened a couple of weeks ago, but due to what was going on in the country, I figured I’d postpone it for a while.

We all know the spanking scene is a mixed bag. But one of the things I’ve always loved over the years is the solidarity many of us share. We have each other’s back(sides). And sometimes, it’s not just about playful bratting or what have you. Sometimes, the subjects are serious.

About 3 1/2 years ago, a friend of mine wrote a post on FetLife. In it, she took a bold stance: she stated that she would not play with anyone who is a Trump supporter. She listed her reasons why; it was a well-written, detailed post, no name-calling, just stating her position and why.

As you can imagine, the comments flowed. Some were supportive. Some were neutral. And of course, many others were nasty. I felt like I wanted to do something to support her, so people would see she’s not alone in this stance.

So I posted this picture:

I said I was doing this in solidarity with [her name], and I made it my avatar. Aaaaand the comments rolled in. Most were supportive. But of course, some were nasty.

And then, much to my delight, the incomparable Michael Masterson posted this picture:

He captioned it with “In support of my girl Erica Scott, who has the courage to make her voice heard, I offer you this.” My comment? “I love you, Mike.”

(Sorry about the editing, but the pic was a bit too gynecological. I figured it took away from the message.)

Anyway, cut to the present. I decided it was time to dump the old avatar and put up a new picture. So I chose this one from the end of 2019 (because 2020 was sadly lacking in play).

What is it we FetLife veterans know? No matter what kind of picture you put up, some people aren’t going to like it. And some people won’t hesitate to let you know they don’t like it, and why. You’re wearing panties. You’re not wearing panties. You’re too heavy, you’re too thin, you’re too old, you’re too young, etc. etc. The picture is too graphic. The picture isn’t graphic enough. And of course, one of my favorites: if it shows the results of a spanking, you get the ‘I could have done a better job’ comments.

Sure enough, the picture wasn’t up five minutes when I got this right off the bat:

Not red or bruised enough… just saying. 😉 😉

Really?? And is the “wink, wink” supposed to make it okay?

I mean, come on. If you’re of the persuasion of preferring more graphicly walloped bottoms, you have thousands to choose from on FetLife. Knock yourself out. Go look at the pictures of butts that look like they were pounded with a meat cleaver and then thrown on a barbecue grill, and have a wank-fest. Why bother stopping to comment on mine if you don’t like it?

Sheesh. I hadn’t put up a new picture on Fet in ages, and right out of the gate, I hear from the basement critics. But I didn’t want to start a thing on FetLife, so I didn’t reply to the comment. However, I did go on Twitter and grouse about it, saying that I really wanted to answer, “Who the fuck asked you?” but I’d refrain.

Next thing I knew, my buddy Sarah (not Gregory; a different Sarah I’ve mentioned on here, she of the full-body tackle hugs at parties) tweeted to me: “Allow me… BRB.” And within a minute, I saw I had a notification on Fet of a new comment. I went to look, and nearly fell on the floor.

Below the guy’s comment, Sarah had typed:

[His name]: Who the fuck asked you? 😉 😉

But wait, there’s more: Within minutes, the guy commented back to her. I braced myself for some vitriol, figuring I’d have to step in at some point. But all he wrote was:

Good comment. 🙂

Well, how about that. I chose to interpret that as saying, “Yeahhhh, you’re right, I guess that was kind of a dumb thing to say.” No harm done. And the picture got a lot more attention after that. Sarah, you really do rock. 😀

Not that I spend much time on FetLife these days, anyway. I’m usually there to network about parties, or post about scenes I’ve had. And what with Covid, there’s been none of that. Still… it’s nice to know your friends still look out for you. ♥ I miss everyone so much. The February party has already been canceled, but we are hoping for Labor Day.

Final note: Regarding this week’s momentous occasion, I will say just one thing and then leave it alone.

Four years ago, my stepmother, then 85 and in poor health, was in complete despair over Trump’s presidency. She wrote to me: “I was born during one the country’s darkest times [the Great Depression], and I’m probably going to die during another one.” That broke my heart. I was afraid she wouldn’t stick around; that she’d get so despondent, she’d give up and stop fighting.

Yesterday, she emailed me and said, among other things, “After Biden’s speech, I broke down and sobbed like a child.” She’s now 89. But she’s still with me. She made it. She hung in there long enough to watch us all come out the other side. And I’m so very grateful. It sickened me to the core that the Honorable Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg didn’t live to see this, but damn, this sure helps soothe that pain.

That’s all, folks. Have a great weekend. Stay safe.

Sweet relief

It had been a while, but last Thursday, I got to have a delicious fix. You know, that special cocktail of pain and pleasure and endorphins and firing synapses and all that hot sweetness that we spankos understand. And damn, did I need it.

I hadn’t seen D since our first play time a month ago, and I wanted to very much, but I’m not the one with two jobs and crappy commutes. I knew I had to wait and be patient. In the meantime, things have been crazy stressful this month. John was dealing with a hearing at work concerning his ongoing issues with them (yes, the saga continues), and I think the stress of it weakened him and he got sick with some sort of intestinal bug. All he wanted to do was sleep, and he’d stopped eating. The last time that happened, he ended up in the hospital with a strep infection that nearly killed him, so of course I was in a state of near-panic for days, until he went to the doctor. Sure enough, he’d contracted a secondary bacterial infection and they put him on antibiotics, which helped right away. But between worrying about him, trying to focus on my work, dealing with my feelings about skipping Shadow Lane and why, and the ongoing bad news every freaking day, I was in a state. And working out only goes so far, you know?

Soooooo… on Thursday morning when I heard from D, asking if I was available later that afternoon, I considered it — for about three and a half seconds. You guys know me; I’m all about plans and schedules and spontaneity makes me break out in hives. But damned if I was going to say no to this! I wanted to see him. I wanted to play. I wanted to forget about everything for a couple of hours.

He said he’d know for sure if he could make it by 2:30. So I swung into action, doing two loads of laundry, working, getting a workout in, showering, done with everything by 2:30. I figured if he could make it, I’d cleared away the immediate responsibilities. And if he couldn’t, then I’d just be freed up to do some more work. Win-win. But of course, it was so much better that he confirmed yes. 🙂

He was at my door by 4:15, looking sharp as ever in his business suit. It was nearly 100 degrees outside, and I had the A/C and ceiling fan going full blast, but I knew he’d still be uncomfortably warm so encouraged him to take off his jacket and tie. He’d requested that I put out the “attitude adjustment tools” again; this time, I very sweetly laid them out on the bar instead of putting them in the trash can. I did say that there’s nothing wrong with my attitude, however. We sat on the couch, and he started unbuttoning his cuffs. This time, I had the presence of mind to stop him and take a picture. Because, really, isn’t this one of the hottest fucking sights there is for us bottoms?

While he was rolling up his sleeves, he was calmly regaling me with some story about why men’s shirts have two buttons side by side on the cuffs. Mind you, normally I enjoy trivia like this, but considering I was glazing over watching those forearms make an appearance, I honestly couldn’t care less at the moment if his cuffs had one button or two, snaps, or freaking safety pins. So I murmured, “Wow, that’s… fascinating.”

“Oooh, condescending! Ohhhkay,” he grinned. I tried to backpedal a bit, saying, “Well, it is interesting… I didn’t know that.” (Pause.) And then I added, “Nor did I care.”

(Just had a memory of Danny from long ago — one of his favorite scold-y phrases. “Oh, Erica. When will you learn??” To which I always answered, “How about never? Does never work for you?” Clearly, I still haven’t learned.)

Our scene was a long one, with multiple parts. We started with me OTK on my couch, with his hand. Moved to me bending over my desk, with his hand and (I think) my leather paddle. Break for a hug with him sitting in my recliner and me on my knees before him, and then he lifted me up and over the arm of the recliner and continued spanking. And finally, just like our first time, he brought me over to the dining room chair and put me back OTK there, picking up my heart-shaped paddle.

He was toppier this time, I noticed. “Come on, stick that butt out. Arch your back, up on those toes.” I may or may not have called him a “fucking taskmaster” at some point. However, whenever I got into the right position, he’d croon, “Just like that. Good girl.” (What is it about the phrases “good girl” and “bad girl” that push so damn many buttons in equal measure?)

Oh, and while we’re on the subject of hot buttons — along with the aforementioned sleeve rolling, is there anything more delicious than a hand that wanders up the back of your neck, fingers slowly crawling, caressing, then swiftly tightening at the base of your skull? Never pulling, just a firm grip that lets you know you’re going nowhere. D has that down as well.

While I was over my desk, he stopped for a moment, saying he wanted to take a picture so that I could see how I was already marking. I appreciated how conscientious he was. He quickly snapped the shot, showed me, and I said, “It’s fine.” “You sure?” “Yes, D. Please don’t stop.” “Oh, don’t worry, I’m not done,” he assured me. Thank goodness.

(Sorry, kids, this picture’s a little rude, even though I’ve doctored it a bit):

The final scene in the dining room chair was what broke through all the crap. I had felt myself softening and transitioning as we moved through each step, feeling like a knot inside was being gently and persistently worked open. As the pain and intensity escalated and I reached my threshold, I remember thinking, “I need this so much. Thank you. Thank you.” There are few things more sublime than when you reach that pinnacle of vulnerability and you feel like you can just fall and strong hands will catch you. Toward the end, my feet were twisting and flying, my groans were coming right up from my gut, and I was out of my head, off the hamster wheel. My voice broke and the tears began. There wasn’t one bit of tension left in my body.

He took me to the couch and held me, soothing me, and I buried my face and wept. As I started to calm, the usual bit of self-consciousness slipped back. Some women look very pretty when they cry. I’m not one of them. And I can’t help remember what Amber “Pixie” Wells used to say about the dilemma of crying after a scene: “Tears are hot, but snot is not.” Oh, and my mascara wasn’t waterproof. So sexy. But, oh well. He didn’t seem to mind.

After I’d recovered a bit, he gave me another wonderful massage with lotion. I could really get used to this, y’all. Then we chatted for a while, heart rates calming, skin cooling, returning to normal. And well, of course, I couldn’t stay well behaved for very long, could I? I swear, I really never do learn. Sooner or later, I’m always going to revert back to mischief and sass. It usually doesn’t take very long, even after the most intense of scenes. Still, I don’t think D is quite used to me, because he was incredulous.

“You’re being naughty!” he exclaimed. “Yup,” I agreed. And just like that, he went from zero to Top in a heartbeat. His body language, voice, everything changed instantly. “Get over my knee, now,” he commanded.

Uh… what? But… we already had aftercare and everything. But… I’m all lotioned and stuff! But… Yeah. Miss Usually Articulate, all I could do was sputter, “But… but…”

“Don’t ‘but’ me,” he said firmly, pulling me into position. The spanking wasn’t super hard or long, but after all that had gone down earlier, it stung fiercely. When he sat me back up, I sulked, “Well… that was mean!”

(No, it really wasn’t. It was fucking hot. But we don’t have to tell him that, right?) 😀

Shortly thereafter, he had to leave. I was kind of sub-spacey, goofy, and I went to get his suit jacket. Of course, when I handed it to him, I managed to hold it upside down, dumping his wallet and keys and everything else out of his pockets. Ugh. Poetry in motion, that’s me. Finally managed to get the coat back on him, and then I sat down and watched with no doubt what was a dorky, dreamy face while he put his tie and his shoes back on. And then he was off.

I forgot to ask him for more pictures after we were done. So a couple of hours later, I took a picture myself. As you can see, I had faded substantially by then.

Interestingly, even though we played much harder this time, I wasn’t marked as when we played the first time. By Friday, there was little more than a mild blush on my skin. I was sore, though. Happily so.

The endorphin cocktail remained fizzing in my system the rest of the evening and all the next day. Funny how all the BS goes away for a while. Or maybe it’s still there and I just don’t care.

Thank you, D. Come around and see me again soon, won’t you?

 

 

A reader’s question & a question for my readers

After my last post, I got a thought-provoking comment regarding the thigh slaps from Steve. Reader Mark commented that it’s clear that Steve doesn’t do anything to me that I don’t really want, so why exactly do I like having my thighs spanked, and why did I want it this time?

It’s not really that I like having my thighs spanked. That is what I’d call a soft limit; it’s not something I crave, and I certainly don’t want every top I play with to do that. But it’s not an absolute NO either. It’s a bit of edge play, a little boundary testing. I do have fun pushing my tops a bit, with teasing and provocative comments. But I like them to push back a little too. If they don’t react, then it isn’t any fun.

While I don’t get into spanking for true punishment, I do get off on a disciplinary side to it — more of a head space than physical discomfort. In the stories I read, tops have all sorts of secondary activity aside from spanking to send the bottom a message — things like butt plugs, ginger, capsaicin cream or mouth-soaping. All of which come under the heading of NO FUCKING WAY for me. So, the smacks to the thighs are Steve’s go-to for when I push him too far. He doesn’t hit that hard, never uses anything but his hand… he doesn’t need to. That area is so very sensitive, it doesn’t take much. But those few strikes will put me in a different head space. I hate the pain, I feel angry at first, then I shift into a more compliant state, my body relaxes, I move into acceptance. I stop fighting. My edginess softens. I give myself over.

What can I say — it’s all part of these oh so fun and twisted games we play.

And while we’re on the subject of soft limits and kink things we’re not all that crazy about, I have an informal poll for my bottom/sub/DD or D/s practicing readers, whatever you choose to call yourselves.

Say there’s something kink-wise that you don’t really care for, but your top/dom/whatever loves it. Say it’s not one of your hard limits, and the next time you’re scening, he says he’d like you to do X. (As I always do, for simplicity’s sake, I’m assuming the M/F orientation. Feel free to switch it up in your mind.) You groan and say, “Oh, do I have to?”

Which of the following two answers would you prefer to hear? (in a calm, deliberate tone, of course)

A: “You know better than to ask me that. Yes, you have to, because I said so.”

B: “No, you don’t have to; this is about consent. Use your safeword if you need to. But it would please me if you did it — do you want to please me?”

Think about it. I would love to hear from my readers on this, before I reveal my own preference and why. I don’t want people to agree with me; I want their real opinion.

It’s Friday. It’s dark and cloudy and raining. I have a clean apartment, clean laundry and freshly shampooed carpets. I’m heading for John’s tonight. For the moment, I am feeling somewhat peaceful.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

Well, what do YOU call it?

I love Girls’ Nights Out. Alex, SpankCake and I never fail to have interesting discussions on all sorts of topics. Classy, lofty topics, you understand. We’ll talk about world affairs, then segue seamlessly into classic literature, deconstruct a Shakespearean play or two, and wind up the evening with a scintillating discourse about the pros and cons of stem cell research.

Oh, bullshit. We talk about boys, spanking, and sex. Not necessarily in that order.

So, it’s no secret how much I loathe and detest the “c” word. However, because I copy-edit erotica, I have become somewhat inured to it. Still hate it, still won’t say it, still won’t write it, but I can deal with it. So when Alex occasionally slips, lets it fly and then sheepishly says, “Sorry, Erica,” I just laugh.

But if I don’t use the word, then what do I use?

I think I damn near made both Alex and SC do spit-takes tonight. We were talking about play partners at parties, casual play, etc., and how you often know next to nothing about the people you play with. “I mean, just because a guy’s spanked me a few times and had his fingers in my snatch doesn’t mean I know him,” I quipped.

“Erica said ‘snatch,'”Alex crowed, picking up her phone. “I like the word ‘snatch,'” I retorted. What did she do? Yup. Tweeted this:

“I like the word ‘snatch’!” @EricaLScott

Harrumph. Well, I do! It’s a great word! So descriptive. Plus, it’s never used as a pejorative, unlike the “c” word. When was the last time you heard someone say, “God, she’s such a snatch!” ?

So, another epic night with my girls. 🙂

In other news, I think I may have a crush on my new chiropractor. He’s just a little too gleeful about inflicting pain on my person and damned if that doesn’t make my kinky little self squirm. He’s a big bear of a guy with very strong hands, and when he’s digging his fingers into my low back, my hips, my scapula, and I’m moaning, he’s saying stuff like “Ah, there it is. Happy Monday!” Or, “Come on, I’m barely touching you. I’m dying to go much harder.” He calls me “my dear” frequently, which I always associate with toppy men. And he makes me feel like a very little bitty person — not young little, but size little. “You’re such a waif,” he said.  I protested and said I am not a waif, and he scoffed, “Oh please. I could throw you like a pizza.” Well. Plus, he makes me laugh so much, I forget he’s practically killing me. “Take a deep breath, relax, and pretend you trust me,” he said right before he damn near took my head off.

I used to see my old chiro every six weeks or so. I have a feeling I might see this one more often… Damn. I’m twisted in more ways than one.

I sure hope Steve makes it tomorrow. Between Snatch Chat and having big hands all over me today, I’m a bit hot and bothered.

 

The finger

No, no, not this one…

This one.

The oh-so-sexy beckoning, “come here” finger.

(Note: for simplicity’s sake and my own orientation, I’m imagining a man’s finger. Feel free to replace it in your mind with a woman’s finger if you prefer.)

That single curling digit can convey so many messages.

“Come here, I want to kiss you.”

“Come here, I want to [do a hell of a lot more than kiss you].”

But especially, for those of us in the spanko persuasion:

“I want to spank you. Come here. Now.”

Is this a trigger for you? (The good kind, I mean.) It is for me. There are certain physical gestures that will weaken my knees and liquefy my innards without the man having to say a single word. The rolling up of the sleeves. The removing of the belt. Perhaps a raised eyebrow in a stern face. And yes, that beckoning finger. Come to me. Don’t make me come get you, little girl.

Sometimes, just to be perverse (who, meeee?), I resist. Once when Steve was here, he was sitting on the couch and I was in the kitchen. He beckoned me with his finger and patted his lap. I smiled and shrugged, staying where I was. “Come here,” he said. “Don’t wanna,” I answered. Of course, his solution was to get up, come over and pick me up, and then haul me over to the couch. Mind you, that was hot too.

But, contrariness aside, a simple curled finger will call forth my submission. I will melt, and I will go to him.

One of the hottest moments for me at the last Shadow Lane party occurred on Saturday night, as I sat on one of the couches gleefully chatting with girlfriends. I glanced up and across the room, and locked eyes with the handsome gentleman I’d been dying to play with. He sat casually at the bar, surveying the room, and when our eyes met, he smiled. And beckoned me with that single finger.

I startled. I pointed to myself and mouthed, “Me?” He nodded. I got up, heart going into overdrive, and made my way across the room as he watched. It was both the longest and the shortest walk.

The scene that followed was delicious, as I’d detailed in my party report. But it all started, for me, with the curl of a finger.

Anyone relate?

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I think I need a shower.