Well, kids… I did it

Last Sunday.

I did all the research, met with the tattoo artist (Danny) for a consultation. I felt at ease with him from the moment I met him. I explained what I wanted, and he said it was quite doable. I thought “why wait?” and made the appointment.

A friend joined me at the tattoo parlor for moral support, which was very sweet of her. Danny showed me a stencil of what he’d worked up for me, and we positioned and sized it until I thought it was just right. And then he went to work.

It wasn’t nearly as painful as I thought it would be. It stung, but more of an annoyance than really hurting. The noise was minimal too — people had said it would sound like a dentist drill, but it wasn’t anywhere near that loud. The three of us chatted away during the process and I barely noticed what was going on. I had been very nervous going there, but once I got in the chair, calm came over me.

I didn’t look at what he was doing; I didn’t want to see it until it was done. But my friend watched the whole thing and kept exclaiming how pretty it was. When I finally looked at it, I nearly cried. I couldn’t believe I’d actually done it.

Danny then put a clear film of Tegaderm over it, which fit like a second skin. I was to keep that on for 48 hours. So last Tuesday, I got into the shower, let it steam work a bit until I was able to lift a corner of the sheet and then very slowly peel it off. After that, I had special soap for it, and special aftercare lotion.

I could exercise and do pretty much whatever I wanted. The only caveats were no baths or swimming, and no constricting, clingy clothing. No sports bras. For the past week, I’ve been washing and moisturizing it twice a day, and otherwise pretty much leaving it alone. I was told it would probably itch and flake, and might even seep, but so far, there hasn’t been any of that. It just feels like a mild sunburn.

My next hurdle is getting through Valentine’s Day, which is going to be emotionally brutal. John always made a big fuss over it, made me feel so loved and special. (sigh) I wonder if I’ll be able to handle finally going through that drawer and reading some of the Valentine poems and other things he wrote me in the past. In recent years, he wrote a short poem for every day in February. I haven’t been able to go through that drawer yet. Twenty-seven years’ worth of cards and notes and other sweet memories.

And I’m craving play like crazy. Still working on that. In the meantime, I’ve been getting deep-tissue massages to release stress and tension. They feel amazing. Self-care is important.

I am very glad I did this. My own way of keeping John close to my heart forever. ♥

New Year Musings

Been a while. I have much on my mind, so hunker down. Get a beverage.

First, my thoughts on the past year:

Yeah. It sucked. And looking back at the beginning of last year, I’m amazed that I was so consumed with what I called my “existential bleccchhhh.” I wrote this post last January. What a difference a year makes. Now, how I fit into the spanking scene is no longer a priority. Or on my mind at all, really.

I’m not really part of the scene anymore. I will always love spanking, and I will always enjoy the 20+ years of memories. But honestly, I don’t feel like I fit in with it anymore. Why? To put it simply, it changed, as things do, and I didn’t. No one’s fault; it’s just the way it is. And now, with some time past, I feel like I can talk about at least some of it.

I’ve always been a niche player. I am a 100% bottom; I never switch. And I bottom to men only. This didn’t used to be an issue. Now things are different. The party scene is more fluid. Roles are not clearly defined any longer. And it seems everyone plays with pretty much everyone — orientations as well as genders are fluid. I am not — repeat, NOT — saying this is wrong. It’s far more inclusive, and good for many more people. But for someone like me, it creates a feeling of awkwardness.

It used to be at parties, you basically put people together in some rooms and left them to their own devices as to how to play. Now, it seems the trend is to organize things a lot more, with games, themes, roleplays, etc. And when everyone is playing with everyone, and you’re not, you feel like the oddball.

Case in point? The party John and I went to last year over New Year’s. It was a lovely party, with good people. The hosts were awesome, the venue was comfortable, and we were thrilled to be included. However, I quickly realized how different parties had become from the first night of three.

There were a lot of spanking games, with different themes. But they all had one thing in common: bowls of slips with names on them. Everyone who identified as a bottom put their names in one bowl, and everyone who identified as tops put their names in another. If they identified as both, they put a slip in each bowl. And then one slip from each bowl was drawn and the two people were paired to engage in some sort of roleplay, with spanking.

As it happened, there were a lot more women at this gathering than men. Nearly all the men were switches. And pretty much all the women were too. Therefore, there were lots of women in the top bowl. And damned if nearly every time my name was drawn, I got paired with a woman.

Granted, I could have opted out and just watched. John had chosen not to put his name in anything, and I could have just sat with him and watched, laughed. But I wanted to belong. I wanted to be a part of it. So I decided to be a sport and be topped by whoever. And so, over and over, I bottomed to women.

Most of them were very respectful to me, knowing that this wasn’t my preference. The play was more on the light side, over clothes, etc. But it was excruciating for me. I felt uncomfortable and ridiculous. Again, no one’s fault but my own. If I wanted to play, this was how I had to play. I just didn’t like it.

I did say “most of them.” But of course, there always has to be one…

Before I get into this part, I am going to segue, and say something I haven’t had the guts to say before. But I do now. Because fuck it, it’s on my mind, and I feel like it needs to be said. I was thinking about making it a separate post, but I’ll keep it brief.

The #MeToo movement hit the BDSM and spanking scene hard. A lot of predatory men were exposed, stories of past assaults and consent violations were revealed. Things got pretty ugly and the scene was a dumpster fire for a while. But safety is important, and these truths needed to come out and be discussed.

But there’s one thing that, still, no one ever talks about. We hear all about the men who are handsy, rape-y, who push past known limits, who go too far, etc., etc. However, no one talks about the women who do the same thing. Ever. Not that I’ve ever seen, anyway.

Mind you, I am not dissing femme dommes as a whole, so spare me that accusation. I am friends with several femme dommes, they know who they are, and they know I have mad respect for them. But there are also the ones out there who hate men, and use their fetish in order to act out that hate. Who think the world revolves around them and what they want. Who think they are all-powerful and can do whatever they damn well please, demand whatever they damn well please. And they get away with it because people keep allowing them to.

How do I know so much about femme dommes, when I’ve never played with them? Easy. John did. Oh, mercy. Do I have stories. Years and years of stories. But I won’t go into them here. I will simply end this segue with something for everyone to consider and keep in mind, especially newbies. It is a reality that some tops are to be avoided (which, of course, makes us all appreciate the good ones even more). When you think of the worst kinds of tops — arrogant, egotistical, uncaring, cruel, in it for themselves alone — remember this: Not all of them have a Y chromosome. Predators and abusers are not limited to males.

So, back to the party. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, there was another game with the bowls of names. There was a table loaded up with implements. And this time, after people were paired, the top would give the bottom 23 strokes with an implement of the bottom’s choosing.

Again, I got paired with several women who were nice and respectful and kept things light. And then there was the one I didn’t know, had never met before.

When I went to choose my implement, I picked up the belt on the table. She said, “Uh-uh… my belt.” Okay, fine. She took her own belt off, and I started to bend over a stool. Then she said, “No. Those jeans need to come down.”

Say what now?

See, this is where I should have stood back up and said, “No, they don’t.” I should have honored my own boundaries. But again… I didn’t want to rock the boat. I didn’t want to be a poor sport. I didn’t want to not fit in.

So instead, I simply shrugged and said, “Okay,” and started to unbutton my jeans. And then she doubled down and said, “Hmmm… that didn’t sound anything like ‘yes, ma’am’ to me.”

Are you kidding me, lady? Who do you think you’re talking to?

Still, I didn’t say a word. I unzipped my jeans and shoved them down (leaving my underwear up, thank you very much) and bent back over. She gave me the 23 strokes, and they weren’t light, either. I grit my teeth through the whole thing. Then it was time to stand back up and finish with a hug.

I couldn’t resist. As I hugged her, I said in my snarkiest tone, “Happy New Year… maaaaaa’am.”

She laughed humorlessly. And then she said, in a voice dripping with condescension: “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’re not going to have a Happy New Year with that attitude.”

I’ll be damned. I don’t believe in this sort of thing, but I’d swear that woman put a curse on me. Because 2023 turned out to be the worst year of my life.

Anyway… the experience left me feeling icky. And I realized this party wasn’t an anomaly. These games and icebreakers are now being played at the national parties too. And nearly every scheduled event involves some sort of roleplay, oftentimes ones I’m not comfortable with. I’m too damned old for the school themes, and I don’t like the whole family oriented themes either. And I don’t do any sort of age play. Again, more power to everyone who enjoys these things. The fact that I don’t is my problem. And I had to come to accept that maybe I’ve had my run and it’s time to bow out. Especially now that I don’t have John with me anymore.

I miss spanking. I still hope to find a local play partner. But my party days are definitely behind me.

So… a new year. 2023 was brutal, start to finish. Even in the early months, bad things happened. John had four different infections in rapid succession, which was stressful for both of us. My car was sideswiped on the freeway, on the driver’s side, when I was at the wheel. Then in June, the love of my life died.

The remaining half of the year was a blur of sheer hell, dealing with two problematic properties, bills, probate, a million forms to fill out, endless phone calls, handymen, roofers, painters, exterminators, you name it. It became ludicrous, so many things went wrong. After we finally sold John’s house, we went to work on the condo. New appliances, a new patio door, new lights and fixtures, new toilet, new mantel over the fireplace, the list went on and on. And when it was all done and the condo was sparkling and perfect, my realtor listed it. On the first day of the listing, it was 98 degrees, and she went to turn on the A/C. And then called me, telling me it was completely dead. My reaction was “Of course it is.”

I just had to roll with it all. I remember when the AC guy called and was trying to carefully and tactfully explain to me that the unit was fully shot, that the condo was built in the 80s and this was the original AC system, and they didn’t make them like this anymore, and he was going to have to cut things to make more room, and so on and so on and so on… and then I heard my realtor pipe up in the background: “In other words, we’re fucked!” And I laughed. What else could I do, really? I replaced the AC. And we sold the condo too.

And finally, after all that was done, this past month my favorite cousin passed away.

So yeah. Here’s my final thought on 2023.

Screw achievements. My achievement was I survived. I’m sad, I feel like I’ve aged ten years, I still cry every damn day, but I survived.

This year, I hope I can do more than just survive. I hope I can find some happiness again. I will never find love like I had with John again, I know this. But I need to decide what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, without him. More will be revealed, as they say.

I hope everyone had nice holidays, and that 2024 is good to you. ♥

John-isms

I constantly have random memories of John floating in and out of my mind. Some of them make me laugh. Just felt like sharing this one.

John loved to tease. And he especially loved to tease me because of the way I reacted to it. But everyone now and then, I zinged him back.

We were at a Shadow Lane party years ago. In this particular hotel, the elevators sat in an alcove off of the main hallway, and between the two facing banks of them, there were a couple of very comfortable chairs. One day when John and I were going to the elevator, we saw a member of our party sitting in one of those chairs, knitting. Why she chose to knit there, I don’t know, but whatever.

We said hello, and John said, “Are you making something for me?” She smiled and answered, “Sure! What would you like?”

Before he could answer, I popped in with, “Can you knit him a cock-warmer?” (pause) “Of course, you’ll need a lot more yarn.”

John was speechless. She didn’t even blink, just looked at me and asked, “What color?”

Ah, we were a fun group. 🙂

And now for something completely different

For those who have been with me for a long time, you know the story of John and peach roses. The first time he came to my place, he brought me a single long-stemmed peach rose. It was kind of a cute spanko double entendre, as bottoms are sometimes referred to as peaches, and a spanked backside often gets that rosy peach color. From that point on, I got peach roses on every occasion — birthdays, anniversaries, Valentine’s Day. With a couple of rare exceptions (like white roses when my father passed away), he never sent anything else.

I don’t have any tattoos. Neither did John. He admired them greatly on others for their art and personal expression, but he didn’t want one himself. Many years ago, I toyed with the idea of getting a salty one — a tiny pair of red lips and a small downward pointing arrow, positioned slightly over one butt cheek. (You can figure out the message in that.)

When I shared that idea with John, I’ll never forget his comment. (I know I’ve mentioned this before at some point.) “You really want that on you when you’re 70? the only thing I want on you when you’re 70 is me.” Okay, so I scrapped that idea.

Cut to the present. I am seriously thinking, at this ripe old age, of getting my first and only tattoo. To honor John, to have a reminder of him on me all the time, one I can readily see. A single peach rose.

I sent away for a temporary tattoo, just to get an idea of what it would look like. This is too small and too orange, but the gist of it is there. On my left inside arm, because I’m left-handed, and it’s the same side as my heart.

If I were to get the real thing, I would want something delicate and detailed like this, on a smaller scale:

Of course, I know absolutely zip about tats or where to get good ones or what to expect. If anyone has thoughts to share, please feel free.

I don’t think John would have minded this. And I can’t think of a better way to pay tribute to him in a personal way. ♥ Something to put on the to-do list when the dust settles.

September already?

Time flies, even when your life has been blown to smithereens.

But I’m not going to talk about probate, houses, condos, spending a ton of money, legal documents, the parade of contractors and repair people, and all the other crap my days are filled with lately.

This weekend I got to take a break. Friends came from out of town to visit me. I will be discreet and private about details; they know who they are.

I didn’t have to do a thing. They were simply here to be with me, as much as I needed. They got an AirBnB five minutes from my apartment, and all I had to do was drive between us. We went out for meals at places I love and that I thought they’d like (and they did), watched YouTube clips and a movie, talked, shared laughs and many hugs. Yes, I was able to laugh.

And… I played. One scene, but quite thorough. Hand, hairbrush, strap. I wasn’t sure how I’d react. I wasn’t sure how my tolerance would be after all this time. But that all melted away a couple of minutes into it. I trusted him, felt his compassion, and I let go and cried.

Oh, damn, I’ve missed that. I didn’t realize just how much.

Last week would have been John’s and my 27th anniversary. You all know the significance of peach roses with us… he gave them to me for every occasion. It was our personal signature flower.

So imagine my shock, delight, and tears when my friends showed up with a bouquet of peach and white roses for me.

I am not fishing for compliments here, just being honest. I don’t care for this picture. I look at it and see a smile that doesn’t radiate in my eyes, which are swollen. But I’m posting it anyway, because the flowers are so gorgeous. And I’m so grateful.

Tough times ahead. My birthday. His birthday right after that. The holidays. And so, so much work with his estate. But at least for a couple of days, I got to have a break. I got to play, I got to laugh, I got to be hugged. And I didn’t have to travel for it or do much of anything… which is good, because I just don’t have it in me to put out much effort right now.

It’s good to have friends. ♥ Also, it’s good to know that this thing I love so much still works for me. Now, I just need to find a local trusted play partner.

Almost two months…

Fortunately, even when everything sucks, time does fly.

It’s been quite the odyssey. Still waiting for my executorship to be granted. My probate attorney has a hearing with the courts a week from Wednesday. If all goes well, I should get the official papers in early September. After that, I can list John’s properties. In the meantime, I’ve been trying to get repairs done.

I thought John took good care of his house. He cleaned and vacuumed every week. He swept all the leaves off the decks, had the front deck rebuilt, repainted the balcony. He treated the flowering bushes up front with Miracle Gro. At first glance, the house looked neat and tidy. However… hidden within were various disasters.

There was a leak in the roof, which came through to the dining room ceiling. And within that portion of the ceiling and wall, there was mold. The automatic garage door opener was broken. The water main out front needed to be replaced. The back gate won’t latch. The AC stopped working.

Then there was the matter of his ongoing bills. I cancelled the cell phone, the cable, and the natural gas. I need to keep water and power going. Also internet, because without Wi-Fi in John’s house, there is absolutely no phone reception. And every individual company has their own way of dealing with closing out/transferring accounts. There have been a lot of phone calls, meetings in person, and sitting on hold.

So. This week, a portion of the wall and ceiling were cut out, and all the mold was cleaned out and everything was scrubbed down. Today, the mold inspector is returning to retest and give us the all clear (I hope!). On Monday, the roofer is coming to patch up the roof and replace a vent. When he first went up there to look, he said, “This roof is really old and needs to be replaced.” Yeah, that’s not an option.

Oh, and the mold guy told me that, along with the mold, they found rat droppings up there. So I have to call an exterminator. Also, the mold guy was just for remediation; his company doesn’t do restoration. I have to schedule a contractor to come in and restore the wall and ceiling. The good news (if you can call it that) is that the mold wasn’t widespread; it was concentrated in a relatively small area.

John’s former brother-in-law (he is divorced from one of the witch sisters) is a retired handyman. He replaced the water main and didn’t charge me. ♥ I’m going to have him replace the garage door opener and fix the fence (and I will pay him for those). I also had a tech come fix the AC. Fortunately, despite it being a very old unit, it was still repairable.

And then, after all these repairs are done, I’m having an estate guy come in to clean out the house completely. If there is anything that’s worth selling, he’ll add it to one of his estate sales. We determined that because of the remote location of John’s house, the lack of parking, etc., there’s no way people would come to an estate sale there. So he’ll donate/junk/sell things after he takes them out of the house. Whatever he sells, I get 65%.

I won’t be gauche enough to quote all the money that these things have been costing and will continue to cost. Suffice it to say that things were scary for a while. I couldn’t get to John’s bank accounts for nearly two months, and I had to borrow money from an emergency savings account I have.

HOWEVER — finally, some relief. After the bureaucratic merry-go-round with various forms and affidavits and notaries and so on and on, John’s three accounts at B of A were closed out, and this morning via UPS, I received three cashier’s checks. Now I can replenish my emergency fund, pay for all the upcoming repairs, and draw a proper breath.

And we haven’t even gone to John’s condo yet… but that can wait. His 20-year-old, manual transmission Toyota Tacoma truck is sitting there in the parking space, and I can’t find the pink slip for it, so once I get the executor papers, I can apply for a replacement slip. And then I think I’m just going to donate it.

As for the house, my realtor and I determined that because everything is so old and dated, we’re going to list it as is, once the repairs are done and everything is cleaned. It will be a fixer upper, but someone will want it. It’s a very popular area. Plus, there is zero parking up in that freaking canyon, and John has a two-car attached garage, which is considered golden.

I’ve been so consumed with all this, I’ve barely had time to grieve. But every day, in a quiet moment, it hits me.

I have not socialized, aside from one dinner with a friend and coffee with another. As it happens, the local spanking munch group is having a play party/barbecue tomorrow and invited me, which I appreciated greatly. But I had to say no. I am not ready for anything like that now. I wouldn’t be any fun and I’d just bring others down. Regarding play… every now and then, I do crave it. Eventually, I think I’d like to find another play partner, just to have the stress release now and then, scratch that itch. But I think my big party days are behind me. I think they were anyway, even before any of this happened.

And that, my friends, is what’s going on. Some people will likely find what I’m about to say offensive, but I’ll bet a whole lot more will totally get it. And FFS, with all I’ve been through, I’m allowed a little gallows humor.

If you are in a loving relationship for life, besides telling you to treasure your mate every day, I just have one piece of advice.

Be the first one to die. Because the alternative is a living hell.