Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.
There is a big difference between some classless, clueless fuckwad getting in my face, and people who mean well but their words don’t come out quite right. In the latter case, I am measured and kind. I look at the intent rather than the actual verbiage.
I went to a spanko munch last week, which was a lot of fun. Everyone was friendly. It was a little weird for me, because they all knew each other and I felt like the odd one out, but they were welcoming. Then a very nice young woman asked me, “So Erica, what was the L.A. spanking scene like back in the day?”
Um…
I don’t know if I’d call twenty-five years ago “back in the day,” but I suppose when you’re thirty, that’s exactly what it is. I just said that back then, the people who ran Shadow Lane lived here and they had their finger on the pulse of all that was going on in the local spanking scene, so if you were connected to them, you had an in.
I resisted the urge to say that we all used to meet up in each other’s covered wagons. (sigh)
Last Friday, a woman wrote to me on FetLife. She said she loved my writings on Fet, and asked if I would like to join her group.
The name of the group? “Grandma Needs Love Too.” You know, for “mature” spankos.
Every fiber of my being was screaming, “Are you @#$%ing KIDDING me right now with that name??” But I kept that to myself. I wrote back, politely declined joining the group, but thanked her for the compliments on my writing.
And then this morning, another very nice young woman reached out to me, and during the correspondence, she said, “Full disclosure — I had no idea who you were.” Then she apologized and said she didn’t mean that as an insult.
I know she didn’t.
So I answered, “It’s okay. ‘Were’ is the operative word here.”
JFC. No chance of having an inflated ego in these parts.
In an attempt to find a silver lining (and no, I’m not talking about my freaking hair roots), I’m kinda grateful and relieved to be older now. I really, really, really wouldn’t want to be a woman of child-bearing age right now, not with SCOTUS and the GOP up in my uterus and demanding that I be a baby factory, or else. It was nice, enjoying the peak of my youth in a time where I had other choices besides “reproduce or keep your legs closed.”
… can go fuck itself with a 2 x 4. Sideways. With nails sticking out of it.
I was all prepared to post something altogether different for the last day of the year. Following the example of other bloggers doing top tens and favorites lists, I was going to write up my favorite things that tops say and do, with plenty of pictures. It was going to be sexy, sassy, and fun.
But today, Betty White died. The internet exploded in grief. And so did I. And I no longer give a rat’s ass about ending 2021 on a happy, positive note. Because it’s impossible, and to try to pretend otherwise would be disingenuous.
Look, I know she was ninety-nine years old. Even though she was a much-beloved national treasure and we all wished she’d live forever, she had a good long life. But what I cannot stand is that it was a mere eighteen days before her 100th birthday. A day that promised celebration, commemoration, live streams of Betty herself, retrospectives, the sheer joy of this incredible woman reaching such a milestone. That as I write, the goddamn newsstands are plastered with copies of the latest People magazine, with Betty smiling joyfully on the cover and the headline, “Betty White Turns 100!” Ugh.
Eighteen fucking days. But no. 2021 had to have one last punch to the gut. This miserable year had to send us all out in tears.
Yeah. I know that New Year’s Eve is the day we reflect, we think about the past year, our accomplishments, the good things that happened, things we’re grateful for. Ring out the old, ring in the new. You know what? Fuck that.
Tomorrow a new year begins. I’ll be with the man I love. I’ll take a few deep breaths, dry my eyes, and do my damnedest to look forward. To hope for better days. But right now, I’m angry, I’m sad, I’m crying. I hate life’s random cruelty, its inherent unfairness. I am beside myself with grief over all the sadness and pain of this past year. And I’m just going to let myself wallow in it for this one day.
Monday, January 3, will be a reset. On that day, I’m seeing Chris (I hope; there is a concern about snowstorms and a 12-hour drive probably should wait until better weather). Not only will it start my year off with a good experience, with something I need with all my heart and soul, it will help erase the utterly shitty play experience I had in recent months that left me feeling so lousy. It will restore my faith that there are men out there who get me, who know what I need and want, who want the same, who know how to deliver it. I told him I was worried about his drive, but he said he just got new snow tires and he’s very confident that it will go fine.
But right now, I am more than ready to kiss this year goodbye. Fuck off, 2021. Fuck off, Covid, Delta, Omicron, and all your other goddamn variants. Fuck off, anti-vaxxers who are keeping this pandemic going. Fuck off, Q-Anon and GOP. Fuck off, MAGAts. Fuck off, gun nuts. Fuck off, wildfires and all the other casualties of climate change, and the people who don’t want to cooperate with trying to save the planet. Fuck off, deaths of beloved icons. Fuck off, bazillionaires playing around in space while zillions are homeless. Go right to hell, every last one of you.
(sigh) And to my friends… I’m sorry. I really wanted this last post of the year to be better, funnier, happier. I still love you all, and wish the very best for you. Please take care, be safe, and hug your loved ones.
Last week, I wrote about life changes (and resulting insecurities). The always thought-provoking KD Pierre said my post triggered his own thoughts, and he wrote this post, clearly indicating that it was not meant to compare or contrast, merely that my post set off his own thoughts. Well, of course, I read his post and now I feel like I want to bounce back off him with some further thoughts on this subject.
KD talked about friends who want to go back, who want to relive their pasts, their “glory days.” He mentioned Gloria Swanson in her classic “Sunset Boulevard” role, the fading movie star who dwells in her past and goes mad doing so. Here’s the deal with me: I don’t want to relive my youth. My youth sucked! A lot of you who have been with me for a long time know this. I went from a chubby, awkward child who was afraid of everything to a confused teenager who went from overweight to anorexic to a depressed but high-functioning adult with anger issues and eating disorders. Exactly what part of that would I want to revisit? Blech. As I mentioned in my book, decades of my life were spent existing. It was only when I finally got on the right meds that I began to live.
And y’all know what happened then. Erica Scott broke out of the closet and there was no stopping her. But I had a lot of ground to catch up on. A lot of lost time to make up for. And I wanted to experience everything.
In reading KD’s post, this statement jumped out at me:
Another positive I have in my life that I recommend to others is to have younger people around you as much as possible.
Interesting, I thought. Through most of my adult life, I have been drawn to people younger than I am. I’m not sure why, and I don’t think it matters. But of course, since some people really suck, this has been criticized. I remember someone sneering to me somewhere on FetLife or someplace like that, regarding my friendships with some of the younger spanking models, that my “envy of younger women was palpable.” Yeah, yeah. Do I want to be in my 20s again? Christ, no. Okay, I’d take 40s. But that’s beside the point. I’m also, for the most part, attracted to younger men. I play often with younger men. I’ve taken heat for this too.
Following are a few random past pictures of me with friends. In the first one, I’m buried in the pillow fight pile at a party. The second one is Alex Reynolds’ bridal shower. And the third one is me with the incomparable Sierra Salem at her birthday party. Yes, we are lying on the pavement.
What do all these pictures have in common? Every single other woman in them could be my kid. I’m not sure why they all wanted to hang out with me, but I’m glad they did.
Here is a possible explanation, not that I owe anyone one. You have to keep in mind that, regarding people my own age, I actually have very little in common with them, aside from an aging body. The larger percentage of people in my age group are married, or have been (often more than once). A lot of them have grown kids, and even grandkids. They have houses and mortgages (with all the accompanying taxes, repairs, and other grownup headaches). They’ve traveled the world (or at least part of it). And then there’s me. Never married, never lived with anyone, never had kids. Have lived in an apartment my entire adult life. And aside from Mexico, I’ve never left the United States. I don’t even own a passport. I just can’t relate to the life experiences of most of my peers. And let’s face it — with my unusual experiences, a lot of them can’t relate to me, either.
However, there is one major drawback to having young friends. They don’t get my references. They don’t know the music I knew, the TV shows I watched, the world events I lived through. My cultural literacy memories are not theirs. I recall years ago, being in an airport gift shop, traveling with a 20-something co-star for videos back East. There was a t-shirt with the Marx Brothers on it, and she asked me who they were. I said, “You’ve never heard of Groucho Marx?” She thought for a moment and then answered, “I’ve heard of Karl Marx…?” Oy vey. This kind of thing makes me feel ancient. Compare it to just recently, when I mentioned to a new friend (who is a mere five years younger) that I like the Marx Brothers, and he not only knew who they were, he started quoting their movies and calling me “Spanko, the unknown Marx Sister.” It’s comforting to have someone speak your language.
Recently on Twitter, someone tweeted, “Can you imagine being alive during the time The Beatles were writing and recording music??” Uh… He sounded so incredulous, I couldn’t help but comment, “Yeahhh… a lot of us are still around. It’s not like we were there for Beethoven composing his nine symphonies.” (sigh)
There are exceptions, of course. When I was 50 years old, I was approached by a man of 21 who wanted to play with me. I balked. I said I was too old for him and I’d feel ridiculous. He said, “You’re not too old — I’m an old soul.” We met, I was impressed by his poise, and yup, we played several times. I remember the first time he was at my place and I had an oldies station playing in the background. I was shocked when a song from the 1960s came on and he started singing along with it. “How the hell do you know this song?” I blurted. He really was an old soul. I still know him, and I still play with him when I see him at a party.
So, in short, generally speaking, I don’t comprehend the life references of many people my age. And younger people don’t comprehend mine. Is it any wonder that I refer to myself as a square peg in a round world? And question just where the hell I belong now?
As I mentioned on KD’s post, I don’t want to go back to the flower of my youth. It had way too goddamn many weeds in it. But, as many of you know, I’m also terrified of aging. Watching one’s mother rot for seven years from dementia will do that to a person. It’s terrifying to witness. If you’re lucky enough to remain healthy, have some money in the bank, have loved ones to be with, getting older doesn’t have to be a train wreck. But for many, it is, and there’s no sugar-coating that. That’s why I hate age jokes. My former top used to think it was so hilarious to say, “We’re gonna still be playing in our 80s! I’ll be pulling down your Depends!” I always responded with a disgusted, “Don’t say stuff like that,” and then he’d compound it by laughing and adding, “Don’t worry, I’d wipe your ass for you!” And I’d want to punch him in the nose. Not funny, jackass. Incontinence isn’t funny, and neither are diapers. And they sure AF aren’t sexy either — not when you have to wear them, because your body and mind have stripped you of your independence and your dignity.
What would be my ideal? If I had my druthers, I’d hang around indefinitely in the middle. Old enough to have gained wisdom and experience, to have outgrown a lot of the insecurities and doubts of youth (although we never fully outgrow some of them). But not so old that I don’t recognize my own body and face anymore. I really, really hate looking down at my arms and thinking, “When the fuck did I get my mother’s arms???” No, I don’t want my teenage skin anymore. But I could do without some of the weird shit I see going on with my skin these days.
And of course, to swing this back onto topic a little, there is always the niggling fear that we’re too old to spank. That no one wants to look at our butts or anything else anymore. I mean, I heard from a lovely woman on FetLife who just friended me, who lives in another country. She wrote that she would love to come to a U.S. party someday, but time is running out and she’s afraid she’s too old. She’s 52. (heavy sigh) So yeah. The fear is real. And it gets a little worse every year.
But of course, the clock continues to tick, and life stages continue to morph and change. I don’t want to go back. But I’m not sure who the hell I am and where I fit in now, going forward. Hence the rambles.
If you slogged through all this, thank you. If you relate, please feel free to chime in. Have a good weekend, y’all. Stay safe. ♥
Have you seen her? Sometimes I wonder where she went. I look around, look back behind me. Then I realize she’s still here, just not the same as she once was.
Me. At the beginning of this journey. The first picture I ever sent to Eve Howard of Shadow Lane, right before the birth of Erica Scott. Fresh. Excited. Looking forward. So many possibilities.
I have not been posting much lately. Sometimes I think about it. Sometimes I want to. Then I don’t. Because I really don’t have much to say these days that hasn’t already been said a million times.
I had years and years of adventures and stories to share. Milestones. Friendships. Experiences I only dreamed of when I was younger.
I have all my memories. But right now, I am quiet, just pondering them. I have been done shooting for three years. The pandemic put the kibosh on the national parties, and just as they started to return, there was a stream of very ugly admissions from various people that turned the community inside out. Lines were drawn, sides were taken, and a lot of people disappeared. Myself included. I deactivated from FetLife for two months, and only just reactivated yesterday. It’s the same, and yet it isn’t. It used to be a place where I felt like I belonged, where I’d be missed if I were gone. But people come and go all the time now. Attention spans are fleeting. The overall broad scene community seems now to have distilled down into smaller, more local pockets.
I no longer have a regular play partner. I know a couple of men who I am able to see once in a great while for a special treat, but at this time, I do not have a regular source of play. I don’t know of any scene in Los Angeles, any munches. I still try to meet new people, but between the pandemic and just plain getting older (and not to mention being a reclusive introvert), it’s much more of a challenge now.
Times change. I remember years ago, I casually commented on a young woman’s blog because I liked what she wrote. And she went nuts, “SQUEEEEE”-ing and marveling about how “Erica Scott commented on MY blog!!” Recently, I saw another blog post that resonated with me and said so, although I’d never commented on this person’s blog before. The blog owner was unfamiliar with me and commented to that effect. Not meanly, just matter-of-factly. I wanted to reply back, “I used to be somebody.” But I didn’t.
No, this isn’t another one of those “I’m closing this blog” announcements. I did that a few years ago, and a year later, I decided I still had a lot to say and restarted it. And what do I detest, kids? People who make a big thing about leaving, and then don’t leave. Sooo… I am not doing that again. Perhaps this is just to say that my posts will be few and far between. When I feel like I have something to contribute, I will do so. If I ever go to parties again, I’ll write them up. Of course, there will always be the CHoS, because some things never change. People will always write rude, inappropriate things to strangers. Oh, and of course, there will no doubt be a 2021 Christmas carol parody. Just waiting for my creative muse to make her appearance.
I have been called things like “legend” and “icon.” I have also been referred to as a has-been and washed up. I suppose that’s the way it always has been and that won’t change either. I am not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m opinionated, I’m snarky, I’m outspoken. I’m also honest and passionate. Some people hate me. But others love me. And to this day, I’m still getting emails that tell me my encouragement to explore kink without shame enabled people to acknowledge and find what they needed. That means a hell of a lot to me.
So I’m not going anywhere. I’m still here. Just a lot quieter. I don’t need to keep talking. I’ve talked enough. Now is the time to sit back and let the fresh faces and voices have their turn. Allow the Jillian Keenans of the scene to speak their truths. I will chime in when I feel like it would be welcomed or enjoyed.
Oh, there she is. Yes, I know her. ♥ I hope she won’t be forgotten.
This is a week of emotional overload for me. On the happy side, yesterday was the 25th anniversary of the day I met John. He sent me a bouquet of 25 roses. I posted a joyous picture of us on Twitter and got over 100 likes. But on the flip side, I am feeling deep sadness about the Shadow Lodge party at the end of this week, the one we will be missing. John and I decided to celebrate our anniversary this coming weekend, in hopes that it will distract me from thinking about the party and our friends.
But today, on what was his birthday, I’m thinking of my big brother, who passed away in 1972.
For those who have lost someone, you know this: You never forget. Time softens, dulls the pain, settles the anguish into a quiet background sadness that never quite goes away, like a scar.
Some deaths, like the passing of parents, are a rite of passage. You know they’re coming, and they still suck, but they are expected. But the sudden death of a 22-year-old is not. My life was forever changed that day. I saw my parents gutted with grief. They had lost their firstborn, their happy, curious, talented boy with so much promise. And here I was, left to pick up the slack alone. To deal with things I was way too damn young to deal with. I mean, Jesus Christ… for several years after his death, my mother would give me a present on Mother’s Day. She’d always say the same thing: “If it weren’t for you, I wouldn’t be a mother.” Yeah, that wasn’t heart-wrenching at all.
Memories of Ken are fragmented, blurred over many years. He was a popular kid in high school; his friends were always coming over. Every year on his birthday, he had a massive party. The house exploded with teenagers and music. My mother once cooked beef stroganoff for 65 kids. The living room was packed with bodies, and some of them spilled out the front door and out on the lawn, into the street. But mine wasn’t one of them. I was never allowed in the room. Teenagers don’t want a pesky little girl among them.
I could watch from the staircase. But I couldn’t enter. Which broke my heart, every year. Except the year of his 18th birthday, his last year at home, his final party. At long last, I was allowed to join. I sat quietly off to the side, sipping a soda, in awe of everything going on around me, watching my brother’s band play, my head bursting with noise and sensations. His friends mostly ignored me, but a few of them were nice, commenting about how I got to “hang out with the big kids” tonight.
Never forgot that… I felt included. I felt a part of, that night. And of course, I never had parties like his. I was an isolated loner with eating disorders in my teens.
I remember he gave me the first record album I ever got. What was it? Of course. “Something New” by the Beatles.
I remember him trying to gross me out, telling me that chocolate mousse was actually made from the pancreas of a moose.
I remember hearing him sing “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road?” and I asked him, “Do what?” He didn’t answer me.
I am an atheist. I don’t believe in heaven or any afterlife — when you die, you’re gone. But… sometimes I wish I could believe that our loved ones are on another plane, reuniting. I have images of my dad, mom and brother together again, a tight unit like they were in the years before I was born, before divorce broke us apart. My dad is clowning with my brother, singing him his song parodies (for example, he’d sing “My Boy Ken” to the tune of “My Boy Bill,” a song from the musical Carousel). Probably telling him dirty jokes too, and yanking my mother’s chain. (“Mommy makes her meatballs, taste like people’s feet balls.”) Yes, he really said that; he had a whole little song about it. And Mom would be saying to Ken, “For God’s sake, get those wings trimmed already.”
Even after all these years, I wonder about what could have been. What kind of man Ken would have turned out to be. Would we have been close? Would I have been an aunt? Would we have talked; would he have given me perspective on our parents? And… every time I hear Stevie Ray Vaughan’s “Look At Little Sister,” I think of Ken. What would he have thought of his little sister, and who she grew up to be? Would I have ever shared Erica Scott with him?
So many questions, unanswered.
Tomorrow, I’ll put these memories away, back on their shelf. But for today, they surround me.
PLEASE NOTE: This blog contains adult subjects and content. If you are under 18, or are offended by kinky material, please find something more wholesome and vanilla.
Can be loving, affectionate, loyal, quick-witted, playful, sensitive, empathic, tenderhearted, mercurial, stubborn, sarcastic, impatient, perfectionistic, contrary, opinionated, cranky, antisocial, restless, kinky, exhibitionistic, rebellious, incurably flirtatious, or any combination of the above, depending on the day. Questions/comments/want to say hello? ericascottlls@gmail.com
Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking 