A Little More on that Damned “Age Thing”

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. ♥

Somebody that I used to know

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.

OT: A Week of Many Feels

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.

Like I said, a week of many feels.

Thanks for reading.

All Over the Map

It’s been quite a week. I have been at the heights of joy, in the pits of sadness, and boiling over with frustration and anger. Because everything has felt so random and crazy, I think I’ll just list things in no particular order. That way, people can read, pick and choose what they relate to, and ignore the rest.

I watched a special on ABC last night: “Eyewitness to the Death of John Lennon.” It was first aired in December 2020, marking the 40-year anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. Jeezus, forty years. And just like that, all the feels and the tears came rushing back. Guns and crazy people then; guns and crazy people now. What’s changed? What’s gotten better? Broke my heart all over again.

Here in Southern CA, Orange County specifically, there is an Italian restaurant who — yes, you are reading correctly — will not allow people to wear masks inside and who demands proof of NON-vaccination before you’re allowed to dine there. (How the hell do you show proof of that, anyway?) The owner is self-righteous and smug and militant about his stance; I watched part of an interview with him and he was so belligerent that the newscaster cut it short and said, on the air, “You sound like an idiot.” Last Tuesday night, I saw a tweet about an article that stated the owner was getting a huge kick out of the anger over this and he’d said he was “enjoying watching people’s head explode.”

So, Miss Mouth here tweeted: “What an asshole. I hope HIS head explodes when his restaurant is shut down due to massive Covid infection.”

Y’all know I didn’t mean that literally, right? You know it’s a figure of speech? Of course you do. Well, apparently Twitter didn’t. They locked down my account for a week. Said I violated their policy about “abuse and harassment.” Seriously?? Unbelievable. I saw many tweets that were a great deal worse than what I’d said; Twitter is so damn arbitrary. Oh well. I do have an alternate account for these instances, so I’ve kept up. Oh, and just for grins, I went and checked out the restaurant’s Yelp page. The place was bombarded with so many one-star angry reviews that Yelp temporarily disabled all the reviews and comments. Good. Fuck that guy. It’s too bad, though. It would have been fun to post a review along the lines of “Be sure to try the special: Roast Leg of Lambda with a side of Covidini. Better yet, stay the hell away from this Petri dish.”

On the good news front: Guess who is coming back to CA to visit me? C from Oregon! I can’t believe he is making that long trip again, and just for one day this time, but I’m thrilled that he wants to. I am seeing him two weeks from Monday and I can’t wait. Also, I heard from Mr. Woodland and he wants to play again soon too. Ah, this makes me happy.

And it helps make up for the fact that the man I played with a week ago Tuesday has seemingly dropped off the planet. Never heard another word from him — no email, no text, nothing. No feedback on our play. No check-in. Radio silence. I thought he enjoyed himself — I guess I was mistaken. Fortunately, I had no emotional investment this time.

Covid is on the rise again, escalating rapidly, with the Delta variant taking over. Breakthrough cases in people who are fully vaxxed are increasing. First they said the cases were 99% unvaxxed people; the latest I read is that the new cases are 86% unvaxxed. The numbers are going in the wrong direction. And guess where the latest really bad red zone is? Yup. Las Vegas.

Where we’re supposed to be headed in a month.

Our tickets are purchased, our hotel room is booked. I am craving this party with all my heart and soul. Not just because of the play — that’s actually secondary. I want to see our friends. I want hugs, lots and lots and lots of hugs. Jay, my sweet, wonderful Sister In Spirit is coming — this is her first SL. And it would be our first time meeting in person. We have been online friends for seven years, shared a million emails and texts, exchanged many presents… but I’ve never gotten to look her in the face, throw my arms around her.

But I have to face reality. It might not be safe to go. Yes, everyone at the party will be vaxxed. But we’ll be all over the hotel. Hallways, restaurants, elevators. Constant exposure. Tons of people — it’s a holiday weekend. And even vaxxed people can carry and transmit the Delta variant. Yes, the vaccine helps. Yes, even if we got Covid, it would most likely be a mild case. I’m not concerned about myself.

But John is another story. He is high-risk. He is compromised.

I’m seeing the writing on the wall. He’s already saying things like “Well, we’ll have to spend more time in our room, take more breaks,” “We can bring more snacks and eat in our room more,” “We’ll have to keep our masks on even in the party rooms,” “Maybe we can just stay for a couple of days instead of all four,” and so on. It sounds like if we go, we’re going to be uptight and preoccupied about the specter of Covid every damn minute. And what fun is that? People are coming from all over, bringing who knows what. And, as mentioned, Vegas is a hot spot now.

I suppose I could go by myself, take John out of possible harm’s way. But the thought of that is nearly as unbearable as not going at all. I’ve never gone to a party without John, not once in 25 years. I can’t imagine being there without him. Yeah, I’d have lots of people to hang with. But I’d feel like I was missing a limb.

So. There isn’t a blessed thing I can do at this point. All I can do is watch and wait, and hope. Maybe things will improve in Vegas over the next month.

Or maybe things will get so bad that we’ll all get locked down again. Who knows. It’s unthinkable. But then again, having this pandemic go on and on like it has is unthinkable as well.

Here is where I could go on a long, expletive-filled rant about what I think of anti-vaxxers and Covid deniers. But I won’t. Y’all know me. You can well imagine what I’m thinking and feeling right now about these people with their willful ignorance and utter selfishness.

Perhaps this says it all.

So yeah. I’m all over the place. Oh, and did I mention that John’s and my 25th anniversary is at the end of August? SL was going to be our celebration getaway. Hopefully it still will be. Only time will tell.

How are you doing? Come talk to me. Stay safe, everyone. ♥

♪ Vaccinated and it feels so good… ♫

Look, look! Here I am in all my bare-faced, I-haven’t-worn-makeup-in-fourteen-months glory, after receiving Moderna vaccine #2.

So hey, now besides having a chip on my shoulder, I have a chip IN my shoulder as well! (snicker) Still waiting for the 5G to kick in, though.

Side effects report: Last night was a bit rough. Woke up in the middle of the night with a fever and aching all over. But after a Tylenol/Advil combo, that settled a bit and I was able to get a little more sleep. Today… sooooo sleepy. Having a hard time focusing. But no more fever or pain. Quite worth it, I’d say.

I got lectured on Twitter for talking about the side effects, saying it would discourage people on the fence about the vaccines. Oh, please. Seems to me people should know what to expect — and to know it’s all temporary and they will be just fine. Also, the high of knowing this is done supersedes the discomfort.

I sent this picture to my friend in Oregon, saying mission accomplished, I’m vaccinated. He replied with this:

Two weeks and you get to bury your face in a pillow while I remind your bottom what a good spanking feels like!

Oh my God. This is really happening. I’m going to play for the first time since February 2020. (The light playful stuff with John doesn’t count.)

I would imagine the nerves are going to set in, big time, as it gets closer. I know I’ll be in good hands, but damn, it’s been so long! How will my body react? Will I have any tolerance? This is the longest I’ve gone without playing, by far, since I first got into spanking 25 years ago.

And even more concerning… after over a year of basically sitting on my ass and watching time tick by, what is said ass going to look like from a top’s view? Granted, I’ve never stopped exercising. But still, working out at home doesn’t replace the gym. I’m still not willing to go back to mine, though. So, along with the building’s treadmill and my weights and bands, I treated myself to a piece of exercise equipment. It’s called The DB Method, came highly rated online, and is essentially a squat machine.

DB stands for Dream Butt. One can hope.

In other play news, it looks like Shadow Lodge over Labor Day weekend in Vegas is a go. It’s being capped at 200 and Joe is asking people to be fully vaccinated. I hope people will bring their vaccination cards, because I for one will want to see them. I’m certainly bringing mine. It’s a bit scary, the thought of being around so many people in a small space after all this time of isolation, but hopefully things will feel a lot safer in four months.

Honestly? I am in no hurry to go back to being among people. My reclusive tendencies really took over in this past year. But I need to play. I need to feel those feelings again. I need that connection, that release. I’ve missed it so very much. I’m hoping that I can find someone local once again. But first things first — gotta get back in the saddle, so to speak. Less than two weeks… !!

The Seinfeld of Spanko Blogs… a post about nothing

Blech. Every day, I look at how long it’s been since I posted something, and I think I really should come up with an entry. And then every day, I got nothing. I really admire people who are faithfully coming up with regular entries in this time of Covid. I don’t seem to be able to. All I can do is toss in a brief update or two and essentially restate the same crap over and over. It’s now been a year since I last played. You can’t really keep up a spanking blog when there’s no spanking.

All we have right now is correspondence. And lest you all think everything I receive is CHoS material, fortunately, that’s not the case. It’s amazing how a well timed email can perk up my day. Like this one, out of nowhere, from my friend in Oregon who wants to come here when it’s safe. Who the hell knows when that will be… but at least it’s on his mind.

So… I want you over my knee! Nice slow warm-up…then hard hand, leather, wood, maybe cane.

Oh, yeah? I wrote back, “Wood belongs in the fireplace.”

To which he replied: Wood belongs across your bare bottom.

Oh, my. And then last week I woke up to this:

I think that an early morning, good hard spanking would be the best way to start your day!  Hard hand spanking, then a morning of no panties or pants allowed.

(sigh) I said that coffee and cereal sounded so mundane after that. However, I’ll pass on that last part — it’s too cold! Yes, even in CA, it’s too cold to sit around half naked.

From another periodic correspondent, a local one:

So when you get your vaccine, may I beat you?

Why yes, yes, you may. (Oh, and before people complain about the word choice, he and I established long ago that “beat” is his preferred word for “spank” and he would refrain from using it if it bothered me. I told him it didn’t.) This man remains one of my biggest frustrations. We met for coffee at the end of 2019, hit it off, thought something really good was going to come of it. But as timing would have it, he had a family situation come up at the holidays and went back East to stay for a couple of months… and then Covid hit, pretty much putting the kibosh on everything.

So it seems that the future holds some play for me. But how far in the future, who the hell knows. I am not high on any of the priority lists for vaccination. And since I’ve come this far being able to stay well due to diligent observation of safety precautions, I don’t want to get careless now. So far this year, the national parties are being canceled once again. I’m wondering what kind of long-term effects Covid is going to have on these gatherings. Therefore, it’s looking more and more like I need to find a local partner or two, because I don’t think I’m going to be able to see my scene friends again anytime soon. I’m kind of out of the loop these days anyway… have lost touch with many of them.

Haven’t lost touch with Jillian Keenan though — she included me in another one of her multi-part group videos! I love participating in these. This time, she asked several people to talk about their favorite implements. Part 1 is Jillian herself, then the incomparable Ariel Andersen, talking about about leather belts (yum), and then yours truly. If you’re so inclined, you can see it here.

In other news… there isn’t any. I had a bit of a scare a couple of weeks ago when I got a callback on a routine mammogram. I had to go back for a second mammogram and an ultrasound; that’s never happened before. I was told repeatedly that this was common, but guess what… I was still scared out of my mind. And I had to wait a week between the time I got the call to when I could get an appointment for the repeat procedures. However, the good news was that I got the results immediately — tiny cyst. That’s it. I made it back to my car and then broke down and cried, I was so relieved. After that, hell, I’ll take dullness and routine, y’all.

How is everyone doing? ♥