Things to say…

…and not to say.

I shouldn’t need to write any of this. But, as I am getting a crash course in grief and loss lately, I am learning a great deal about how very powerless we all are in the face of pain, and how the right words truly don’t exist. However, there are some things to say that are a hell of a lot better than others. No wonder that if you Google “bereavement etiquette,” you’ll get reams of material. However, since everyone is different, I will post my own preferences, from my own experience.

I’ll start with the positive. Things to say:

1. You absolutely cannot go wrong with a simple, heartfelt “I am so sorry.” Variations like “My condolences,” “I’m sorry for your loss (pain, grief, etc.)” are also fine.
2. Encouragement is good. Tell me to hang in there. Remind me to breathe.
3. “Is there anything I can do for you?” Chances are the answer is no, but I appreciate your asking.
4. “Just checking in with you.” Remind me that you’re still there. In a time when I am feeling so alone, I need to know people are there.
5. If you knew John, please share what you thought of him, a favorite memory, a funny story, whatever. Let me know that you saw the wonderful, funny, loving man that I did.
6. If you are a survivor of loss… if you have been through pain like I am experiencing now and came out the other side… please let me know how you did it, what your process was, how you found support. I know that while my experience is uniquely mine, grief is universal and something that everyone can relate to. I need to know things will eventually get more bearable.
7. Share something with me that is completely unrelated, something you think I’ll like. I have had some friends send me funny YouTube clips and so forth that have served as welcome distractions.

And now, the not-so positive.

1. Please, please, please don’t tell me that John is out there, up there, on another plane, etc. watching out for me. I know you believe this. I know this would give you comfort. But I do not believe it. He is not “out there.” He is in my heart and mind and soul, but otherwise, he is gone.
2. Please don’t tell me he’s “in a better place” and I’ll meet up with him again someday. Again… you are welcome to believe this. But saying this to an atheist just makes them feel worse.
3. Please don’t say that I need to be strong because that’s what he would have wanted. No. What he would have wanted was for me not to be suffering like this in the first place. Also, yes, I know I need to be strong, because I don’t have a choice. But that doesn’t mean I don’t fall apart a little on a daily basis.
4. This is a biggie. Yes, I am more than well aware that John did not leave his affairs in good order. I am dealing with an ongoing nightmare that will drag on for a year to 18 months. So you don’t need to tell me what he should have done.
   The other day on Facebook, I was talking about how utterly wretched and daunting a process probate is. And someone commented “This is why we have living wills and trusts.” Really? Wow. Excuse me — I’ll go raise John from the dead and have him get on that post-haste. I had to sit on my hands to keep from typing that as a reply. Fortunately, someone else called it out as being insensitive and the poster deleted it.
5. Likewise, you don’t need to remind me how awful and stressful it’s going to be. Empathizing is one thing (“Yeah, this sucks, but you’ll get through it,” “It’ll be hard, but one step at a time is all you can do”); I don’t mind being realistic, as long as there is some hope offered along with it. But on that same post about probate, someone else commented, “Unfortunately, it WILL drag on for a long time.” In what universe is this supposed to be helpful?
6. I had forgotten about this one, so I came back to edit. I was asked, “How are you getting along?” I figured I’m far beyond giving the rote answer “Fine,” so I replied honestly that I was overwhelmed, sad, anxious, and felt like I was in all the circles of hell. The reply was: “Sounds like things are back to normal, then.” Um… what? To that, I said, “If this is normal, please shoot me.” And their answer to that?
   “Well, at least you don’t have Covid.”
   Yeah. Don’t fucking do that. I would have rather they not contacted me at all. I don’t know if they were trying to be flippant or funny or whatever the hell, but it really sucked. Yeah, okay. I also don’t have cancer. I’m not homeless. I don’t have the heartbreak of psoriasis (yes, I’m dating myself with that reference). I’m not suffering from a whole lot of things. But FFS, don’t do the “be grateful because people are starving in [wherever]” routine with someone who is grieving; it’s invalidating and insensitive.

Things I’m neutral on:

1. “I’m praying for you.” “You’re in my prayers.”
   (sigh) Again, I do not believe in this. But I know you do. If you think enough of me to include me in this, I will choose to take it as a compliment.
2. “I can’t imagine the pain you’re feeling.” In the “Bereavement Etiquette” list, this is apparently a no-no. They say it’s cold, rote, and unempathetic. I dunno… I see it as saying that they are acknowledging I’m in terrible pain and they know it’s even worse than they can conceive of. That’s not lack of empathy, that’s simply the fact that they haven’t experienced this level of loss yet, but they still care.

And finally… I would like to end this post on a good note. Along the lines of sharing funny John stories, my friend K (InfamousK is her scene name) reminded me of a party about ten years ago, where she was sitting with us, and she and I were giggling about some party creepers. John was listening intently and then blurted, “You women and your names for men! What do you call me when I’m not around?” K didn’t even take a beat; with a perfectly straight face, she looked at him and answered, “We call you ‘Erica’s bitch.’ “

I damn near fell off my chair laughing. As for John — you know, it took a lot to render him speechless, but that did it! 🙂 Love you, K. Thank you for that memory.

The power of words

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, ever since what happened last Friday, and how an afternoon and potential play partnership was ruined with a single word. I know I’ve talked about this before; I believe words have a lot of power. That whole “sticks and stones” thing is BS. Granted, words can’t physically wound you. But what they can do to your heart, soul and psyche is as painful and lasting as any gun or knife.

We spankos are big on words. We all have our buzz phrases, our trigger words, the words we love, the words we hate. What is a massive button-pushing turn-on for one might be vomit-inducing for another. Since I spent so much time last week focusing on words I hate, I thought this week I’d counteract that with one of my all-time favorite phrases in our realm. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I’d like to delve into it more in detail today.

It’s a simple phrase. Three words, and sometimes four.

“That’s my girl.”
Or “That’s my good girl.”

Hearing those words makes me melt. I don’t know why. I have said many times that I’m not a submissive, but that I can be submissive when someone taps into my headspace. And when a top says that to me, in the right context, I want to hang the moon for him.

I am not sure when I first realized that this particular phrase was such a turn-on for me, but I can remember an earlier awareness. Those of you who go wayyyyy back with me, back to the days of the MSN board Southern California Spanked Wives and Girlfriends, may recall that I had an ongoing crush on a gym instructor (who I ended up hiring as a personal trainer), P. For those who don’t know this story — essentially, P was a very popular instructor/trainer. His classes were always packed. He was enthusiastic and fun, encouraging, pushed us, but knew what he was doing and was very skilled at it. He made a point of learning everyone’s name, and addressing us in class, calling out praise. And yes, he was very, very toppy… and it was sexy AF. I think, back then, every heterosexual female gym member with a pulse had a thing for P. And probably some of the males too. He was that charismatic.

I remember he’d call out names, sometimes mine, saying, “That’s it! Good! Come on, [name]. That’s my girl.” And I’d feel a jolt. Suddenly, I had more energy. More willingness. I could push harder, do more. Just from those three words and what they did to me.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that P looked like this, but I digress…

Once I became aware of how that phrase affects me, I noticed it more within scenes. It’s not all that common a phrase to hear — not like “Good girl,” for example. Which makes it all the more special when it does happen. One of my favorite Vegas party playmates, Roy, who I’ve discussed here before, uses it, and I adore it. When we’re in scene, in the zone, and the energy and connection are at their peak, he’ll lean down to me and say, “More?” In my blissful stupor, I will murmur, “Yes, please,” and then I can feel him smiling as he says, “That’s my girl.” Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff…

What made me think of this? Something that happened recently; in fact, on the same day as that wretched coffee date.

I have a friend, A. He lives up north. We’ve never met in person, but we’ve been corresponding for about a year. We talk often on kik. We both love word games and do the daily Wordle faithfully. We both love Jeopardy! And of course, we’re both spankos. A has an extra fetish that I don’t happen to share — along with bottoms, he loves women’s feet. I’ve known a lot of foot fetishists over the years (they give damn good foot massages), so this is nothing new to me. After we’d gotten to know each other a bit better, he would ask me to send him pictures of my feet now and then. Sure, why not. He always asks politely, and he’s so appreciative and complimentary when I do. And it’s just feet.

Cut to last Friday, when I was reeling from my unpleasant encounter. I got a kik from A, asking about my day and how I did on the Wordle. I didn’t tell him about what had happened; I didn’t really feel like it. And then he said he felt like he hadn’t seen my soles in forever, and he’d love a new picture.

My first thought was “Oh, crap. I’m not in the mood for this. I’m feeling so unsexy and icky right now.” So I messaged back that I’d been super busy and preoccupied, but I’d send him something soon, I promise. And then he replied:

“That’s my good girl.”

There it was. That jolt. He has no idea how I feel about that phrase; he said it organically, not to be manipulative. And just like that, my mood shifted. My deeply hidden soft center melted like a Lindt truffle. I became willing. I set up my phone’s timer, and took not one but three pictures for him. He was his usual effusively appreciative self, and I enjoyed making him happy with such a simple thing. But what he doesn’t know is that he made me feel good too. And it helped me get past the ugliness.

While we’re on the subject of buzz words, here is another one of mine: Punish. Or punishment. Again, I have no idea why. But damned if hearing that word doesn’t do things to me. Yummy things

Funny story about that word, and as it happens, it has to do with the aforementioned P. One day in class, he had pushed us particularly hard, and when we were lying on our mats and stretching, I felt a twinge in my lower back, which tends to act up anyway. So, as we stretched, I idly reached down with one hand and massaged that spot. P, with his eagle eye, noticed that from across the room and called out, “Erica, is your back hurting?” I said, “Yeah, it’s okay, just a little.” And then he teasingly said… wait for it…

“Aw, I’m sorry, honey! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to punish you a little.”

Oh. My. Freaking. GOD. I felt that blush all the way into my hair follicles. I thought he was going to have to scrape me off that mat. Of course, he had no idea what he’d said and what it had done to me. That was around the time that I became convinced that he was one of us, and I was determined to find out for sure. But that’s another story, a very long one.

Any of you want to share your button pushers? This is always a fun subject. I know that just writing this out has gotten me rather… flustered. And on that note, guess I should re-route my mind and get back to work.

Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

Some words about pictures

We’re all visual creatures, aren’t we? We love our spanko pictures, videos, clips. We talk about them, we share them, we collect them, and some of us get to create our own. But if you’re like me, after seeing a ton of content for more years than I care to count, you get a little jaded. Not as easily impressed. It takes more to push my buttons these days. Especially since, being the male-top-focused woman I am, I’m looking more at the men in the shots/clips than the women.

So what’s one of my buttons, kids? Men’s hands/forearms. Bonus — rolled-up sleeves, or in the process of doing so. You wanna make me weak in the knees? Don’t send me your junk. Send me your arms.

Remember this shot I took in my own living room in 2019? Still one of my personal favorites.

What is it about button-pushing pictures? If you’re like me, they take you somewhere. They ignite fantasies and/or memories. They quicken your pulse and make you catch yourself grinning like an idiot. It had been a while since I’d had that happen.

That is, until a couple of days ago when I stumbled across this.

First, I fainted.

Then, after I scraped myself off the floor, I stared. And stared some more.

Fellow bottoms, do you agree that this is perfection? The purposeful stance. The well-worn jeans. The doubled-over belt, and his strong grip on it. Knowing that just seconds ago, he unbuckled it and whipped it out of his belt loops with a loud snap. And also knowing that the next snap you hear will be that belt across your backside.

So, kids, do tell — is it possible to fall in lust with a photograph?

Of course it is.

For those of you who have been with me for a long time, bear with me, because you’ve read about this before. For my newer people, about twelve years ago, same kind of thing happened. I ran across a public photo from a kinky video company and it stopped me in my tracks. And strangely, it had absolutely nothing to do with spanking. But it touched off the part of me that is turned on by the thought of helplessness, of being overpowered by a handsome stranger. This was the picture:

And so I wrote a post about it. I had no idea who the man was. However, someone who read my blog did… and they told him.

Turned out he was local. And he contacted me on FetLife. Cue heart attack.

Most of you remember this story. For those who don’t, the short version was we met, we played, we became friends, and we even got to shoot together. Extra awesome bonus: I got to re-enact that picture with him.

This is the sort of thing the fantasy stories are made of. And I got to live it. Damn. Sometimes it doesn’t suck being me. 😀

So, if anyone happens to know who this handsome stranger with the belt is, do feel free to send him here. Hey… a girl can dream, can’t she?

In other news, I actually got my lazy cranky butt in the car and went to a lovely munch last night. We had the entire back alley behind a pub, with outdoor heaters, and we had a nice group. Got to see some old friends, and made a couple of new ones. This is a new group, run by my friend Mr. Woodland and his adorable partner, and so far, it’s gaining in popularity. Great to see some spanking scene in L.A. again!

Crap. I have to adult now and work. How tedious. Anyway, enjoy. The line for swooning forms to the left.

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.

Revisiting old parodies

The music world had two tough losses this past week: Don Everly (last remaining Everly Brother) and Charlie Watts, drummer for the Rolling Stones since 1964.

One of the million reasons why I love the Beatles is their gorgeous two- and three-part harmonies. But before John, Paul and George, we had Phil and Don. Everly — two brothers with voices of velvet. They influenced the Beatles and others; listen to “If I Fell” and you will hear John and Paul channeling Phil and Don with their sublime harmonizing.

My favorite song by the Everlys is “All I Have to Do is Dream,” a sad song about a man whose lover only appears in his dreams. Many years ago, after I became a spanko, I thought the song would work well for a parody. I mean, if you could have a dream lover, how about a dream spanker? So I wrote what I think (?) is the first spanking parody I ever did. Not sure; back in those days, I didn’t have a blog. I don’t know if I posted this anywhere; I might have in the long-defunct Spanked Wives and Girlfriends message board on MSN, but only those readers who go waaaaaayyyy back with me would have seen it there.

First, for those who don’t know the song, here is the original. It’s short, I promise. You won’t regret spending a couple of minutes listening to this — it’s beautiful.

And now, my spanko version. By the way — the line “paddle me with wood” is purely artistic license to create a rhyme. It is not to be taken as a directive!

Dreeeeam, dream dream dream
Dreeeeam, dream dream dream
When I behave,
With no regard,
And I need you,
To spank me hard,
Whenever I’m naughty,
All I have to do, is dreeeeam, dream dream dream

You come to me,
In my bed,
And then you spank,
My bottom red,
When I am a bad girl,
All I have to do, is dreaaammmmm

I just can’t be good,
Paddle me with wood,
OTK, night or day,
But I’m in a jam,
Oh, damn,
I have to be sleeping to play!

I need your hand,
On my behind,
I need you so,
I’ll learn to mind,
Whatever my crime is,
All I have to do, is dreeaaammmm

Pull my panties down,
Scold me with a frown,
As I drowse peacefully
Only trouble is,
Gee whiz,
The daytime is empty for me!

Oh please come back,
To set me straight,
Are fantasies
To be my fate?
When craving a spanking,
All I have to do, is dreeeaaaaam, dream dream dream
Dreeeeeaaam, dream dream dream…

Not bad for a first effort, huh? Oh, and just to show that I’m not neglecting the Stones, some of you may remember this — a parody I wrote in 2012 of “Mother’s Little Helper.” Apologies to anyone who’s already seen these. I figure there are always people who are newer to my blog and haven’t seen some of the old stuff, and these parodies seemed apropos to repost this week.

Rest well, Don and Charlie. Thanks for all the memorable music.

And in other news… meh. Never mind. Other news sucks. Have a good weekend, y’all. Be safe. ♥