Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the category “memories”

Couple more birthday tidbits

I’d forgotten to mention that, along with flowers and lunch, Steve gave me a gift card. What’s so unusual about that, you might wonder. Take a look at it.

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What, pray tell, is a “Vanilla VISA”??? Does that mean I can’t buy anything naughty with it? So what shall I purchase? Maybe go to the book section of Amazon and buy “The Joys of Missionary”? Or get some nice virginal white granny panties? Oh, I know! I’ll go to the music section and buy “Shades of White: The Pat Boone Box Set”! (snort)

Incidentally, Steve was the one who scrawled KINKY under the No Fees line.

And really, is my birthday complete without a new cartoon from the uber-talented Dave Wolfe? No, it is not. He never forgets, no matter what. ♥ Here is the 2016 Erica’s Birthday Toon:

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Thank you, Wolfie!!

And finally — this part is off topic, but it definitely concerns another topic about which I’m passionate: The Beatles. Yesterday, John took me to see “The Beatles: Eight Days A Week — The Touring Years,” the documentary by Ron Howard. It focused on 1962-1966, the years in which they traveled worldwide and performed live for thousands of teenagers. At the end of the film, there was a remastered film of their 30-minute Shea Stadium concert in 1965, to over 55,000 screaming fans.

It was magical. Especially for me, because I much prefer the first half of their career to the second. I loved them overall, but whenever I have my druthers, I choose to listen to the music from their “moptop” days, when they wore identical suits and haircuts, when they were brimming with youth and exuberance and cheekiness. Before they grew tired and jaded, before they withdrew from the public and retreated into the studio. When they could still do no wrong, before that unfortunate throwaway remark by John (“We’re bigger than Jesus”) in 1966 brought the wrath of the Bible Belt on their heads, inciting everything from mass burnings of Beatles albums and merchandise to death threats. Yes, their later music grew more sophisticated and complex, it gained in maturity and brilliance… but it lost something as well, for me: the unbridled joy. The playfulness, the boyishness. Before “She Loves You” morphed into “She’s Leaving Home.”

Some parts of the film made me cry… I’m not sure why. Nostalgia, perhaps, or sadness for days gone by. I thought of my brother, who was a teen in the thick of Beatlemania, who went to see them at the Hollywood Bowl. In fact, when the film showed footage of the Bowl concert, John leaned over and whispered, “Ken was there!”

But most of it made me happy. And I’d like to share just a tidbit, the last song in the Shea Stadium concert. Where the screaming was so loud, they couldn’t hear themselves, so they had to count on each other for musical cues (Ringo said he kept the drum beat by “watching John’s ass”). For me, this little two-minute clip encapsulates everything I loved about the Beatles. Watch Paul gleefully singing at the top of his lungs; John and George singing accompanying harmonies and cracking up; John clowning at the keyboard. I defy anyone to not feel the infectious joy. Indulge me — it’s just two minutes. 🙂 Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

#FlashbackFriday

Recently, my good friend SpankCake and I were talking about blogs, and I said I struggle sometimes, trying to come up with new posts, not repeating stuff that’s already been discussed to death, etc. She suggested that for the slow news days, I might want to consider having a sort of “Throwback Thursday” or “Flashback Friday” post, where I talk about a fun favorite memory at random from my twenty years in this scene, maybe post older photos. I don’t think I’ll make it a regular feature, but rather I’ll throw one in when the mood strikes. Today, with so much sadness and ugliness going on in our country, I feel the need to look back to a happy time.

Many years ago, there was a Seattle spanking group, and several of their members used to come to the Shadow Lane parties. One of them was a man named Joe (not the same Joe as “DrLectr” Joe), and he was a wonderful player, very creative, did long, intense scenes. (He was cute, too.) The Seattle group stopped coming after a few years, but during their time there, I got to play with Joe many times.

One night, we were off in one of the suite bedrooms playing, and our scene had gone on and on and on until I was limp as wet laundry and blissfully happy. We were in aftercare mode, and Joe noticed that someone had left an unopened can of ice-cold soda on the nightstand. At the moment, no one else was in the room to claim it, so Joe picked it up and started rolling it back and forth, back and forth against my scalded butt. Oh myyyy… that felt so good.

Aaaaand then someone came in, approached us and looked pointedly at the soda in Joe’s hand. “Is this yours?” Joe asked, holding the can up. “Yes,” they replied.

Joe then smiled sheepishly, handed the can to them, and said, “I hope you don’t mind that your soda is now eighty-five degrees!”

I almost rolled off his lap and onto the floor, I was laughing so hard. Yeah, that soda was pretty much undrinkable at that point.

Fun times.

Searching back in the picture archives, here’s my favorite shot from “Naughty Secretaries Week Part 2,” from Shadow Lane, my very first video in 2000 (with the incomparable Keith Jones). I don’t know what Keith had said to make me laugh (or what the hell I was looking at up there), but I so love this. What a great day that was.

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Have a great weekend, y’all. Be safe.

Partially OT: Rumor has it…

So what’s trending in social media today, besides election crap ad nauseam and whatever the Kardashian/Jenner clan have been up to? Some are saying that hyper screaming-Mimi exercise guru Richard Simmons has been secretly transitioning into a woman. I really couldn’t care less one way or another, but every time I see this guy, I’m taken back to the 70s.

I’ve mentioned before that I knew him then… as a maitre d’. Yes, that’s right. When I was 14-15 years old, he was the host at an Italian/Continental restaurant/bar that one of my dad’s closest friends owned. We went there at least once a week, oftentimes more.

What was Mr. Simmons like back then? Exactly the same as he is now, except he wore long pants and a collared shirt. Same wild hair, same loud, pushy demeanor. I honestly don’t know how he got this job, or how he kept it. He was obnoxious. He’d butt into conversations, sit on the arm of the plush dining chairs and poke his nose into what we were eating. He once told me that I was too fat to be eating fettuccine Alfredo. (He was right, but it still wasn’t his place to say so.)

(If I’ve told this story before, forgive me. I’m old.) One time, I had ordered shrimp salad. I knew of the chef’s penchant for covering salads with black pepper, which I hate, so I specifically said, “No pepper, please.” When Richard brought me my salad, sure enough — tons of black pepper. So I asked him to take it back. “Oh, come on,” he snapped at me. I insisted, and he left in a huff. A few minutes later, he came back with a fresh salad, plunked it down in front of me so hard the lettuce jumped a little, and said, “Here you go, spoiled brat.”

Ha. I guess he got that part right. *snicker*

It was shortly after this job that he got interested in health and fitness (I guess that was partially due to watching a bunch of people consume platefuls of heart-attack food), opened his first gym, and the rest is history.

Just another little tidbit from my crazy past. In other, more on-topic news — Steve came over yesterday! Finally! He showed up at the door, announcing, “Hi, you called 1-800-SPANK-YOU?” I really, really needed this; I was one big ball of leftover tension from the day before. I had not yet learned out to work the navigation thingamajig on my new phone, and I had to drive someone unfamiliar. I Mapquested it, but the directions turned out to be vague and open for interpretation (and of course, I interpreted them the wrong way), and I got ridiculously, hopelessly lost, driving around and around, disoriented, pulling over, trying to figure out how to get directions on my phone, shooting texts, pulling back into traffic, getting lost again, pulling over again… UGH!! This is what happens when a Baby Boomer tries to be a Millennial! The good news? Steve showed me how to work Google Maps on my phone and get the spoken directions, so this won’t happen again. And oh, a lot of my tension is gone. 😀  No pictures this time, sorry. We were too busy making up for lost time.

I have lots of work (yay!), and I need to get to the gym, so I’m out of here. Happy Hump Day.

It was 20 years ago today…

Yeah, I know, I’m dating myself with that song lyric, but whatever.

I’ve had a whole lot of “firsts” over the past twenty years. But on Memorial Day 1996, the ultimate first happened. Possibly even more monumental than the first time I had sex. On that Monday twenty years ago, I crossed over the line between fantasy and reality. After years and years of wondering and dreaming and fantasizing, at last I knew what it was like to be spanked for real.

And, as I’ve said many times in the past, it was even better than I’d imagined. I still live in the same apartment as I did then. I can look around and picture that day — the nerves, the excitement, the intensity, the sheer joy. The way my legs shook when I looked in the mirror and checked out my spanked backside for the very first time. I can still call up the man’s image in my head and hear his voice, even though he disappeared from my life as quickly as he came into it.

Twenty years! So many memories. So many spankings; hundreds, at least. Parties large and small. Video shoots. Thousands of words I’ve written, what with three books and countless posts (forums, blogs, FetLife, etc.). The parade of friends and play partners over the years. Gales of laughter. Buckets of tears. Sweet moments that touched my heart, and losses that broke it.

So many broken implements. 🙂

And, with the exception of the first three months, John has been with me through it all. ♥

The first few years involved a lot of fumbling and stumbling about, trying to figure it all out and determine my place in this new world. I think things began to fully solidify for me when Erica Scott was born in 2000. I have to laugh. Despite the evidence to the contrary in this old body, Erica Scott is merely a teenager.

When I was going through my darkness a couple of months ago, I was telling Steve how I felt like I mattered to no one and I could just disappear. That I was nobody. He said something like,”Erica Scott isn’t nobody,” to which I answered, “Erica Scott doesn’t exist.” That’s not true. She does. She’s me. Rather, she’s fully enmeshed within the soul and psyche of Erica [real name] — crazy, complicated, square peg me. As long as I live, Erica Scott will live too.

There is a sad irony to this occasion, and I’m a little embarrassed about it, honestly. On a day where the country is acknowledging so many brave souls who died, I am celebrating the day where a huge part of me began to live.

Where will TTWD take me from here? I have no idea. But I hope you’ll all stick around with me to find out.

Because, for now, I’m not going anywhere. 🙂

 

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That ITCH

Who knows what I mean, just from those two words? No, I’m not talking about a yeast infection. I’m talking about that urge that hits us bottoms (no pun intended) sometimes, the one where the craving for a spanking is So. Damn. Powerful, you feel like you’ll jump out of your skin if you don’t get some physical relief.

Many of us have spouses/mates/regular play partners. Some don’t. Some go to a lot of parties; others don’t have access or the funds for them. Some of us don’t play at all, just think about it, and for that, I am so sorry. We all have different spanking schedules. I am lucky enough to have a play partner whom I get to see fairly regularly, but you know, sometimes, life interferes. And most of the time I roll with that. But every now and then, that urge, that ITCH strikes so hard, I really do wish 1-800-SPANK-YOU was a thing. Order up a spanker, just like you order Uber or takeout food or whatever. You want it, you punch in the number, pull up the App, and poof. There he/she is. You even get to choose height, weight, age, hair color, banter style, level of intensity… imagine the possibilities.

It all started yesterday. Before I get into this, I want to make sure I’m being clear — yeah, I have a bit of a spanko-type crush on my chiropractor, because I really do get a toppy vibe from him. No, I don’t expect that anything would ever happen, nor would I want it to. But I’m having one hell of a lot of fun with these fantasies, so you all just get to bear with me and put up with ’em! 😀

When I walked into his office, he greeted me with, “How are we today?” To which I sniped, “I don’t know how you are, but I’m fine!” Without missing a beat, he said, “Thank you for the snark! Much appreciated. Of course, that will directly influence how hard I drive my elbow into your ass.” Right out of the gate, huh? The appointment went as it usually goes, with him working through the various knots of tension and trying to unkink me (physically, of course. No one will ever unkink my twisted little soul). He kept up a regular stream of banter, distracting me from the discomfort. At one point he was leaning his weight onto me while stretching out my hamstring, and he gleefully said, “I just love putting all my weight into pushing on such a tiny little person!” “Sadist,” I grumbled, and he replied, “Maybe a little.” AHA!! At the end of each session, he takes me into another room where they have tables with built-in massagers, and he lays me out on one of those with ice packs under my back, so I get a massage and an icing at the same time. Yesterday, he covered me with a blanket and then said, “Don’t you move for ten minutes.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, “What if I do?”

So I come home from this, with my body feeling like overcooked spaghetti but my kinky neurons firing… and then Steve texts me. Poor thing… yet another sinus infection. I swear, that man is the most infection-prone person I know. Sinus infections, pinkeye, bronchitis, that thing that started out like a pimple and then damn near ate off his face… such a drag! Either his immune system is whacked, or he’s taken so many antibiotics, they don’t work for him anymore. So of course, I wouldn’t be seeing him this week.

No biggie, I thought. I had a lot of work to do today. But as I got into it this morning, I was restless. I felt snarky and prickly; I was definitely in Looking For Trouble mode, I could feel it. I wanted to be spanked like nobody’s business. No emotional involvement, nothing complicated, just the pure physicality of a man’s hand smacking my backside hard.

Times like these, it’s a damn shame that I’m not a self-spanker. It would be pretty simple if that were the case, kind of like masturbating for sexual release. But I’m not.

As I squirmed and bounced in my computer chair, eating way too much peanut butter, my mind wandered back to something that happened a long time ago, maybe 13-15 years? It was so long ago, I’d written about it on the old Southern California Spanked Wives Club forum. We were at a Shadow Lane party, sitting in the ballroom at dinner, and a very handsome young man came over to the table and started talking with someone there. My friend at the time and I started whispering among ourselves: “Who’s that?” “Damn, he’s cute!” “I’ve never seen him here before!” “He certainly is easy on the eyes, isn’t he.” We simpered on and on until John, overhearing it all, laughed at us and blurted, “Oh for God’s sake, you two! You’re making me sick! Shut up! Less talking, more action — tell you what. The first one of you who gets Mr. Dreamboat to spank you, I’ll give you $25!”

“You’re on!” we said in unison.

I won. 😀  Yup, I bratted him into it first, which was quite the triumph, considering my friend was a lot younger, had a killer body and was cuter than any one woman should be. Anyway… it turned out he lived in Los Angeles, and before the weekend was over, he gave me his phone number. “Any time you feel like playing, give me a holler,” he said. I didn’t think I’d take him up on it; he was maybe 15-20 years younger than me and I felt weird about it.

However.

There came an afternoon when I was home, back in the days when I didn’t have a regular spanking partner, work was slow, and I was feeling that ITCH. I was craving spanking so hard, it consumed my thoughts. It also overrode my pride, because I actually picked up the phone and dialed G’s number, which I’d saved. It had been a couple of months since the party, and I hoped he’d remember me. When he answered, I told him who it was and why I was calling. He sounded a bit distracted; he was polite, but it was pretty clear he was busy and wasn’t up for an impromptu play time. Feeling myself shrivel with embarrassment, I said, “OK, sorry to bother you, maybe another time,” and hung up the phone, swearing that I would never reach out like that again.

Two minutes later, my phone rang. I picked it up; it was him again.

“How bad do you want it?”

(Yeah, I know he should have said “how badLY.” But at the moment, I didn’t give a happy rat’s ass about his grammar.)

“Really, really, realllllly bad,” I murmured, feeling my heart race. Long story short, he was willing to meet up with me that evening, but I needed to drive to his place.

So. I dressed up, made up, fixed my hair, and drove approximately 35-40 miles. He lived in one of those beach communities that are notorious for having absolutely no parking anywhere. I’m not exaggerating; I drove around and around his apartment complex for twenty minutes before I finally called him in despair. He had to come out, guide me into his building’s garage, and show me where deliveries could park temporarily. What a hassle.

But I got exactly what I needed. 😀  My itch was scratched. I didn’t stay long, we didn’t talk much, it was just a spanking, nothing more. But I drove home relaxed, pleasantly sore and blissfully happy.

Spanker on Call. What a concept. That was the only time I did that with him, and I don’t think I ever saw him again after that. I don’t think I know anyone like that now, someone I can just call out of the blue, and I don’t even think I could pull it off now. I would overthink it, and think myself out of it. But damn, that was hot.

For crying out loud, there’s an App for everything these days. Why isn’t there a Spanko App?

Thanks for listening. Who else but other spankos would understand this??

Social media, spankos, and me

It’s not secret that I’m a bit of a social media addict. I currently have nearly 15,000 tweets on Twitter (I’m not proud of this, BTW). I enjoy Twitter; it’s a fun way to stay connected with everything that’s going on, and I’ve made some interesting friends on there. I stay out of the flame wars and enjoy the hashtag games. But of course, it’s limited. You can’t exactly be profound in 140 characters. And oftentimes, as I’ve said before, it feels like the 21st-century techno version of talking to yourself.

Then there’s Facebook. Vanilla land, although there are many spankos on there. I straddle two fences there. I use Erica Scott, as I do pretty much everywhere. But because I have many vanilla friends on there, or spanko friends under their vanilla names, I avoid spanking talk and photos. Oh, there’s hinting and playing at it. But I’m discreet. What do I like about FB? I love to play Scrabble and Words With Friends. I like looking at my friends’ pictures. I’m a sucker for all the cute animal videos. I like keeping up with the authors of spanking e-books, as I copy-edit several of them. But I can only hang around there so often. The political and religious stuff is hot and heavy there and I find myself getting angry. I realize that underneath my anger is a lot of fear over what the hell is happening to us and what’s going to happen, but I can’t fix that and immersing myself in it is not good for me and my depressive tendencies.

Aaaaand then there’s FetLife. From which I’m still deactivated, and have been for about a month now. It feels a little strange, like there’s a hole in my online life. But I feel like in many ways, going there was like beating a dead horse. It simply wasn’t what it used to be: a fun place to connect with all my kinky friends, talk about spanking, share thoughts and fantasies and memories, make new friends. FetLife currently has millions of members; I was member number 16,919. So we go way back.

There’s a lot I don’t miss on FetLife. For example:

  1. “[Our party] is the best/most well attended/most inclusive party and has the most cool kids and spanking models!” “No, [party B] is!” “No, [party C] is!” “[Your party] sucks!” “No, yours does!” “No, yours!” “You suck!” “No, you do!”
  2. Dick pics, twat shots and wide-open back door pictures where you can practically count the feet of intestines.
  3. Endless pontificating from the handful of “experts” who could post the Gettysburg Address and have it land on Kinky and Popular.
  4. Stuff like “[A well-known top] is awesome, and if you don’t like him, then fuck you!” Worship of false idols.
  5. The never-ending barrage of accusations — an almost daily report of whose consent got violated. There was an epic flame war over a woman who claimed her consent was violated at a private spanking party. Why? Because the host jokingly referred to her as “naughty.” I kid you not. This one did this, this one said that… and the result is when someone really is raped/violated, it’s not taken seriously.
  6. Inappropriate comments and insults on women’s pictures. I say “women” because I honestly haven’t seen them on men’s photos, but I’m sure those exist too. Treating the spanking models like they’re sexy life-sized dolls there for your entertainment, rather than like the real people they are.
  7. “Which celebrity would you like to spank/be spanked by?” “What’s your favorite implement/position/word for bottom?” “Is spanking sexual?” being brought up and discussed for the 11,527th time in a new thread.
  8. Flaming, bullying and sock puppetry. So many fakes that one never really knows who and what is real.

Oh, but… I do miss things too. Such as:

  1. The way the community could band together when someone is in need. A couple of years ago, a beloved long-time member of the scene had a massive heart attack and nearly died. He was incapacitated and couldn’t pay a lot of his immediate bills. A GoFundMe (or something similar, I can’t recall for sure) was organized for him, with a goal of $10,000. That was surpassed in just two days. I think they ended up with about $17,000 for him. Another member had serious complications with a high-risk pregnancy and ended up giving birth prematurely — she too nearly died. A collection was taken up for her as well.
  2. Fun, silly, playful stuff, friends enjoying each other. One of my favorites: when our friend Piper was “grounded” from FetLife and a bunch of us were pleading with her top to “free” her and let her come back. Some of us even taped little videos of our pleas, including yours truly. I actually sang.
  3. Post-party discussions about our favorite memories.
  4. My wall filled with greetings on my birthday.
  5. Unexpected messages/comments that brightened my day.
  6. Connecting with my friends and feeling “a part of.” Right now, I feel disconnected and sad. I feel unmissed and insignificant. But then again, they are probably feeling like I abandoned them. I read a depressing meme on Facebook recently: Something along the lines of “If your disappearance didn’t affect your friends’ lives, then your existence probably didn’t either.” Ugh. Not what I needed to see.

So where does one go to connect online with other kinksters? Is that a place that simply doesn’t exist anymore? Is it all about photos and hookups and parties and little else? Part of me wants to go back to FetLife; another part says, “Why?” I know I don’t want to just yet, not when the national party season is in full swing. I’m not going to any of them and I don’t need to read about them.

It’s all part of the “where do I go from here” thing I’ve been dealing with. I had a sense of belonging for a very long time, something I spent most of my life without. Now, I am questioning where I belong. With John, of course. With Steve. In video archives. But where else? That’s a rhetorical question — I’m not expecting any answers. The spanking community is and has been important to me for a long time, and I want to continue to be a part of it, to contribute to it. I’m just not sure how.

Anyway. Enough of this meandering. I have to go get a pedicure. Tomorrow, I’m going with John to his high school’s 40-year reunion and he wants to show off his “hot girlfriend.” (Looking at my sloppy self at the moment and thinking “WTF??”). I don’t think he needs me there, really. He has a good job, a good career, two residences, and will probably be the only guy there who is still fit and trim and has hair. But what the hell… it’s just a couple of hours. I won’t know anyone there, but I’ll smile and nod and fake my way through it. Like I did for years and years at his family events, of which we have been relieved, thank you very much. And I’ll get to go home with the best guy there. ♥

Have a great weekend, y’all.

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