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 “needs”

Drop is real

This morning, I watched Jillian Keenan’s latest video about Spanko Drop, something that many of us can relate to. It’s the sucky side of what we do, the what-goes-up-must-come-down reality of it. I think she detailed it well and covered all the salient points. We all need to know what this is, that we’re normal, and that we’re not alone.

And that it will pass. I am reminding myself of that right now, actually.

Last week I got to play. It was intense and lovely and stimulating and exciting. C was sweet and did all the right things, checking in with me in the days that followed. I wish more tops understood about how some of us need those check-ins. Then again, we bottoms need to make that need known more, it seems. We just expect that the top knows. Not always the case.

My stress levels have been off the charts recently for various reasons. After my scene last week, I think my body finally rebelled, everything surfaced, and my legs erupted in hives. I get these periodically, stress hives, and there’s nothing I can do about them except take Zyrtec, douse them with calamine lotion, Benadryl cream, and aloe vera, and wait them out, willing myself not to scratch them and trying not to fixate on how ugly they are. Then I went to my chiropractor with my right hip hurting and he said those muscles were in spasm. Oh, goody. So I slogged through the rest of the week itching and hurting and struggling to keep up with work and do what needed to be done.

Now I feel a little better physically… but my mood is blech. And I’m recognizing it as drop. “Yeah, but you got to play!” I hear people saying. I did. But I don’t know when I will again. I’m feeling so out of the loop with the community I once called home. I’m missing friends I once had. Still dealing with Covid isolation and struggling to figure out what’s okay and what isn’t. I don’t want to live in the past. I want to forge ahead and make new memories, have more joys. And have them more frequently.

So yeah, I guess I’m droppy today. Which is totally normal. Knowing that makes it much more acceptable. I am grateful I have a name to put to these feelings, a very real physiological and emotional reason for them. It’s the adult version of post-birthday crash. Or post holidays, or whatever thrilled us and wound us up as kids.

Here’s to self-care. Here’s to compassion and empathy for people dealing with this. And here’s to knowing that we are okay.

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? ♥

Confession

CONFESSION - declarative concept

For what it’s worth, for the dozen or so of you who still read my blather, I’m admitting to a moment of weakness and foolishness. Nothing came of it, but I figured it was worth looking at anyway.

Like it or not, we’re still in the middle of a pandemic. Even with things reopening, I don’t think it’s safe to be in crowds of people. John and I are continuing to do takeout. I’m going to put a hold on my gym membership. The curve of the first wave never flattened and now they are talking about the second wave. I don’t think this is going away anytime soon. Ergo… even if Shadow Lodge goes ahead with the party in Vegas over Labor Day, John and I will not go.

I would consider carefully playing one on one with a trusted partner, though. If I could meet one who was willing to be patient, take things slowly, observe all the safety rules, etc.

A week or so ago, I heard from a man on FetLife who, at first, sounded exactly like who I was seeking. He wrote well. He loved spanking. Our world views were on the same page. He’d been isolating and took the pandemic very seriously. He was attractive, fit, educated, healthy, didn’t smoke or do drugs. And he was local, had his own place where he could host. In his profile and in his introduction to me, he stressed about how he believed in taking the time to establish trust and a connection, and that there was no rush. It seemed he was experienced in the scene and had been around long enough to know what was what.

He said nice things. Didn’t just say that I’m attractive, although he stressed that many times. Said I sounded like I had a good head on my shoulders, that I was smart, seemed like a lot of fun and he thought we’d get along well. He said, more than once, that I was “perfect.” So, I wrote back. We exchanged two or three brief messages. So far, so good.

Then last Friday, he sent me a message that threw me for a loop. Said he wouldn’t meet anyone for coffee right now, not with the virus and particles everywhere and so forth. However… I could come to his place and we could sit outside on his balcony, see where chemistry takes us.

I’m sorry, what??

Okay, this is BDSM 101, kids. You meet publicly first. Coffee, a drink, a meal, whatever you are comfortable with. You do not just up and go to a man’s house right off the bat when you don’t know him, or know of him through trusted others. Period. I couldn’t believe he was suggesting I do this.

So I wrote back, telling him I was sorry, but I couldn’t possibly do that. That I’d been meeting play partners for over 24 years and vetting them in public first. (There have been a couple of exceptions over all those years, but that’s exactly what they were, exceptions. And I’d had good communications with the men beforehand.) I said it seemed we both had much to offer, and hopefully we could figure out a way to move forward, carefully. That I understood “cabin fever” (his words) very well, but that I had to be safe.

Didn’t hear back. Five days went by. Then I got a message that was in a very different tone from all the others. It was part resentful, and part coaxing.

He said we were at an impasse, because I wouldn’t “step out of my comfort zone,” because I wouldn’t “bend a little.” That trying to meet with me was like trying to push a boulder up a very steep hill, and that he found “endless emails” frustrating. And then, he painted a sexy, tempting picture of what could happen if I would just come over, take his hand, and… so on.

I didn’t reply. But I was really, really angry and upset, and wasn’t quite sure why, besides the obvious that the guy’s a manipulative jerk.

Here’s where the confession part comes in.

I think I was rattled because, deep down inside, a part of me wanted to cast caution to the wind, ignore everything I knew, and just go “have an adventure.”

I mean, fuck it. I’ve been holed up for months. I haven’t played since February. Every damn day is some sort of bad news. And there is nothing to look forward to in the near future. Here was my chance to break out a little, go do something wild and forbidden and sexy and have some damn fun for a change. To feel sexy and free and attractive and naughty and just forget all this shit for a couple of hours.

And the fact that even a tiny part of me felt this way was horrifying to me. I know better than this! No, I wasn’t going to do it. But damned if I didn’t want to, just a little. Because I’m only human.

Anyway… turned out it didn’t matter. The morning after he’d written that latest message to me, I woke up to another one.

I’ve decided that it’s just too complicated to continue — good luck with all and be safe.

In other words: “You didn’t do things the way I wanted, so you’re not worth any more of my time.” Also: “I know you’re going to say no, so I’ll reject you first.”

Bastard.

Before I put this behind me, I had to have a final word. I wrote back:

Your profile reads: “I like to go slow at first to develop a genuine connection, kindred spirits, feelings and trust.”
And yet, after a few brief exchanges in which I know next to nothing about you, you expect me to ignore one of the cardinal rules of BDSM, show up at your home without meeting you first. When I politely decline that, you throw up your hands, say “fuck this,” call our messages “endless emails” and I go from perfect to a boulder on a steep hill.
Everything about this has a clear message: “If you don’t give me immediate gratification, I can’t be bothered with you.”
Thanks for the early warning, I guess. I am a person of value and worth bothering with. Sorry you didn’t think so.

Didn’t hear anything back, of course. He’s moved on to find someone more gullible, more lonely and in need. I may be all three of those, but I’m not stupid. I. Know. Better. All emotions and desires aside, I know what’s right and what’s safe. He wasn’t.

And, as many people (including John) reminded me yesterday, it’s fortunate that he revealed who he really was this early on, before I got further invested. Or worse.

So why am I writing this? I guess because I’m reminded that, no matter how much experience we have, no matter how much we know better, we can still be swayed. We can still fall prey to a vulnerable moment and ignore our instincts, or want to. That these are scary times and a lot of us are not thinking clearly. These are the times when narcissists and predators can thrive. Don’t let them. And if someone tries to make you feel like you’re not worth bothering with, fuck them. (Figuratively speaking.) Because you are. And the people who don’t care to take the time, who just want what they want and want it now — their loss.

How ironic that his final words to me were “Be safe,” when he wanted me to be anything but. However, I will say the same to all of you. Please. Be safe. In these tough times, where so many of us are feeling vulnerable, uncertain, alone, scared, angry — keep your head. Keep your ears and heart open to your inner voice that knows best.

Hope everyone has a peaceful weekend. And Happy Father’s Day to the dads. ♥

 

 

 

Kink in the time of Covid-19

Before I get to the subject of this post, an update on my friend with the virus. She is in the middle of Week #3. Still having fevers, still having O2 drops, and her exercise for the day is taking a shower. She has made two trips to the ER. However, her lungs are clear and unaffected, so the hope is that her body is simply exhausted and will rally after a time.

I remind you — she is fit, strong, and only 31 years old. You guys do not want this virus.

Anyway, enough of that.

In these days of social distancing and quarantining, if you’re a spanko and you’re fortunate enough to live with a spanking partner, more power to you. If you don’t… then as far as getting these needs met, you’re essentially screwed. No parties. No play dates. Not even small get-togethers, because even if you do have a limited gathering, you have to maintain distance. Anything tactile is off the table for now. Which cuts out… well, everything.

So what are people doing in efforts for some satisfaction? Seems you can do one of two things. You can either satisfy the physical craving and self-spank, or you can forgo the impact and focus on the head space part of things, by either FaceTiming/Zooming or talking on the phone. In other words, virtual scenes.

Sexy-girl-using-computer

Some people are blessed with wonderful imaginations. Their minds can take them into the deepest and darkest recesses, simulating what they desire. They can take a paddle to themselves while imagining that Mr. or Ms. Deliciously Toppy is doing it. Or they can use a visual on a screen or a voice on the phone and put themselves into the same head space they feel when it’s in person.

Sadly, I’m not one of those people.

I have tried self-spanking a few times. I figured if I could achieve sexual satisfaction by masturbating, I could scratch the spanking itch myself, right? Wrong. It is so not the same. First, it’s physically awkward, and very hard on the shoulder. I don’t need anymore shoulder issues after dealing with shoulder impingement syndrome all last year. Second, there is no way I can get the angle and speed and distance good enough to make a proper impact. And finally, perhaps most important, it makes me feel ridiculous. Not the feeling I’m going for.

So then we move onto the virtual stuff. Instantly, Zoom and FaceTime are out for me on my old computer. It doesn’t have a built-in mic, and my every effort to use an external mic has failed. For whatever reason, I get picture, but no audio. My tech practically took the thing apart and couldn’t figure out what was wrong. So until I get a new computer, that’s out. I suppose I could video chat on my phone, but the small screen is a hindrance.

So that leaves the phone. A disembodied voice + my imagination. Not something I’ve ever found fulfilling in the past. But in these times, needs must. We do what we can. We try things. We endeavor to broaden our horizons. Especially someone like me, whose horizons are admittedly rather narrow.

I was talking with a gentleman from Alt.com, a very interesting and bright man, good conversationalist, funny. He is local, but we had already determined that our kinks in person wouldn’t mesh properly. No one’s fault; it is what it is. However, since no one is doing anything in person right now anyway, he suggested we try a phone scene. He said he had a lot of experience weaving fantasy scenarios and all I would have to do is stay engaged and keep answering his questions, so he’d know in which direction to go (or not).

Because he was so articulate and seemed confident about his abilities, I thought, oh, what the hell. Go for it. Life is short, and fun is at a premium right now. It’s human contact, it’s kink, it’s exciting. Give it a shot.

So, last Monday, I called him at the time we’d designated, right on time. I had my cell plugged in so the battery wouldn’t die. Per his suggestion, I had water nearby and no TV or any other distractions on. We fell into easy conversation and the first hour or so was just vanilla get-to-know-you stuff.

Remember, I’m not a fan of the phone in general. I’d rather email or text people. About the only person I speak to regularly on the phone is John. That said… would you believe we were on the phone for six hours and twenty-seven minutes???

He was, as promised, very imaginative and there were no lags in the conversation. He needed a lot of feedback from me — whenever he said something or another, went in a particular direction, he’d ask me to rate how I liked it — a little, medium, a lot, extremely. Just saying “Yes” wasn’t enough. I can understand that; he had nothing else to read, not being able to see me, see my bodily reactions. A couple of times when the scenario went in a way I didn’t care for, he switched gears immediately without faltering. And he had a wonderful voice, deep and rich. A radio host voice. (And by the way, I saw his picture — he does not have a “face for radio,” as the saying goes. 😀 He’s quite the attractive man.)

I let myself feel, and to the best of my ability, I tried to imagine. My body reacted. We took breaks, used the bathroom, drank water, checked in, etc. But the action was almost continuous. Without spelling out any details, we went to some dark places, darker than I usually go, but I felt safe doing so. I came four times. When I was starting to feel rather selfish, he finally did too. Then we talked for about another 45 minutes to an hour.

Something of note happened, toward the end. After my third intense orgasm, I started to cry.

“What are you thinking right now?” he asked. “What do you want?”

Without thinking about it, I blurted, “I wish you were here! I want to feel your hands on me, your arms around me. I need impact, I need physical contact, I need I need I need…” and I kept babbling on and crying. He was very kind, and in a few minutes I calmed back down.

But there it was. I. Need. The. Real. Thing.

This was fun, and he was lovely. He worked hard to give me some pleasure. I did have an intense emotional release, and some laughs and titillation. I don’t regret doing it at all; I’m glad I did. But I don’t think I’ll be doing it again. Hell, I’d love to talk with this man again. As friends. He’s fascinating. And so damned smart. But virtual doesn’t cut it for me. It was hard for me to give the constant verbal feedback; in person, it’s not as necessary. You have breathing, you have body reactions, you have skin color. A bottom can simply sink into the space of the scene, stop talking and just feel. Is it better than nothing at all? I suppose. But I experienced a kind of rebound.

When we got off the phone, I was delirious with tiredness. It was nearly 3:00 a.m. But I was also really hungry, and still a bit keyed up; I couldn’t just shut everything off. So I made myself something to eat, then answered a couple of emails. Then I even did a bit more work. By the time I went to sleep, it was 4:30.

I was very relaxed but exhausted the next day, and in a fog of unreality. I went through the motions of the day, worked, managed to work out, although I had to break the session in two because I hit a wall and had to stop and take a nap. I finally caught up with my sleep and by Wednesday I felt back to normal.

And extremely frustrated. The craving for play had come back with a vengeance and a ferocity.

Not his fault. Not mine either. It’s just the way it is. I need what I need, and all the facsimiles and simulations and fantasies and discussions and pictures painted with words just won’t cut it.

For those of you who have better imaginations than I do, I salute you and I envy you your ability to suspend disbelief and immerse yourself in what’s available to you. Me? I don’t know when the hell people will be able to play in person again safely, but until then, looks like I’m going to do without it.

I’m working. I’m healthy. John is well. I have a place to live and I can make rent. Life goes on, and this is not the end of the world.

It’s just kinda fucking frustrating.

Have a great weekend, y’all. Please be safe and take care.

Someone needs to vent…

screaming

So look out! (warning: fluent cussing to follow)

Before I get into this, I should say I am not sick. I’m not depressed. John is well. My apartment is fine and I have plenty of work. I still have the lovely memories of the party from a couple of weeks ago. So at this moment in time, I am all right.

I’m just overwhelmed with a feeling of unease and powerlessness, and like the whole damn world around me is in free-fall. We have a global pandemic that’s spreading every day. The stock market is crashing. People are freaking out and social media is a disaster area. The anger is off the charts. I feel like I’m not going to get through 2020 without losing my mind. And while I am well, I have several friends who are in various stages of illness and despair, and there’s not a damn thing I can do for them.

Finally, being a recluse and a misanthrope is going to be a huge plus. I’m not scared that I’m going to get COVID-19. I live alone, I work alone. I hate travel. I hate large crowds, for the most part. And I’m healthy with a strong immune system. However… John has a heart condition. And his immune system is compromised. And this is not the fucking flu.

The stock market plummeting on a daily basis scares the bejesus out of me. People hoarding stuff and acting crazy scare me. My finances worry me, especially since I just spent the last of my emergency cash on a hefty car repair. My computer is old AF, so are my TVs. My car is twelve years old. But I can’t afford to replace anything.

So what do I want to do in the midst of all this insanity? I want to play. I want to escape and forget all this crap for a while. I want an endorphin rush and a stress release. And I’m fucking frustrated with that situation as well.

This is party season — there’s a huge national spanking party next month, then in May, and then in June. Personally? I think going to airports and being among mass throngs of people from all over is insane right now, so I’m quite worried about all my friends going to these things, even though I envy them as well. I’m so very grateful we managed to get to our own party before this all blew up. But the local situation continues to suck, and sometimes it gets damn tiresome.

In particular, I am frustrated with the tops on Alt.com. Yeah, lots of them look at me. I can tell who’s looking at my profile, and it’s often the same guys over and over. But they don’t contact me, and I can’t contact them, because I’m not a paying member. What’s up with that? About once a week, I see that the man who ended things last November still looks at my profile. Why??? Every time I see that he’s looked at me, I want to write to him and say, “FFS, come on over and look at me up close and personal, why don’t you?” Argh. But I don’t. I say nothing. Because if he wanted to be in touch, he would be. Still, I really can’t comprehend why he’s still checking me out. What a useless exercise that is if you don’t follow up with anything.

Another one has been dancing around me for months. We met once for coffee and things went splendidly, but then the holidays happened, he had a family emergency and he went back East for a few months. I waited patiently, and now he’s back… and he’s dancing around me again. Writing brief emails, dropping hints, asking questions, commenting how he saw one of my clips… but not suggesting a concrete get-together. Dude! Life is short and neither one of us is getting any younger here. If we’re all gonna die, I want to go with a sore butt and a big smile on my face. Stop tiptoeing… if you want to play, then fucking tell me you want to play and tell me when!

And yet another one texts me every now and then and says let’s reconnect. I enthusiastically agree and say just tell me when. And then he disappears again until the next time.

I wish they’d freaking man up, turn my ass up and spank the hell out of me already, dammit!

(I know. I sound so fucking submissive. I’d laugh at that if I didn’t feel like screaming.)

But then I calm down, I work out, I sigh, and I pick up my work again. And hope for things to get better. But I can’t help feeling they’re going to get a whole lot worse first.

One of my old bosses, whenever people complained about stuff, had the weirdest saying: “Yeah, well, people in hell want lemonade.” I never quite understood what that meant. But I suppose the kinky version of that is “People in hell want spanking.” Because right now, besides the basics of shelter and food and good health, that’s what I want most.

I. Am. Scared. I know why people drink. I know why people smoke. I know why people do geographics. Escape. Of course, there is no escape, not really. There is postponement, though. There is temporary distraction. And sometimes, that sounds pretty damn sublime.

(sigh) Rant over. I will get back to work now.

Friends — be safe. Be careful. And if you have a chance to have some fun, do it. Because we simply don’t know what the fuck is going to happen.

Yes, we’re strong, but…

Earlier this morning, a conversation on Twitter got my mind going. A friend was saying how hard it is to let go, to admit that she needs/wants to be taken care of, that her strong, independent and take-charge personality won’t allow it. How many bottoms — women and men — have struggled with this? We work. We function. We struggle and juggle. We make decisions. We pay bills and take care of others. We are responsible. And yet… for many of us, there’s that tiny inner vulnerable person who just wants to give up the control and hand it over to someone stronger.

Me too.

(For the sake of simplicity and my own viewpoint, I’m going to assume the strong female/stronger male dynamic, but please feel free to substitute whatever works for you.)

strongwoman

How do women reconcile their strength, their feminism and independence with that inner need to be taken down, spanked, held and comforted? I’ve heard that question for years and years, and I still don’t know the answer to it. I only know the need is real.

I am fiercely independent to a fault. I am a loner. I have lived alone since I was seventeen years old. And I hate needing people. That is one hell of a clash with the part of me who wants to lie over a man’s lap, feel his strong hand spanking me, and then disappear into his arms. Who wants to hear his voice in my ear, softly crooning, “Shhh. Good girl. That’s my girl. I’ve got you.” Who wants to sob until his shirt is soaked with my tears… knowing he won’t think my crying is ugly.

An old (and honestly, really sexist) song from the movie “Funny Girl” comes to mind, in particular the lyric, “You are woman, I am man. You are smaller, so I can be taller than.” I’m not a small woman; I’m 5′ 7″ flat-footed. I accepted years ago that a lot of men (and play partners) aren’t going to be taller/bigger than I am, and that’s fine. But guess what… yup. There’s still that part of me that yearns to be tiny, that loves the fact that John is 6′ 2″. When I’m barefooted and he’s hugging me, he likes to say, “What are you doing down there?” My answer is always the same: “Looking up at you.”

Does that make me weak? A traitor to the feminist cause? I don’t think so. I’m not looking for a caretaker or a protector. I don’t want to be absolved of all responsibility, to be permanently removed from adulthood. I just want the chance now and then to be vulnerable, to let go and know I have a safety net. To know that if I crack my hard exterior and let the softer, inner me show, that side will be cherished, not crushed.

This is an old picture of a former play partner. Sadly, he showed himself to be someone with whom I can no longer share my vulnerability.  But I still love this picture. And I want this — not him, but this — back in my life again regularly, in my home, in my moments of softness. So, so, so damn much.

vulnerable1

I hope I find it again.

Have a great weekend, y’all.

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