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 “parties”

Notes on The Scene

You might want to settle in with your refreshing beverage of choice for this one, as it’s really freaking long.

Recently, someone I’m very fond of, and who is quite prominent in the spanking scene, wrote a piece about the scene and where he feels he stands in it, in particular the large national parties. Lest people accuse me of name-dropping (“oooh, she’s friends with him“), I won’t say who it is. But his post was honest and brave, and it gave me the courage and impetus to do some reflecting of my own.

I have stated, time and again, that throughout life, I have felt like this photo:

brickdoesnotfit

The piece that doesn’t fit. The square peg in a round world. Or, as I once heard in a 12-step meeting: “I feel like I’m trespassing on the planet.” Different. Weird. Etc. Throw kinkiness into the mix and you really get the stench of otherness.

I’ve also often said that navigating the scene is like dancing on a double-edged sword. On one side, you have infinite potential for belonging, for acceptance, for connecting with others. For personal fulfillment. For expressing your truest self. But misstep, and that sword can hurt you. Sometimes it’s little cuts that bleed, and leave tiny scars that no one sees but you. And other times, it can outright disembowel you.

The scene is loving. The scene is fickle. It is kind. It is brutal. The scene gives. The scene takes away.

I’ve seen so much in my scene years. Some of it has happened to me, and some things have happened to others. I’ve been loved, hated, accepted, misunderstood, put up on a pedestal, knocked back off it, immortalized on film and in cartoons, stalked, cat-fished, supported, betrayed, judged, defended. I’ve hit the highest highs and the lowest lows, and everything in between.

Just a few random things I’ve borne witness to over the years, that touched me deeply:

When a long-time party-goer had a massive heart attack and nearly died, he ended up in an extended hospital stay, unable to pay his mortgage and his bills. A GoFundMe was set up for him — contributions came pouring in. I believe they ended up with $15-20,000. He survived.

When a young woman mentioned on FetLife that she had a birthday party and no one showed up, a surprise party was arranged for her at one of the national gatherings. When she walked into the room and everyone cheered, she actually turned around, looking for who was being greeted. Then realization dawned, and she burst into tears.

When a woman had devastating losses from a fire, a GoFundMe was set up for her as well. Many came through for her.

A long-time host of room parties, who had been absent for years due to illness, came to his first party in years with his wife. They were given a tribute, complete with speakers (I was one of them) and an award. It was a beautiful recognition of a great scene contributor. Not too long after that, he passed away from cancer.

When a young woman came to her first party, not knowing anyone and having only connected online with a few people on FetLife, the enormity of it all, the noise, the crush of bodies overwhelmed her. The first night, she left the party room in tears. The party might have ended for her there, had it not been for a dear friend of mine intercepting her in the hallway. He pulled her into his room, let her cry, gave her a pep talk. She calmed down and regained her composure, took a break, then went back to the party. Later that weekend, I saw the same woman happily, joyously playing, right in the midst of the main party room.

When a beloved scene member nearly died giving birth to twins and then one of them tragically didn’t make it, a beautiful soul took up a collection to buy the shell-shocked couple a ton of essentials — everything from diapers to formula to clothes — plus a cleaning service and a subscription to Netflix for distraction.

Countless displays of welcome, of support, of love. The more I think about this, the more incidents I come up with. But of course, there is the other side.

I’ve seen relationships form, then crash and burn. I’ve seen countless emotional meltdowns at parties, including several of my own. I’ve seen friendships dissolve, jealousies flare, hurts inflicted. People who put out their time, money and efforts to open their hotel suites to everyone at parties get criticized and picked apart by those who consider themselves entitled to everything they want at someone else’s expense. I read an account of someone who welcomed everyone in their suite for several days/nights at a national party — and then was thoroughly reamed for having the audacity to restrict their suite to friends only on the final night. That’s just one story of many. I have witnessed people being systemically and cruelly shunned from groups. This one hates that one; so-and-so violated so-and-so; stay away from that guy; don’t talk to this woman. Battle lines are drawn; gossip runs rampant. Granted, if someone is a genuine hot mess, a violator, a predator, etc., with accounts from many to back up the concerns, that’s one thing; friends should be warned and safety should be paramount. But sometimes, good people who cross the wrong individuals can find they become pariahs in short order.

The scene can foster closeness and special relationships, but it also provides a sort of pseudo-intimacy. We are in close proximity, we bare our body parts before we even learn each other’s real names, we engage in intimate activity. We are emotionally invested and vulnerable. We open fully and trust quickly. But sometimes, it simply isn’t real. And when reality does hit, it hurts worse. Because we’ve invested so much of ourselves. Not just our bodies, but our hearts and souls.

I have watched people rally and rise above bad times to eventually prevail. And I have seen people disappear, burned out or driven away. The trouble with being too close to the scene is it’s like a personal house of cards. The loss of a key card can cause the whole thing to come down for you. And although you know logically that there are other components of life, at the moment of that crash, it can feel like your entire world is crashing. Your source of support. Your place of belonging.

There have been many ups and downs for me over the years, navigating this scene. Luckily, I was spared the tumult of multiple relationships, of breakups, of having to see exes at gatherings, because I have been with John the entire time. A couple of times, I came very close to dropping out. When I thought I was done shooting because one company didn’t want me, I felt like a has-been and like my time was done. It was the first time I became aware of the fickleness of the scene, how much is about the newest hot young thing. However, I was able to work through that, with the help of a much beloved friend (thank you again, Danny)… and went on to shoot with several other companies for another ten years. I beat the odds, over and over.

Well-placed gossip can destroy someone in this scene. Roughly fifteen years ago, a woman accused me of trying to sabotage her relationship and steal her boyfriend. Ridiculous, since I had John. The man in question had been my play partner, she had been my friend, but when she began dating him, suddenly I became the enemy. Not only was he not to play with me anymore, he wasn’t to communicate with me at all. I don’t know where this jealousy and paranoia came from. I consider myself the least threatening woman on earth, hardly a femme fatale. I was older than her, and not nearly as striking.

Seems like this sort of thing is no big deal, right? Unfortunately, she happened to be a well loved icon of videos — definitely a case of “boys want to meet her, girls want to be her.” And she was telling anyone who would listen to her that I was a relationship wrecker. I lost friends. I was put in the awful state of wondering who was saying what about me and to whom. Or, even worse, having damning words come directly back to me, like the time a friend told me she’d been admonished in no uncertain terms by another that she should “sever all ties with Erica.”

I was devastated and thought I was done. But somehow, with support, I made it through that too. She sabotaged her own relationship, it ended without any of my involvement, and she eventually disappeared. Friends who had believed her ended up apologizing to me (including the “sever all ties” person). It was an ugly and painful time, and I think that came the closest to driving me out. (Please, no guesses. And no, it was not Samantha Woodley.)

But I was younger then. I had time on my side. I could ride it out, even though it seemed impossible at the time. Because there was a greater good. There was something to fight for, to persevere for.

Humans are resilient beings. We have to be. There is so much in life that is devastating and inevitable. Death. Illness. Crushing losses. And then there is the suffering that shouldn’t be inevitable, but it is: the pain from the careless cruelty and indifference of fellow humans.

We are able to move past and survive a whole lot of grief and loss, recover from disappointments, rise above life’s meanness. But I think everyone has a breaking point. Everyone has that one last straw, the one where they realize something has to change. Something has to give… or something has to go.

I am reminded of a woman I knew in the scene many years ago. She, along with her play partner and friend, hosted many room parties at Shadow Lane and was one of the organizers of a spanking group in her hometown. She was someone who had been through her share of pain in life; prolonged illness and death of her first husband with no support from his family, raising two children alone, addiction. But now her kids were older, she’d fallen in love and married again, and it seemed that life was finally going to turn around.

Until she was hit with not one, but two unspeakable betrayals from people she trusted. I will not elaborate on what happened or who was involved, only that the incidents were scene-related. They were her final straw. She withdrew from the groups, disappeared from the online boards. I stopped hearing from her; she lived in another state, so it wasn’t like I could go for coffee or lunch and hang out with her.

She died from acute liver failure at age 50, drinking herself to death.

No, I’m not going to drink myself to death. Or anything myself to death. But I think I’ve experienced my last straw as well. And I don’t think I’m going to get past this one. Unlike with the others, time is not on my side. I know I harp about my age a lot, but this statement has never been more true: I really am too old for this shit. I’m already dealing with a lot of insecurity about the changes in my body, my face. And now that I feel like my confidence, sense of kinship, and trust have disappeared, that’s simply too much to cope with. I can’t put the face on anymore. I don’t want to be seen. When I look in the mirror, the face that gazes back at me looks pale and lifeless.

50 Freaks was this past weekend. This is the first time since this party was conceived that we’ve missed one. The decision was painful and I’ve shed copious tears over it. I hope Joe will understand and forgive me; it had absolutely nothing to do with him. But I simply couldn’t do it. And interwoven with all the sadness and regret was a feeling of relief. All the prep of getting there felt overwhelming and exhausting. I’ve never liked that part; I’ve always found it stressful. But I also always knew there was great joy and welcoming and fun and play and escape on the other side. Now… that has been tainted.

It snowed in Vegas, a rare occurrence. Several flights were canceled. I told myself, meh, it would have been a hassle driving in it (I read about road closures and other traffic nightmares), it would have been freezing, I’d have to bring a ton of heavy clothes, and who feels sexy and spanky when they’re bundled up like an Eskimo? But of course, I knew that was ridiculous. We’d be in a hotel, not in a freaking tent. In our room, we could turn on the heat. In the party room, all the bodies would keep things plenty warm. So that was just a rationale.

God damn, I miss play. So much. Part of me is yearning, fully, bodily, emotionally, to lose myself in the pain, to be spanked to tears, to feel those incomparable endorphins cleanse me. But I don’t know where that is to be found right now. I don’t know who I can trust with it. In case you’re wondering whatever happened to Mr. Woodland — he is not gone. He is great and I would unquestionably scene with him. However, he is very busy dealing with Life at this time and not available.

And more than play, I miss the connection. I miss the bubble of parties, the complete immersion into an altered state for a while. A few days of respite from reality. The hugs. The laughs. I miss the me I was at these events. I don’t know if she’ll ever come back.

I am and will always be a spanko. I just don’t know what my outlets will be now. And like I said, it doesn’t seem like time is on my side. I feel a profound emptiness, a sense of loss. I suppose, like everything else, I just have to let it be there and wait to see what’s ahead.

By the way, the absurdity of this post doesn’t escape me. I can hear people out there thinking, “Oh, boo-hoo, you little snowflake victim. First World Problems. Get over yourself.” One friend I know is dealing with her mother’s terminal cancer. Another lost both her parents within seven weeks at the end of last year. Others are dealing with physical ailments, money worries, dying pets, relationship issues, and life’s other assorted crises and grievous situations.

Right now, John’s health is stable. I am working. I love my quiet, safe apartment. I am lucky enough to live in a strong, progressive and enlightened state during these terrifying times. I don’t wish to minimize any of the good things I’m grateful for. However, this is one of the worst and most long-lasting depressions I’ve had in years. And it is about more than just parties and playing. It’s about feeling like I’m losing a piece of myself. John says I am going through an existential crisis. He’s not one given to exaggeration, although I think this phrase sounds melodramatic. But perhaps I am. I’m questioning everything and everyone, including myself.

They say depression is anger turned inward. I am angry. More than anything, I am angry at myself. I allowed my power to be taken from me, let harsh words break me. I should be stronger than that. But I guess it’s that last straw thing again. Sometimes our well of strength runs dry. I don’t have it in me to go through another episode of wondering who’s saying what to whom. It’s soul-sucking.

I was told, among other things, that I use my depression like a shield, so people will feel sorry for me and not hold me accountable for my actions. That is the lowest of the low blows, cruel, and untrue. I hold myself accountable for my actions. When I fuck up, I say so. No one is harder on me than I am. But if one person believes this of me, then surely others do too. There are flawed humans, as we all are, and then there are those who cross the line and are fatally flawed. I’m not sure which side of the line I’m on… or am considered to be.

I stayed off social media this past weekend. John did his best to keep me distracted, taking me to see a movie, joking and being silly. It was a strange, surreal feeling all weekend, knowing what was going on and not being there. Wondering how everyone was doing. Who made it, and who got held up by the inclement weather. Who played with whom. Two of my favorite people there recently married; I hope they got lots of attention. What dramas occurred, because they always do. Would they have been mine, or someone else’s?

Since our going missing from the party, John has received one text, and I’ve received two messages, asking if we’re okay… and that’s it. Ouch. Humbling indeed. 😦 “It’s not personal,” John said. “People just have short attention spans.” I like his kinder, gentler take on it, rather than mine — that my reputation has been damaged, and people are staying away. Or, even worse, that no one cared all that much to begin with. Out of sight, out of mind. We’re all just faces in the crowd. (Or asses, in this case.)

So no party report, I’m afraid. May not be much of anything from me, at least for a while. I will always love the spanking scene, sharp edges and all, and love some very special people in it. I’ll always be grateful for what it gave to me. I just don’t know if I can be part of it anymore. Or if it even wants me to be.

John has done all he can to assure me that I am indeed lovable, that I matter. He told me that I make his life worth living, every single day. The same goes for you, my beloved fellow misfit. I love you with all my heart.

Carry on, kids.

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??

Breathe in, breathe out

Bear with me while I remind myself to observe basic bodily functions. I forget the simplest things when I’m in the throes of nerves.

Oh, enough already, Erica. Yeah, I can hear people thinking that. What’s with you and your freaking nervousness? You’ve done these parties for years and years. You have friends there. You know you’ll have fun. You’ll get incredible spankings and lots of hugs and all the attention your little inner narcissist could possibly want. What’s with you?

Well, here’s the deal. Part of it is all the standard insecurities and worries and anxieties we’ve discussed ad nauseam (and yes, it’s nauseam, not nauseum). But another part of it is a result of my own wiring.

Most of you know this, I think — along with depression, I also have mild OCD. Some people hear that term and instantly think of compulsive hand-washing and checking lights and jiggling doorknobs over and over to make sure they’re locked, but those aren’t necessarily the manifestations. The evidence of my OCD is in my need for routine and predictability. For some, unexpected occurrences are exciting. For others, they are mildly annoying. For me, they can be panic-inducing.

I derive tremendous comfort from familiarity and daily routines. Each day has its own particular basic order, with some variation but not a whole lot. I know what I’m going to eat, when I’m going to the gym, when I’m doing certain chores, what I’m going to buy each week at the market. J and I talk on the phone at the same time every evening. On Fridays, I know I’m going to pack up my bag and go to his house, and when I get there, we’ll go to dinner. You get the picture. For some, this type of life would be excruciating. For me, it’s essential to my well being. One of the reasons why J gets me so completely is that he has a bit of this himself; he has his own rituals. For example, when we get up, we must make the bed before doing anything else. If I help him with laundry and I hang or fold things, he’ll end up redoing what I’ve done because I didn’t do it just so.

Of course, life is rarely predictable. The unexpected happens at any given moment. And if you have any sort of life at all, you sometimes have plans that disrupt your routines. I love love love the party weekends. But let’s face it — they take my normal Friday-Monday and throw them in a blender. Nothing is the same — my schedule, my location, my food, my sleep, my amount of interactions with others, what I wear, blah blah blah. It’s kind of like being catapulted into another life for a few days.

Bottom line — even when it’s for something fun, something I love with all my heart, it’s still anxiety-inducing because it’s different. Couple that with the other normal party anxieties, and it’s a wonder that I have any kind of sanity left. Yes, folks, I am a loony toon.

So when these nerves hit, my mind works overtime and I start my horrible-izing about all the disasters that could keep us from getting there, or prevent us from having fun once we get there. There will be a terrible accident on the highway that will keep us stranded for hours and hours. One of us will get sick or hurt. There will be a family emergency. Actually, these things have happened. One year, we did get stuck in a SigAlert on the 15. Another time, J had a bad bike accident and shattered his collarbone one week before the party. I’ve gotten raging colds right before the party. And yet, we always made it.

How freaking STUPID is all this?? I’m laughing at myself as I sit here picking at the cuticle on my thumb. Look up “basket case” on Wikipedia and there’s my picture.

So what do I do? I remind myself to breathe. I put one foot in front of the other, do what I need to do each day, check things off my list. I write about it and invite the blogosphere to laugh with me over how nucking futs I am. And I show up where I’m supposed to show up. The rest is out of my hands.

I’ll shut up now. I haven’t drawn a breath for the past five minutes and my fingertips are turning blue.

Nerves

The pre-party buzz has been happening for a while now, and with the Shadow Lane party in less than two weeks, it’s kicking into high gear. As are my nerves.

You know, I annoy the hell out of myself. I’ve been going to these things since 1997. J is with me, so I’m never alone. I have friends there; I’m not walking into a room filled with strangers. I know the drill at these things, I know how to find room parties, I know what to bring, I know what to expect (more or less). I love spanking and lots of it. So why am I still nervous after all this time?

Can’t help it. I just am. I’m a skittish cat, as J calls me. No matter how many times I do this, I’m going to be nervous about it.

Part of it is the smorgasbord effect. I don’t play that often anymore on my own, for various reasons. There are many friends and spankers whom I don’t get to see, except for at these parties. So after months of starving, I enter this buffet, and I want to cram everything and everyone into a mere 2 1/2 days. And I can very easily end up making myself sick. I want to talk and hug and kiss and laugh and reminisce and play and play and PLAY and I can’t do it all. Especially since, unlike some of my friends, I cannot do without sleep. Erica without sleep is a disaster in the making, a meltdown waiting to happen. If I take time to sleep in, to take naps, etc., I will lose valuable time I could be with friends. But if I don’t, I won’t be worth a damn to those friends anyway.

Part of it is my own fears of not being “enough.” Will I be able to successfully give attention to everyone who desires it from me? And if I don’t, will they be hurt? Pissed off at me? Think I’m a snob? Or worse, God forbid, think I’m a wimp and I can’t take as much as I used to? Yes, I know that last one is stupid. But I reach a point sometime on Sunday where I wish I could just keep going on and on, but my body (particularly my butt) is screaming, “No, no, NO!” And I get frustrated with myself.

And finally, my own personality and nature is at war with itself. We have Erica the attention whore and the insatiable spankee, to whom these parties are as essential as air. Who thrives on the infectious enthusiasm and the sheer joy of these events, coming out of herself and blossoming like a hothouse flower. And then there is the Erica who gets overwhelmed, who doesn’t do well in crowds, who tires and burns out and wants to go hole up and be a quiet little Troglodyte. The quieter, loner side of me is the way I live most of my life day to day. I want to break away from that side for a while, and I do… but then I get tired and it comes back full force.

Yeah, I know you guys go through this with me every freaking time. A few of you get it; probably most of you shake your heads and wonder what my problem is. “What’s she got to be nervous about?” “Snap out of it.” I would love to, believe me. It’s exhausting being so neurotic.

I have two fun events scheduled for this party; I’m fairly positive I’m shooting with Northern Spanking, and I’m doing an interview with Richard Windsor. I don’t know which days or what time I’ll be doing either of these. Many friends are coming, old ones and newer ones, and I’ve already had several people express the desire to spend time with me. Yes, it’s lovely to be wanted! Remember, I’m the girl who still has the pre-party dream where I’m at the SL party and I’m either in the wrong place, or I’m there on the wrong weekend, or I can’t find any of my friends, and I go all weekend without playing with anyone. Yes, I really do have that recurring nightmare. So it makes me very happy that reality is quite different. But it also makes me nervous, wondering how I’m going to fit everyone and everything in.

Believe it or not (I don’t!), I actually got another offer for a video, to shoot with the Strictly Spanking NY people. Their reputation is stellar and I was so honored that they wanted me. However… their shoots are about pure discipline, no banter, no roleplay, just very hard spanking with hand, wooden paddle and a heavy strap. If I were doing this shoot as an isolated occurrence, no question, I’d be up for it. It would be challenging, but I’d want to do it. But during a party weekend, with a dozen or more other spankings? I can’t. I don’t have it in me; it would be too much. I hate that. I wish I could do it all. But I know myself, and I know that I’d be overextending myself if I committed to that on top of everything else I want to do.

How disgustingly ironic that I’m always wishing I could shoot more, and now I have to turn an opportunity down?? Unfortunate timing.

Bless J’s heart, he knows what a freakazoid I am before these things. He’s already listening to my frazzled ravings and telling me how much fun it’s going to be and how I’ll be fine once I get there. Oh, and in his infinite support, he’s endeavoring to “toughen me up” for all the play. Several times this weekend, he was servicing me with one of his two @#$%ing hairbrushes. Thanks a lot, honey. And he wouldn’t stop until I answered the question: “Why am I doing this?”

“Because you’re a jerk?” No.
“Because you’re a sadistic f***?” Wrong answer.
“I don’t know.” Sorry, that’s wrong too.
“OWW!” Nope, try again.
Because you’re prepping me for the party, dammit!!” That’s it! Now how about a thank you?

Arrrrrgggghhh.

I do think he goes too far when he puts that damn thing to my lips so I can kiss it. Today, I blew a big raspberry on it. Miraculously, he didn’t start over; I guess it was too damned hot.

Anyway, it’s late at night and I will probably wake up tomorrow and cringe that I laid my vulnerability and insecurity so bare, but what the hell. We’re all nervous, people. Even the veterans. Cut others some slack, and cut some for yourself too. These parties bring many emotions, desires and awarenesses to bubble right under the surface; it’s no wonder so many of us get a little nuts. I’m saying this more as a reminder to myself, but if it helps anyone else, then excellent. See y’all in a couple of weeks.

Erica has the last word on wood

Me again! You know, with the Shadow Lane party coming up in three weeks, I thought it was time for a friendly little PSA (Public Spanking Announcement, that is). 🙂

These weekends are quite the extravaganza, and people attend for different reasons. Some enjoy socializing with their friends from around the country and beyond. Others are shameless spank hos (raising hand sheepishly) who love to play as much as possible, along with the aforementioned socializing. However, despite my reputation for being Little Miss Hard-Ass From Hell (as Razor Ryan once called me), I have learned from painful experience that pacing is absolutely essential. I need to last for three days. And while the spirit is willing, the flesh is sometimes rather uncooperative, especially if it’s been pounded on with heavy artillery.

So, regarding those frat paddles and other heavy wooden slabs some of y’all call toys?

(Thanks to my buddy Zelle, who created this graphic just for me!)

That’s right, folks. On these weekends, my bottom is a no-wood zone. OK, canes are an exception, as long as the wielder knows what he’s doing. Or even some lighter, thinner wooden implements, like a lightweight hairbrush, that sting but don’t feel like you’re hitting me with a table leg. But leave those frat paddles et. al. in your toy bag.

Mind you, I’m not speaking for all spankees, just myself. However, you may want to take heed: Many of us bottoms endeavor to enter the weekend on a lighter note and then build up. These heavy implements tend to mark and bruise, and even if they don’t, they impart a whole lot of pain. And it is usually considered very poor form to mark a bottom at the onset of a three (or four, or five, for some) day spanking weekend. Oh, you can do it, if you’re absolutely determined to do so. But you might find that everyone but the most diehard masochists will treat you like you had garlic and onions with limburger cheese sauce for dinner: they will stay away. Many other tops don’t like to spank a bottom that is already all bruised up, so these poor prematurely marked spankees will be deprived. Not nice.

I don’t care how finely crafted the implement is. Some of you actually make these things yourselves — I don’t care. I don’t care how long you sanded, polished and smoothed it. I don’t care if you even cut the fucking tree down yourself. The answer is still NO.

Yeah, I know your hands hurt. Our butts hurt more. Boo hoo. If your hands give out, then go for some leather. Or, here’s a concept… (gasp) Don’t spank so @#$%ing hard, maybe? 😀  Just a thought. Could work. Or not.

So, what’s our mantra for the Shadow Lane weekend? Pace ourselves! Happy hands, happy bottoms. Win-win.

Oh, and that last word I mentioned in the blog title? Here ya go; any questions?

Think you’re pretty tough, huh?
Not so tough now! Say bye-BYE….

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