We’re the same, and yet we’re different, part 952

Warning: Controversy and opinions ahead.

Since there are so many photo sites out there in the spankosphere, one is exposed to an infinite amount of spanking pictures on any given day. I happen to belong to a private spanking group on Facebook, of all places, and the group leader makes a point of posting all different types of pictures, for the widest variety of appeal. Recently, within a week of each other, two photos were posted, and they elicited fully opposite reactions from me, quite extreme ones. One, I loved. I couldn’t stop looking at it. I reposted it on FetLife and asked where it was from. I looked at it again. And again. I squirmed in my chair and couldn’t concentrate on my work. Yes, it was that intense. The second one, I hated. Passionately. Everything about it. It made me angry.

So I got to thinking about how different we all are, and how these pictures touch things in some of us and trigger things in others. And how one person can love a photo and the next person will loathe it.

I’m going to post both pictures and explain why I feel the way I do about them.
This is not, repeat, not a post claiming that my likes are better than your likes, that so-and-so’s scenes are wrong and my preferences are the correct ones, etc. Because I invite anyone who wishes to comment to tell me honestly about how you feel. I’m curious what makes people tick. It’s part of my never-ending fascination with This Thing We Do.

So, without further blathering on my part, here’s the first shot, the one I loved.

Yes, it’s clearly posed. Someone on FetLife thought it was from a commercial (and vanilla) photo shoot for lingerie or something like that. Yeah… if the person who conceived of this photo setup is vanilla, I’m a virgin.

What do I love? Everything. The lighting. The attractiveness of both participants. The blissful smile on the woman’s face, the sweet curve of her bottom, the sweep of her hair. His open shirt, his hand on her butt cheek, and the sexy, hungry way he’s gazing down at her. To me, this photo is art. This is something I would actually want framed and hanging on my wall. It’s gorgeous. And it’s so damned sexy, it gives me goosebumps. And other bodily reactions.

Next, the second shot.

Obviously, this is from RGE Films. I hadn’t heard of them, so I looked them up. They specialize in extreme pain and humiliation. OK, fine, to each their own. But that notwithstanding, this picture really pisses me off.

First: how much torture is one body supposed to withstand? Is it really necessary to have extreme caning, figging, soaping, AND kneeling naked on a hard floor all at once? One, maybe two, but not all four. Overkill.

Second, and one of my big pet peeves in the scene: Terrible technique. On both women, the right ass cheek is torn all to hell, way more than the left. Why do tops do this? I get it, I know it happens by accident sometimes in a session. But come on. They can see everything that’s happening to the bottom’s body. They can see that way more damage is being incurred on one side. If they can’t see it, then they shouldn’t be spanking without glasses. If they can see it and don’t care… well. I will censor my thoughts there. Besides being excruciating, I find the asymmetry to be aesthetically displeasing. But that could just be my OCD talking.

And finally, I freaking loathe this creep hovering over them, with his scruffy bald head in the viewers’ faces. He’s probably sneering at them. He just seems… mean. I don’t mind strict tops. I don’t mind tough tops. But I don’t like mean ones.

So, here’s where it gets interesting. Because I know very well that someone else will look at this pair of pictures and see the opposite. They’ll think the first picture is sissified, romanticized, fake, too pretty. Spanking Lite. Kink viewed through rose-colored glasses. And that the second photo is raw, real, and powerful. That it appeals to the dark side, to those who crave real punishment, real pain.

I like darkness too. I just think this photo is a poor example of it.

What do you think, readers? How do these two pictures make you feel? I am genuinely interested in varied viewpoints, because, like I said at the beginning, I find this utterly fascinating.

Did ya miss me?

I haven’t blogged for a little over a month, so I have a lot of catching up to do. Honestly? What with the insanity around the midterms, mass shootings, displays of antisemitism, and lately, the horrendous fires in my state (still burning), I haven’t really felt the kink mojo. It’s hard to be lighthearted and funny and flippant when it feels like everything around you is devolving into a massive sinkhole of shit. This has been me:

(OK, my boobs aren’t that big. But whatever.)

However, life goes on and I need to remind myself of that. So here I am.

And I got to play again last week, thank you very much! Much needed stress release! Mr. Woodland paid me another visit, last Thursday (you know, after the Thousand Oaks shooting, but before the Woolsey fire exploded). This time he showed up with his toy bag. Uh-oh.

But never fear, the good Mr. W. started me off with a proper warm-up. At some point, this exchange happened:

Him: Do you prefer your underwear up or down?
Me: That’s up to you.

Although it was more like “That’s up to y—,” because I didn’t even have the word “you” out of my mouth when my panties were unceremoniously yanked to my thighs.

“Well, that was an easy decision,” he said. Humph.

Warm-up passed in the blink of an eye, it seemed. “Time for some implements,” he announced. “Get up, please.”

Well, at least he said please.

We moved to my ottoman, and he said, “Set this up the way you want it.” I protested, “Why me? You set it up last time, so you’d have room to swing.” “Fine,” he said, and nudged it a few inches with his foot — which then sent the cushions askew. “Well, now it’s crooked!” I huffed, leaning down to straighten it.

“I have a belt in my hand,” he said. “Is this really a good time to be a smart-ass?” (What better time is there?)

And so the strapping ensued. At a good breaking point, he went to get his bag. “Let’s see what I’ve got for you in this bag of treats,” he grinned.

I sweetly requested a Snickers bar. He didn’t have any.

I then got to meet several of the items in his bag, including a tawse, some sort of leather thing, and a very thin, light wooden paddle. “This is a sting-y little bastard,” he commented about the latter. “Kind of like you?” I commented in return. He sighed. “That wasn’t smart.”

It was worth it, though. 😀

More chit-chat:

Him: Well, that’s about all I can use for now. The rest [of the bag’s contents] is wood.
Me: (sighing) What’s wrong with you?
Him: I like wood!
Me: That’s what she said.

Damn, did we play hard. I could feel the strength he was putting into it, and I was drinking it in like a freaking desert in a rainstorm. I just wanted more, more, and more. Even the tawse. Normally, I’m leery about those suckers. I have had experiences in the past where one of those skinny little tails snaps into nooks and crannies that I really, really don’t want getting snapped — and I damn near go through the ceiling. But then I took a deep breath and remembered.

He knows what he’s doing.

So much so that when he seemed to be wrapping things up, I blurted, “Are you done??”

“You want more?” he asked.

“Um… maybe?”

He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for…”

Holy crap. That last round pushed my endurance, for sure. I quickly realized my error of not tossing a pillow on the carpet before we started. First, because I was scraping my elbows along the carpet as I leaned over the ottoman. Not my choice of pain. And second, because I didn’t have anything to scream into. And sometimes, you know, I just have to scream. So I ended up clamping both hands over my mouth and screaming into my palms. And all the while, I could feel the stress flowing out my pores, out of my limbs, out of my head. Magic. So lovely when I can just put myself into a man’s hands and know I’m safe. As Mr. W. says on his Fet profile, he might hurt, but he doesn’t harm. Knowing that makes such a difference.

He was impressed. “You can take one hell of a spanking, Erica,” he said. Despite the fact that I was limp as a dishrag and so sub-spacey I could barely think, I managed to croak out, “You know, this is all your fault.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Because,” I squeaked, “if you hadn’t made me wait three weeks for this, I wouldn’t have been so fucking needy!!”

I wish I could have seen the look on his face at that. “Ah… well, I think we’ll have to address that next time.” Yeah, you think?

(I was kidding, of course. I am responsible for my own stress management; no one else. But a helping hand — or strap, paddle, etc. — is most welcome.)

And so we wound down. Then, I heard the two words that always melt me into the final oblivion:

“Good girl.” Of all the sweet phrases we love to hear, I think that’s one of the sweetest. Right up there with “That’s my girl.” 🙂

He hung out with me for a while, but had to get going before the traffic got bad (or worse, really, since L.A. traffic is pretty much always bad now). Have no idea what our schedules will bring over the upcoming holiday weeks… but I hope I get to see him again before 2018 is over.

As soon as he was gone, I thought, “Oh, damn! Pictures!” So, since I was still in living color, I grabbed my phone and tried to take a mirror selfie in the bathroom. I’m embarrassed to admit how many attempts it took to get this:

I still didn’t like it, but all the physical cogitations were making my back and neck ache worse than my butt. So I broke out the old-school digital camera and timer, and tried a different angle in the living room. Unfortunately, the lighting there didn’t show the red very well. But you get the idea.

I slept well that night. Sadly, the next day brought all new stress when the damned Woolsey fire blew up and I was worried about my stepmother in Thousand Oaks (all turned out well for her, thank goodness — she was without power for a couple of days, but didn’t have to evacuate). But such is life.

What else is going on… oh, yeah. Did I mention that my Twitter account was frozen for a week? “But, Erica,” I can hear you all crying, “what horrible, egregious, terrible thing did you tweet to earn this extreme penalty??” I called Tomi Lahren a bimbo.

(Never heard of Tomi Lahren? All you need to know about her is that she’s the millennial version of Ann Coulter. And if perchance you don’t know who Ann Coulter is — consider yourself fortunate.)

Let’s review. I’ve been insulted on Twitter over everything from my age (“granny porn”) to my body (“a poor man’s Olive Oyl”) to my face (I was likened to the character “Hatchet-face” from the movie Cry-Baby. Google her) to my background (“stupid @#$%ing Hollywood Jew). I’ve been threatened (“I’d love to watch you getting gang-raped”). But my saying “bimbo” is “hateful conduct”?? Yeah, Twitter. Bite me.

So, when my time in Twitter Jail was up, I put on my prison-stripe panties, brought out the trusty digital camera again, and took this, which I posted the day I came back:

I hash-tagged it #FuckCensorship. 🙂 Interestingly, I did not get reported and penalized for it. Imagine that.

(whew) Anyway. Work continues to be busy, for which I am grateful, not only for the bill paying but for the distraction. Crazy times, y’all.

Final thought — I wish I could hug every single firefighter in California right now. ♥ ♥ ♥

A pet peeve about a pet peeve

What’s our pet peeve when it comes to scene pictures, kids? People who cut off the watermark of professional photos and repost them without providing any kind of credit for where they came from. This, of course, is rampant in the Tumblr blogs, on FetLife, and yes, even on Twitter.

But what really annoys the bejesus out of me? When people steal a photo, post it like it’s their own, and then make up some stupid, cheesy caption to go with it — one that has absolutely nothing to do with the original picture. They make up names, scenarios, etc. Really, do they think they’re fooling anyone? (sigh) I guess they are, when the viewers aren’t in the industry. But anyone who has even a passing familiarity with spanking videos knows when a picture is from a professional shoot.

Last week, one of my friends on FetLife alerted all of us to a Twitter poster whose entire feed was stolen pictures with cheeseball captions. She asked us all to tell him to knock it off and if he didn’t, to report him. So I went to look at this guy’s feed. Sure enough, nothing but pictures taken from various video productions, all with captions hashtagged #SpankingFamily. Scrolled down and voila! There I was, with Alex and Paul. So I commented to the guy, told him that if he wanted to make up scenarios, he should do it with his own damn pictures and stop stealing them. Several other people jumped on him as well. And then? Next time I checked, not only were the photos gone, but the guy’s page was gone too. Good riddance. If only all the others were that easily vanquished.

Those captions really irk me. I mean, for one thing, they’re usually corny to the point of being vomit-worthy. But also, it irks me that the poster thinks the viewers are that stupid.

I especially like some of the captions I’ve seen with stolen pictures of me. One read something along the lines of, “MILF Betty Sue thought she was too old for a spanking. She soon realized the error of her ways!”

Oh, go fuck yourself sideways with a 2 x 4.

My favorite was one from years ago, on FetLife. This guy had posted a picture of Sierra Salem from when she was living with Dallas, standing in front of the fireplace mantel with a bright red backside. Then the clown captioned it with something like, “Barbara learned that bad grades at school would earn her a dose of Daddy’s strap.” Oh, FFS…

I commented on the picture, “This is Sierra Salem, not Barbara. She’s not in school, and this is Dallas’s photo. I don’t think he’d appreciate you appropriating it.”

You’d think the guy would take it down, right? No… he comes back with this: “I know it’s Sierra. Her real name is Barbara and Dallas gave me special permission to spank her.”

Are you kidding me?? How stupid do you think I am, fool? I shot with Sierra. I traveled with her, sat next to her on long plane flights. I shared a hotel room with her. Do you really think I don’t know what her real name is? It ain’t Barbara.

So I did the only thing I could do — I wrote to Dallas and alerted him to the photo and its comments. You can bet that joker took it down after Dallas had a few words with him. :-Þ

Look, I know there are tons of photos floating around out there that have long since had their credits cut off and people who are new may see them and have no clue where they’re from, so they just repost them. That can’t be helped. But please, y’all. If you have any sort of idea where a picture is from, who is in it, etc., credit it properly. Do not cut the identifying watermarks off. And for the love of God, don’t make up those stupid captions. Here’s a thought — take your own freaking pictures, and then you can caption them any cornball way your little heart desires. Fair?

**rant over**

And so it goes

Hello, everyone. Sorry for the absence.

After much thought, going back and forth, changing my mind and then back again, I have decided it’s time to bring this blog to an end.

I have been in the spanking scene for twenty-one years this month, and online for nineteen. I have watched many changes in what became known as social media. In the early days for spanking chat and exploration, there were what was known as newsgroups, and various chat rooms. Often the latter devolved into a bunch of silly cyber spanking, but one could find intelligent conversation if one looked carefully. Then, around 2000, give or take a year, those gave way to chat forums, such as those on MSN and Yahoo, the old Shadow Lane chat board, etc. People posted and chatted and shared and connected. I co-managed a successful forum for a few years and had a blast.

When the forums began to run their course, they were overtaken by a new phenomenon: the spanking blog. Soon, everyone and their second cousin twice removed was blogging. I joined this bandwagon in 2005, on what used to be the hopping place (!): MySpace. My blog there straggled along for a while, trying to find its audience, but there was so much competition. But then two things happened. One, I was listed by our blog queen, Bonnie, who made a point of spotlighting new blogs in her “In With the New” column. Things really picked up for me after that, but I still had a second holy grail to achieve. The buzz in the blogosphere was about a gentleman who went by the name of Chross, who had a weekly list of what he considered the most notable blog posts. If one was lucky enough to be “Chrossed,” they would be treated to a highly gratifying spike in blog hits. But how did one get on Chross’s radar, I wondered? I finally grew so frustrated that I wrote a post called “Who Do I Have to @#$% to Get on Chross’s List?” Apparently, that got his attention. 🙂

After that, wow. Views, comments, etc. skyrocketed. Until MySpace died, and I took the plunge and started a new blog on Blogger in 2010. I flourished there for years, getting Chrossed often, sharing adventures and party stories and photos and scenes and video shoots, as well as bits and pieces of my personal life. When Blogger threatened to censor or shut down all their “adult” blogs, I migrated to WordPress. Turns out it wasn’t necessary, since Blogger backed off, but I don’t regret it.

However, things changed yet again. Slowly but surely, the spanking blog was overtaken by the Tumblr blogs: pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures. The lengthy blog entry morphed into quickie sound bites, gifs and jpegs. Comments became likes and reposts. The spanking models, who all used to blog, now opened Tumblr accounts. Twitter came to be, and now, instead of writing party and shoot reports, people tweeted the action as it was happening. There were some exceptions who maintained their popularity (Hermione and Ronnie come to mind, as well as some of the DD/Hoh blogs and some author blogs) but it seemed that overall, the traditional written spanking blog had gone the way of the VCR and the variety show.

Even so, I figured as long as I had stories to tell, experiences to share, connections to make, I’d have an audience. For quite a while, my views remained high thanks to being Chrossed often. But now, it seems even our beloved Chross has given up the ghost. And the annual Spanking Blogg Awards, put together by John Osborne of Triple A, finally eliminated the Best Creative Blogger category last year because it wasn’t getting any nominations. I was lucky enough to win second place in 2015, that award’s final year.

After many years and thousand of words, kids, I’m fresh out of things to say. On topic, anyway. I don’t want to hash and rehash the same discussions; there’s FetLife for that. Scene-wise, things have changed for me. I no longer have a top, and I haven’t played since 50 Freaks in February. I go to two parties a year. I do not shoot anymore, and even if someone were to offer it up, I’m not sure I would do it. I don’t enjoy looking at myself on film anymore — those HD cameras are not kind! And as for my personal life, I have been dealing with a great deal of grief and challenges over the past few months, including an ongoing situation with John that is stressful and scary. But you know, I don’t want to go into that on here anymore either. I have ranted, raved, wept, opened up and laid myself bare (physically and emotionally) in these posts over the years. I think it’s time for that to end. Everyone has problems; they don’t want to hear mine. And if I can’t post on-topic fun stuff, there’s really no point in continuing.

Also, I made the mistake, in a time of weakness, of writing political posts on here. Please. Can we all agree that there’s enough of that shit out there everywhere you look? I mean, really — using a spanking blog, of all things, to push one’s political agenda is arrogant, self-serving and a big waste of time, don’t you think? So I do apologize for that bit of foolishness.

I am not taking this blog down. I want to preserve it, because I’m proud of it. I would like people to be able to refer back to it, reread posts they liked, enjoy the pictures, etc. My life, my heart and my soul are in these pages. So it will remain intact, even though I won’t be adding to it any longer. I will always be grateful for my readers, all the comments, all the feedback. Without you guys, we writers might as well be talking to ourselves. And hey, I even appreciate those hapless dumbasses who gave me so much wonderful CHoS fodder. One more for the road? Sure, why not…

Hi I would like to spanking you hardly but it is turning me on and in the end which will be not short time I would like to have sex or atleast blowjob becouse I don’t want go away horny and I don’t want jerkoffing if you are okay with that or you have some other way to make e come and relax after when I spanking you hard and long tell me

(sigh) Some things never change, I guess. I suggest you come the way you always do — in your mama’s basement in front of your sticky keyboard. And for the last time, fuck off.

I don’t get as much of this nonsense nowadays, but I still see it. Recently, Alex got a critique on her Tumblr that she is neglecting to post pictures of her anus. She’s nicer than I am: I would have replied that if this person wants to see an asshole, they should look in a mirror.

Some of you have my antiquated (but still functional) AOL address. My gmail address is at the end of the About Me section here. I’m still out there, on Facebook, Twitter and FetLife. I have always welcomed polite and civil correspondence (and no, you do not have to agree with me, just don’t be a dick about it), and that will not change.

So what should be my last gasp? Perhaps I’ll just say screw it and reveal all… my real name, my family, the TV shows they worked on…

…

…

…

wait for it…

…

…

…

ready?

…

…

…

Come on, you didn’t really think I’d tell all that, did ya? Besides, I wanted to go out on a Big Bang. 😛

And so this hard-edged, tender-hearted, snarky spanko bids you farewell, in this venue at least. Have a great life, y’all. ♥ ♥ ♥  Thank you for reading.

A brief update

Just a quickie on Sunday night before a busy week. I’m not bursting with news, just wanted to pop in and update on three things.

First, regarding the situation I mentioned at the party a couple of weeks ago, on the last night — all was resolved, in the nicest possible way. It was handled reasonably, compassionately, and I even seem to have made a new friend over it. Rather than hold me in contempt, the parties involved were actually concerned and caring that I’d been upset, and we talked it out. I wish everyone could be this pleasant. So that’s a relief.

Second… I suppose I need to say something about the fact that I haven’t posted about Steve in several months. No, he did not leave the relationship. He always said he wouldn’t, and he was true to his word. However, we have not played for over four months, and the only thing I’m willing to give as an explanation at this time is that we have irreconcilable differences. It makes me sad, and I miss what we had. I’d been with him a little over four years — longer than I was with ST and even my beloved Danny. And I certainly miss having regular play. But honestly, my life is different these days. I’m spending a lot more hours working (which is a good thing), and I don’t have the play time I used to. And being busy with work keeps me productively occupied, rather than spending time ruminating online over the state of the country. So. I hope there will come a day when I have local play again. But for now, it’s not happening.

Finally, I had expressed frustration that I’d gotten so few pictures at the party, and one of my readers pleaded for me to take pictures of the lingerie I wore on Purple Night. So, Friday, I dusted off my old-school digital camera, set up the timer and took some shots. (I’m just not that good with phone selfies.) Hope you like ’em! 😉

Would you believe Target? Yeah, Victoria’s Secret has some really nice stuff, but good Christ, they’re expensive. And I’ve always liked Target. For those poor narrow-minded folks out there with misguided phobias who are boycotting Target over their bathroom policies — go right ahead! More for the rest of us!

Hope everyone is well out there. Please drop by and say hello!

Better late than never, I guess

I am buried six feet under in work and really don’t have time for personal writing, but you know, I just have to make time, before I forget it all. I don’t know who reads these party reports anymore, but I still like to get them down for memory’s sake. Settle in; this will be long, as I’m going to attempt to do it all in one installment.

Here is one of the many fun signs Joe made up for the party suite, and damn, he wasn’t kidding about this.

So let’s begin with last Wednesday. It seemed, for me, the party was going to end even before it began. As the afternoon wore on, I started feeling the ominous and unmistakable signs of a cold coming on. No. NO! Goddamn it. You couldn’t wait just one more week, you stupid fucking germs? I went to the nearest pharmacy and bought a crap ton of cold medications — cough drops, nasal spray, saline nasal rinse, decongestant, Nyquil. Figured if I was going to have a damn cold during the party, I was going to drown it in drugs.

Got home and decided to try to ward off the cold with the saline rinse, and commenced to struggle with getting the tight plastic wrap off the neck of the bottle. There was no pull tab, and I picked and picked but couldn’t get the wrap to budge. So I grabbed a knife and started trying to maneuver it between the bottle and the plastic… and slipped. And felt the tip plunge into the pad of my thumb.

Holy crap, the blood. So much of it. Everywhere. Who knew a cut slightly longer than a quarter inch could make a kitchen and bathroom look like a slaughterhouse. “It’s a sign,” I thought. “We shouldn’t go. I’m sick, I’m clumsy, this is going to be a disaster.”

But of course, I calmed down, cleaned, bandaged, and soldiered on.

The next morning, got the car packed and headed to John’s, and then we were on our way. I wasn’t feeling well, but my excitement seemed to be overriding it, so I took some meds and stuffed my purse with tissues. The drive went smoothly — well, almost. After we made a bathroom stop, John took out — of all things — a tray of sushi he had in the cooler for a snack. As John drove, I held it on my lap, opened it, and then reached out to my left to offer him the tray… at the same time he reached right to take a piece. We collided, the tray flipped, and a cascade of raw fish, wasabi and ginger splattered over me and across the passenger door.

Oh, and did I mention that the rental car agency hadn’t had the car I’d requested when I went to pick it up, so, in apology, they gave me a free upgrade to a Lexus??

Pulled over, managed to clean up the mess, back on the road again. Amazingly, I guess I got it all, because the car didn’t stink of fish the rest of the way. (And we thoroughly cleaned it with a sponge and soap later, once at the hotel). Despite these mishaps, we made it to the hotel in one piece.

Thursday night was the usual meet and greet, lots of hugs and kisses and squeals of joy (well, more like croaks, from me). So good to see everyone again. I tried my best to keep my hands germ-free (hand sanitizer), used tissues copiously, etc., but I’m sure my cold was spreading. The only thing that made me feel a little less guilty was that there were several others at this thing who had some sort of affliction or another. I wish I could name each and every person I greeted and talked with, but I know I’ll forget some and my brain is a bit foggy at this point, so it’s best if I don’t try.

I played just once that first night, and it was a quick, light scene, over jeans, with my beloved InspecterHide Michael. He is often my first scene at these gatherings, which makes me happy. He was with a young woman, new to parties and the scene, FetLife-named Ellie3, who was the most adorable pixie you could imagine, and was as sweet as she was cute. I was happy for her, watching her plunge in with both feet, experiencing everything the party had to offer.

We had brought lots of snacks to keep in our room, so we didn’t go to dinner that first night. Later on, Joe ordered pizza for us all, but I didn’t have any. My appetite had pretty much gone AWOL. I can’t remember when we left to go to bed — probably on the earlier side (read: before 3:00 a.m.).

Friday, the cold felt more full blown, but I got up, showered and dressed, and we went to meet a dear friend for lunch at Cheesecake Factory, hanging out there eating and chatting for a couple of hours, which was lovely. However, when we came back, I was full-on sick. So I crawled into bed at about 4:00, fell right to sleep. John woke me at 7:00.

Him: You want to go to dinner?

Me: Uh uh.

Him: You want me to order room service?

Me: Uh uh.

Him: You want to go to Joe’s room?

Me: Uh uh.

Him: You just want to go back to sleep, don’t you.

Me: Uh huh.

So, with much convincing, John left to go join the party, and I crashed back into sleep, not waking up until about 10:15. Somewhat fortified by all the sleep, I decided to get up and make an attempt at an appearance. Since Friday night was designated as a pajama party in the main suite (optional, of course), I didn’t have to dress up. Put on a little makeup so I wouldn’t terrify people, and John came by at 10:45 to check on me, finding me ready to go. And so I finally came to the party, and even managed to do a couple of scenes — a second one with IH, who took me to his room (cool and quiet) and gave me a lovely strapping, and my first scene of the weekend with another one of my favorite people, CalNation (I’ll call him CN). I managed to do some chatting, because there were so many people I wanted to talk to, but a lot of the time, I just sat on the couch, curled up in my jammies, watching the scenes. It was the end of our second night there, I’d barely played, hadn’t even seen Alex and SpankCake yet, and I was so damn frustrated with this cold and feeling like I was only running on a couple of cylinders. I was determined to rally for the rest of the weekend, even if it killed me!

Saturday morning when John got me up, I could feel the difference. The cold had fully settled into my sinuses and throat, but I didn’t have that heavy, sluggish, sick feeling I’d had the day before. Time for fun! There were a couple of events planned for the afternoon in Joe’s room, and then we had plans to go to dinner with Alex, SC and her beau R (sadly, Paul didn’t make it this time, as he was in the UK). First, we went to lunch at DuPar’s with our friend Mir, and at 2:00, showed up for TTYL (a creation of Joe’s: Thongs, Tights, Yoga Pants and Leggings). I wore new yoga pants. Joe’s room was set up with a couple of massage tables for people to scene on, and I got onto one to play with SDSpanko, another great player with implement prowess. Among other things, he had an oversized leather strap that looked like it was more suited to flogging an elephant. Just to show how looks are deceiving — it looked terrifying, but it actually felt kinda good! Intense impact, but not super thuddy, and the warmth from it radiated and tingled. Yum. I also did a second scene with CN; I so love playing with him! He has this delicious way of gathering my hair in his hand, or pulling my upper body up close into him with his left arm as he spanks with his right. And he’s so damn cute. 😀

At 4:00 was Club Finn (named for the premier flogger for our gatherings, Fineous), which is sort of a kinky “spa time” for the ladies. We get massages, sensual floggings, hair-brushing (on our hair), champagne, raspberries and chocolates. The tone of the room calms and everyone is welcome to stay, but Joe said, “Guys, if you’re here, it’s best if you’re pampering a lady!” And so I took off my shirt (I was in a sports bra), and sat at CN’s feet while he delivered a neck, shoulders and upper back massage that had me melting into the carpet.

Quick nap, clothing change and makeup, and we were off to Alex and SC’s suite to pick them up for dinner. We went to HoneySalt, a restaurant John and I had never been to, but A & SC had and they loved it, so we went on their word, and a good word it was, too. What a cool place! Great service, wonderful food, and the company was perfect. The five of us laughed and ate and drank — I was fortified with decongestants so I wouldn’t be blowing my nose every five seconds. I even splurged and got a glass of sparkling rosé… which hit me like a ton of bricks. I guess, combined with the cold meds, it had the effect of three times the amount I’d drunk! A, SC and I shared an absolutely obscene dessert — a brownie, topped with a chocolate chip cookie, topped with salted caramel ice cream — and John and R had sorbet and port. John and I had another one of our collisions; he moved the glass toward me so I could take a sip, and I reached my hand out at the same time… and knocked the damn glass over. I was mortified, but John assured me it was OK.

Aaaand then there was the guestbook. As legend has it, last time Alex and SC were at HoneySalt, SC was a bad girl and wrote salacious things in the guestbook. So this time, Alex said she had to behave herself… but she didn’t. She started writing something, but the pen they gave her ran out of ink. So guess who pulled another pen out of her purse so SC could continue? (Raising hand) I suppose that makes me an accomplice. Anyway, I won’t try to explain what she wrote/drew on the guestbook, but Alex then took the book and wrote underneath: “I’m sorry!” I then grabbed it and wrote, with an arrow pointing to SC’s writing: “We don’t know her!” SC wrote: “Yes they do!” I wrote: “No we don’t!” And that’s how the guestbook was left. I don’t know we can show our faces in there again. But I’m sure we will.

Back to Joe’s suite for the night — the theme of Saturday night’s party was purple (for no other reason except that it’s Joe’s favorite color). So there were purple balloons and banners, and everyone was encouraged to wear the color. Not many men I know can pull off a lavender suit, but Joe did it. John found a shirt that was a sort of a maroon, which is close enough. Alex came in a purple cheerleader outfit, and SC was quite the stunner in black stockings, heels, and a black and purple corset. I had a dress in a purple print, and underneath, I was wearing a new purple bra and panty set.

(Here, I will sideline and apologize because I have zero pictures of my underwear, or of any of my scenes. I wish I did, and I regret it. But I guess I was off my game, wasn’t thinking ahead, and didn’t see to it that any shots were taken. Boooooo. But here is a fun shot of John and me; we were playfully slow-dancing to Bob the DJ’s music and our friend Sam snapped us. I like the dark effect! ♪ dancing in the dark…♫)

The rest of Saturday night is kind of blurry — no doubt due to meds, wine and general sick muddled-ness. Lots more talking and laughing. John Osborne and I went off and did a nice long private scene in his room, which was a wonderful break for me — I loved being with everyone, but the noise was making my congested head explode. I also seem to recall being spun around and bent over the bar top in Joe’s room, double teamed by John and IH. I cannot imagine how that happened.

Another scene was with a new guy who calls himself Mr. Woodland — what a hoot he is! We had a lot of banter and silliness, and I found myself wishing the scene would go on longer, but it was our first time playing. It seemed he enjoyed my bratting, so I was only too happy to comply and give him some, including giving him a new nickname (which I can’t say here, because it has to do with his real name. Oh well!).

At midnight, Joe had arranged for a presentation to honor Bob and Ariel, long-time party goers who, years ago, opened their suite to everyone and had extraordinary room parties. They had taken a sabbatical for several years due to health reasons, but now they are back, and Joe wanted to acknowledge their well-earned reputations as scions in our scene. A few people got up and spoke, including Mir and me, and the speeches ended with a poem Eve Howard wrote for them. Joe presented them with a plaque, too.

I keep thinking I had other scenes that night, but damned if I can remember. IH was leaving in the morning, and he and I were so hoping to get in one last scene before I went to bed. But unfortunately, he was committed to some others first, and while I tried to wait, it was getting late and I was running on fumes. So, reluctantly, I had to say goodnight and goodbye to my friend. There will always be next time. And with that, John got me back to the room and poured me into bed around 3:30.

Another side note: The energy at this party was high and positive. Even in my state of cold-ish blechhh, I could see this. Regardless of personal opinions and politics, and all the animosity that has gone down in recent months, it seemed to have all been left at the doorsteps. Joe wanted that, and I’m glad we all worked together to give it to him, and to ourselves. Like his sign said, we damn well needed it.

Sunday morning, after a shower and hair wash, I went to get us coffee while John went to the suite to snag us seats for Strict Dave’s Punishment Court. We had a full house for that, and he did not disappoint: the cases were hilarious. And of course, Alex took SC to court for her antics at HoneySalt (SC lost). John said she should have called him as a witness, because he would have thrown me under the bus and said that I gave her the pen.

Backtrack a bit — a few months ago, Alex, SC and I were shopping, and we came upon a tank top that we had to have, so all three of us bought one. The plan was for us to wear them at this party, named 50 Freaks, but you know how plans go sometimes. Poor Alex was so busy and stressed out and overloaded before coming, she forgot to pack hers. So, you’ll just have to imagine her as a third person in this picture (although she did take it for us).

SC and me, getting our freak on:

After Court, several people went for a very late brunch to a nearby bar and grill, but John and I decided to pass on that and just hung out in the room for a while until we were ready to go nap. Sunday night had no activities planned, just free for everyone to come and go as they pleased, so we lingered in our room, packing some of our stuff, and watching the last hour of the Oscars (what a crazy upset that was!) After that, we went for a light dinner at one of the hotel’s restaurants and at a little after 10, rejoined the party for the last night.

I think at this point I need to mention Michael Masterson. I thought we were going to play, truly I did. A while back on FetLife, he had written a post talking about how he operates at parties, and he said he never asks people to play. That if you want to play with him, a surefire way to make that happen is to brat him. So, because I figured it was time for me to grow a pair and face the Mighty Masterson, I bratted him on FetLife. And I got added to his personal list.

So, I’m not really sure what happened. We had several encounters at this party, lots of greetings. I was playfully sassing him throughout; at one point, I even reached out with my foot and nudged him as he was passing. He came over, hugged me and said, “Bad girl, don’t kick me!” I answered, “I was just trying to get your attention!” On Sunday night, I was sitting on the couch with Jaibug, and he came over, complimenting my outfit for the evening and saying he liked my glasses. Were they new? “No,” I replied. “I had them on last time. You just weren’t looking at me.” “Oh, that’s not nice, bad girl,” he scolded. Then he proceeded to pick up a purple balloon. “You’re getting three; count them!” he warned. And then he bopped me on the head with the balloon, three times, as I counted them out loudly.

After, he asked, “What do you say?” Without hesitation, I called out, “Fuck you, sir!” He pulled a paddle out of his back pocket and said, “Would you care to rephrase that?” Shrinking up against Jaibug, I answered meekly, “Screw you, sir?” I thought that was going to be it, but he just laughed, said I was too much, and went to get something sharp so he could loudly pop the balloon, now in my lap.

He did ask if I was going to the next big party, and I said no — it’s either tonight, or he’ll have to wait until Shadow Lane. “That sounds like a challenge,” he said, to which I answered, “Take it as you will!” with a cheeky grin.

But still, it didn’t happen. Was it because I was sick? Was he being cautious? Was he just too busy? I dunno. Whatever the reason, I remain still untouched by Michael Masterson. Damn. He was autographing butts this weekend and everything. Oh! Almost forgot — on Sunday night, when I was trying to maneuver around tightly packed bodies and furniture to reach my purse, I kicked over Michael’s beer, which was sitting on the carpet beside the couch! Ugh! I was so effing clumsy this weekend! Oh my God… I was afraid he’d think I did it on purpose to brat him! (The girls do the most outrageous things to this man.) He thundered, “Did you just kick over my beer??” but when he saw me with both hands clapped over my mouth, I think he could see it was truly not intentional!

Because it was the last night, and I was already sore, not to mention sick, I was trying very hard to make my best choices for who I wanted to play with. If I had been well, I would have agreed to more scenes, but as it was, I had to prioritize. I played with JC, because I like him so much and he and Piper are always so sweet to me. He didn’t use any of his implements, even though he had a massive toy bag. I’ve told him on several occasions that he doesn’t need a single one of those things — he’s got a hand that could make me say mercy, and I can’t say that about too many!

And of course, because it isn’t a party weekend without a full-body double flogging from Fineous, I got to indulge in that later in the evening, off in one of the bedrooms. Next to us on the other bed, Princess Kelley and Sir Siq were double-strapping the bejesus out of Maddy Marks, but I was so spacey and floaty, I completely tuned it out, although occasionally their banter drifted into my ear and I smiled into the pillow. The flogging relaxed me, took out all the knots and tension, and I felt very serene afterward. I got back into my clothes, but then decided to go back to our room to change out of my skirt, sweater and heels and into yoga pants and t-shirt, and I dispensed with shoes altogether.

More chat, more hanging out, more watching. Things weren’t even beginning to wind down; clearly, this last blowout was going to continue all night. All weekend, Joe and his girlfriend Mackenzie had taken care of us all, keeping us fed and hydrated, entertaining us, organizing us, making sure people were happy, and Joe had doled out plenty of spankings. Now, here it was 2:00 a.m. on the last night, and I overheard Joe said it was time for him to let go and become Malibu Joe (which is his code name — I have no idea how it originated — for getting blotto drunk). I can’t blame him; hosting these weekends is damn hard work! But I knew this was my last chance, so as he headed toward the bar, I intercepted him and said, “Noooooo, not yet, Joe! We have to play!” He laughed, and we were able to grab one of the massage tables where a scene was just ending. I lay on it with a pillow bolster under my hips.

As I’d mentioned, I was “out of shape” for this party. My scenes, while wonderfully enjoyable, were also somewhat painful. A part of me was wondering if I was going to ever feel like my old self again. And then Joe started. And the magic happened.

He warmed me up with his hands, then started in with implements, often using one in each hand. Floggers. Straps. That thick heavy strap that SDSpanko had used. Something else. I had no idea what it all was. The party went away, I closed my eyes, and all I did was feel and hear impact. I trust Joe 100% with anything in his hands, so I didn’t have engage any part of my brain being concerned about stray shots. As the scene progressed and he paused, my mind screamed, “Don’t stop. More. Harder. Please.” I didn’t speak, but I know I was raising my butt up higher, because Joe read me and continued. He checked in with me once, I said all was perfect, and we got even deeper into it. For that few minutes, I wasn’t sick. I wasn’t tired. I wasn’t out of condition. I was in the bliss of subspace, the blows feeling like kisses. I could have gone on and on and on, even though guttural groans were now coming out of my throat and Joe was doing a finale of slamming his hands onto both my cheeks at the same time. Oh, so good. I collapsed onto the table, one foot hanging off the side, and just breathed as he massaged me, rubbed lotion into my punished skin. So. Very. Good.

Somehow, I peeled myself off that table (people were waiting to use it, after all), set my clothes to rights, and gave Joe a massive hug, sending him off to Malibu-land with my blessing. After that, I was so spaced out, I didn’t want to talk, so I found a free spot on one of the couches and curled up, wrapping myself in a warm blanket that had been left there. And I just watched everything for a while, until I was joined by MaMa Blue and a lovely young woman whose scene name I don’t know, so I will just call her B.

In retrospect, I should have ended the night there. I was played out, it was late, and we were getting up at 7:00 a.m., just a few hours from now. But on these final nights of these spanking/socializing extravaganzas, one gets a strong attack of FOMO (Fear Of Missing Out), and I wanted to linger to the last possible minute, wring out every drop of enjoyment and camaraderie.

But then something happened. No, not to me directly. But it was something that triggered me deeply, and I got very upset. I tried to brazen it out, but then abruptly I got up and left the room, going into one of the bedrooms. There, I guess exhaustion and sickness and the sudden tsunami of emotion overtook me, because I burrowed into a chair at the far wall of the room, wrapped the blanket around me, and wept. Quietly, but still. People saw me. There was a very intricate bondage/suspension scene happening on the bed, and I did not want to disrupt that. John, MaMa and B came into the room, sat around me, shielded me as best they could, so people wouldn’t see me crying. I kept trying to pull myself together, but then I’d break down again. John went to find tissues for me and couldn’t find any, so he ended up bringing me a roll of toilet paper. One sweet woman who goes by the name RBG (I call her Ruth Bader Ginsburg) subtly slipped over and brought me a bottle of cold water. MaMa showed me cat videos on her phone and sang “Here Comes The Sun” to me; such a tenderhearted soul she is.

No, I don’t want to say what happened that upset me. Because I know I will be judged for my feelings, or I will be perceived as judgmental myself. And I just don’t need that shit, you know?

I suppose I should have just left. But I knew if I did, I wouldn’t come back, and I so wanted to say my final goodbyes. So there I sat, for about an hour. Finally, at 3:45, I was ready to get up. But by then, I was so wiped out, my eyes were swollen, I was so tired I felt delirious, so I really didn’t get to make the rounds of goodbyes after all. The party was still in full swing, so I hugged the people closest to the door and then walked out, not even waiting for John, who was saying his own goodbyes.

Not a nice way to end a party weekend. I wish it hadn’t happened. But I also cannot let it taint all the rest. Because in the end, it balanced out, sickness and all, to be a damn good party.

And so, we tumbled into bed about 4:45 a.m., only to arise a couple of hours later. I was so wiped out, the room actually spun when I got up, and spun again when I was in the bathroom; it looked like the floor tiles were swirling under my feet. But once I showered, I regained my equilibrium; we finished packing, loaded the car, checked out, got coffee, and were on the road by 8:00. I think this was the earliest we’d ever left, but it worked out well. Even with two stops (snack and bathroom) and a grocery run for John, we got back to his place by 1:00. Somehow, I got myself home, brought the rental back (bye bye, Lexus! You were luxurious!), settled in and collapsed, sleeping all afternoon and well into the evening.

Tuesday I lay low. I was still processing what had happened, and I was sick as a dog now. But by Wednesday, I had recovered enough to get back to work and start catching up with online stuff. I even exercised a bit, although there was no way I was going to the gym, not with all the hacking and sniffling I was doing.

I was plenty sore, but unmarked. Still, I find myself afflicted with “sandpaper butt,” so I guess I’ll need to exfoliate in the shower at some point! So, so happy to play again. I hadn’t realized just how much I missed it.

Back to reality. My entire March is slammed with work, and I don’t think there will be much down time. It’s OK. I had my play time. And I need the focus, because it keeps me (somewhat, anyway) out of trouble. So I don’t know how much posting I’ll be doing. This is it for a while, I think.

For everyone who talked to me, played with me, hugged me and cuddled with me despite my having the plague, laughed with me, ate with me, made me forget life for a while… thank you. I love you all so much. Joe and Kenzie, “thank you” isn’t enough for all you did for us, and continue to do. MaMa and B, for your compassion and support when I was in a bad way, I am so grateful. And if I forgot anyone I played with, I am SO sorry. If need be, I’ll come back and edit, add stuff I omitted.

On a final note: three women, on three separate occasions during the weekend, unexpectedly said very sweet things to me, so kind and genuine that I was nearly touched to tears each time. To The Bad Alex (yeah, I know you renamed yourself The Real Good Alex, but we all know that’s BS), Ashley, and Sum_Nightsdream, thank you, ladies. ♥

Thanks for reading, if you’ve gotten this far. Have a good weekend, y’all.