New Year Musings

Been a while. I have much on my mind, so hunker down. Get a beverage.

First, my thoughts on the past year:

Yeah. It sucked. And looking back at the beginning of last year, I’m amazed that I was so consumed with what I called my “existential bleccchhhh.” I wrote this post last January. What a difference a year makes. Now, how I fit into the spanking scene is no longer a priority. Or on my mind at all, really.

I’m not really part of the scene anymore. I will always love spanking, and I will always enjoy the 20+ years of memories. But honestly, I don’t feel like I fit in with it anymore. Why? To put it simply, it changed, as things do, and I didn’t. No one’s fault; it’s just the way it is. And now, with some time past, I feel like I can talk about at least some of it.

I’ve always been a niche player. I am a 100% bottom; I never switch. And I bottom to men only. This didn’t used to be an issue. Now things are different. The party scene is more fluid. Roles are not clearly defined any longer. And it seems everyone plays with pretty much everyone — orientations as well as genders are fluid. I am not — repeat, NOT — saying this is wrong. It’s far more inclusive, and good for many more people. But for someone like me, it creates a feeling of awkwardness.

It used to be at parties, you basically put people together in some rooms and left them to their own devices as to how to play. Now, it seems the trend is to organize things a lot more, with games, themes, roleplays, etc. And when everyone is playing with everyone, and you’re not, you feel like the oddball.

Case in point? The party John and I went to last year over New Year’s. It was a lovely party, with good people. The hosts were awesome, the venue was comfortable, and we were thrilled to be included. However, I quickly realized how different parties had become from the first night of three.

There were a lot of spanking games, with different themes. But they all had one thing in common: bowls of slips with names on them. Everyone who identified as a bottom put their names in one bowl, and everyone who identified as tops put their names in another. If they identified as both, they put a slip in each bowl. And then one slip from each bowl was drawn and the two people were paired to engage in some sort of roleplay, with spanking.

As it happened, there were a lot more women at this gathering than men. Nearly all the men were switches. And pretty much all the women were too. Therefore, there were lots of women in the top bowl. And damned if nearly every time my name was drawn, I got paired with a woman.

Granted, I could have opted out and just watched. John had chosen not to put his name in anything, and I could have just sat with him and watched, laughed. But I wanted to belong. I wanted to be a part of it. So I decided to be a sport and be topped by whoever. And so, over and over, I bottomed to women.

Most of them were very respectful to me, knowing that this wasn’t my preference. The play was more on the light side, over clothes, etc. But it was excruciating for me. I felt uncomfortable and ridiculous. Again, no one’s fault but my own. If I wanted to play, this was how I had to play. I just didn’t like it.

I did say “most of them.” But of course, there always has to be one…

Before I get into this part, I am going to segue, and say something I haven’t had the guts to say before. But I do now. Because fuck it, it’s on my mind, and I feel like it needs to be said. I was thinking about making it a separate post, but I’ll keep it brief.

The #MeToo movement hit the BDSM and spanking scene hard. A lot of predatory men were exposed, stories of past assaults and consent violations were revealed. Things got pretty ugly and the scene was a dumpster fire for a while. But safety is important, and these truths needed to come out and be discussed.

But there’s one thing that, still, no one ever talks about. We hear all about the men who are handsy, rape-y, who push past known limits, who go too far, etc., etc. However, no one talks about the women who do the same thing. Ever. Not that I’ve ever seen, anyway.

Mind you, I am not dissing femme dommes as a whole, so spare me that accusation. I am friends with several femme dommes, they know who they are, and they know I have mad respect for them. But there are also the ones out there who hate men, and use their fetish in order to act out that hate. Who think the world revolves around them and what they want. Who think they are all-powerful and can do whatever they damn well please, demand whatever they damn well please. And they get away with it because people keep allowing them to.

How do I know so much about femme dommes, when I’ve never played with them? Easy. John did. Oh, mercy. Do I have stories. Years and years of stories. But I won’t go into them here. I will simply end this segue with something for everyone to consider and keep in mind, especially newbies. It is a reality that some tops are to be avoided (which, of course, makes us all appreciate the good ones even more). When you think of the worst kinds of tops — arrogant, egotistical, uncaring, cruel, in it for themselves alone — remember this: Not all of them have a Y chromosome. Predators and abusers are not limited to males.

So, back to the party. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, there was another game with the bowls of names. There was a table loaded up with implements. And this time, after people were paired, the top would give the bottom 23 strokes with an implement of the bottom’s choosing.

Again, I got paired with several women who were nice and respectful and kept things light. And then there was the one I didn’t know, had never met before.

When I went to choose my implement, I picked up the belt on the table. She said, “Uh-uh… my belt.” Okay, fine. She took her own belt off, and I started to bend over a stool. Then she said, “No. Those jeans need to come down.”

Say what now?

See, this is where I should have stood back up and said, “No, they don’t.” I should have honored my own boundaries. But again… I didn’t want to rock the boat. I didn’t want to be a poor sport. I didn’t want to not fit in.

So instead, I simply shrugged and said, “Okay,” and started to unbutton my jeans. And then she doubled down and said, “Hmmm… that didn’t sound anything like ‘yes, ma’am’ to me.”

Are you kidding me, lady? Who do you think you’re talking to?

Still, I didn’t say a word. I unzipped my jeans and shoved them down (leaving my underwear up, thank you very much) and bent back over. She gave me the 23 strokes, and they weren’t light, either. I grit my teeth through the whole thing. Then it was time to stand back up and finish with a hug.

I couldn’t resist. As I hugged her, I said in my snarkiest tone, “Happy New Year… maaaaaa’am.”

She laughed humorlessly. And then she said, in a voice dripping with condescension: “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’re not going to have a Happy New Year with that attitude.”

I’ll be damned. I don’t believe in this sort of thing, but I’d swear that woman put a curse on me. Because 2023 turned out to be the worst year of my life.

Anyway… the experience left me feeling icky. And I realized this party wasn’t an anomaly. These games and icebreakers are now being played at the national parties too. And nearly every scheduled event involves some sort of roleplay, oftentimes ones I’m not comfortable with. I’m too damned old for the school themes, and I don’t like the whole family oriented themes either. And I don’t do any sort of age play. Again, more power to everyone who enjoys these things. The fact that I don’t is my problem. And I had to come to accept that maybe I’ve had my run and it’s time to bow out. Especially now that I don’t have John with me anymore.

I miss spanking. I still hope to find a local play partner. But my party days are definitely behind me.

So… a new year. 2023 was brutal, start to finish. Even in the early months, bad things happened. John had four different infections in rapid succession, which was stressful for both of us. My car was sideswiped on the freeway, on the driver’s side, when I was at the wheel. Then in June, the love of my life died.

The remaining half of the year was a blur of sheer hell, dealing with two problematic properties, bills, probate, a million forms to fill out, endless phone calls, handymen, roofers, painters, exterminators, you name it. It became ludicrous, so many things went wrong. After we finally sold John’s house, we went to work on the condo. New appliances, a new patio door, new lights and fixtures, new toilet, new mantel over the fireplace, the list went on and on. And when it was all done and the condo was sparkling and perfect, my realtor listed it. On the first day of the listing, it was 98 degrees, and she went to turn on the A/C. And then called me, telling me it was completely dead. My reaction was “Of course it is.”

I just had to roll with it all. I remember when the AC guy called and was trying to carefully and tactfully explain to me that the unit was fully shot, that the condo was built in the 80s and this was the original AC system, and they didn’t make them like this anymore, and he was going to have to cut things to make more room, and so on and so on and so on… and then I heard my realtor pipe up in the background: “In other words, we’re fucked!” And I laughed. What else could I do, really? I replaced the AC. And we sold the condo too.

And finally, after all that was done, this past month my favorite cousin passed away.

So yeah. Here’s my final thought on 2023.

Screw achievements. My achievement was I survived. I’m sad, I feel like I’ve aged ten years, I still cry every damn day, but I survived.

This year, I hope I can do more than just survive. I hope I can find some happiness again. I will never find love like I had with John again, I know this. But I need to decide what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, without him. More will be revealed, as they say.

I hope everyone had nice holidays, and that 2024 is good to you. ♥

Never assume; you know what happens when you do

So, in the sea of poor correspondence, I actually got a reply that sounded interesting earlier this week. He sounded like he knew what TTWD is all about and stated it articulately. He attached a head shot and he looked nice. He was local. He didn’t push to talk on the phone or text. All good signs, so I agreed to meet for coffee.

He wrote yesterday to check in and verify we were still on. Also good. But then later, he included a little poem that really had nothing to do with anything, and it was in questionable taste to say the least. Red flag? Yeah, probably. But everything else had been good so far, so I ignored it and figured if he asked about it, why I hadn’t reacted, I’d tell him.

I arrived at noon; he was already there. He was tall and attractive… but right away, something felt off. I can’t tell you what it was; it was just a vibe I got. This is why I always, always meet people publicly first. Because I have no idea what someone is really like until I see them and talk to them face to face.

We sat down. He said I looked great; I said thank you. Then he asked me how long I’ve been into spanking. I started with the general story of discovering Shadow Lane nearly 27 years ago, finding out I wasn’t alone, that there were lots of others like me, blah blah blah. He smiled and said something softly. I thought I heard him, but no… he couldn’t have said that. I must have heard wrong. So I said, “I’m sorry, what?”

And he repeated, “I know what c***s like you want.”

I felt like a freaking bus had slammed into my gut. I grabbed my purse and got up from the table, started to leave. He seemed genuinely shocked. “Where are you going? What happened?” I said, “You. Do. NOT. Call me that. Ever.” He asked me repeatedly to please sit back down, and I was so flummoxed, I did. I could tell from his rambling and justifying that somehow, he had gotten the idea that I would like that kind of talk. I took a deep breath. “I don’t like degradation. I don’t like humiliation. I don’t like being called names. And I don’t like men who use that word.”

I stayed for a few more minutes, trying to get past it, but I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I felt creeped out and uncomfortable and no matter how he tried, he couldn’t undo that. He brought up that poem he’d written to me the night before. I said, “Why did you send me that?” He said he was just “testing things.” Good grief. Yeah, I get it… some people like that kind of talk. But then I said, “You might want to get some preliminaries out of the way before you assume to go in that direction.” He had the grace to look sheepish.

Then he asked, “Do you think you could ever be comfortable with me?” I said no. He sighed. “Then I won’t keep you.” And we got up and left. I walked out ahead of him, and heard him call out, “Take care, Erica.” I couldn’t wait to jump into my car and peel out of there. I was shaking all the way home, and when I finally got back here. I burst into tears.

Goddammit.

Again… I get it. Not everyone feels like I do about this sort of thing. But you start out respectful. You start out polite, and you reveal your needs, wants, preferences. And if you like anything sort of edgy, that’s to be negotiated and clarified — not thrown in your face five minutes within meeting. Never. Assume. Err on the side of caution first. And as you get to know a play partner better, then you can experiment, take some chances, try things. But for sweet fuck’s sake, don’t come right out of the gate with that kind of talk. Just because I like to be spanked doesn’t mean I don’t have a healthy self-esteem. I want to be treated with respect and kindness. Yeah, yeah, I know, that’s a weird-ass dichotomy to say that when I’m also saying I want you to slap my butt. But it seems to me that anyone with a modicum of common sense would understand the difference. Why is common sense so goddamned uncommon?

Ugh. You know, before I left, I took a couple of selfies. I liked how I looked with my makeup on, my hair freshly blown out, and wearing a green sweater for St. Paddy’s Day. I felt pretty for about five minutes, before he made me feel like I needed to be steam cleaned. But screw it. He’s not taking that away from me.

So… maybe next time, the guy will be worth this. 😉 For now, I can’t concentrate on work to save my life, so I’m going to do some cleaning. Have a great weekend, y’all. ♥

For my friend

About a week ago, someone on FetLife posted that she’d love to see some shout-outs from others about the good tops they know. In the past few years, there has been so much upheaval and acrimony on FL, many accusations of assault, consent violations, etc., and I thought her suggestion was a great idea. The good guys deserve to be acknowledged! So I wrote something about one of my favorite tops, one I’ve known for years, who is no longer on FetLife, but is known by many.

Circumstances beyond his control have taken him from our circles, and I miss him. So I thought, why stop at FetLife. Why not give him his own tribute here? I will not use his real name here. His public scene name was InspectHerHide. I will simply use his initial M.

I’ve lost track of how many years I’ve known him. We first connected via email. He was newly divorced, and was just beginning to explore his spanking side, something he’d buried for years. He’d found my email address online and contacted me. We began a correspondence; he asked lots of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. Eventually, he decided to attend his first spanking party — Shadow Lane, of course. I encouraged him to find me there. I felt like I already knew him.

So we met in person, and had instant chemistry. A single man at these things is sometimes received with suspicion (which is a damn shame), but he did well for himself at this first party, making friends. And then it came time for us to play for the first time. It was Saturday night after the ballroom dinner/dance, so we were all dressed up. In the party suite, he approached me, and we went into one of the bedrooms to do our scene. He was in a suit, so he took off his jacket, folded it and laid it on the bed. Then he said, “Don’t touch my jacket.”

Of course, I reached out and poked it.

“I said, don’t touch my jacket.” I poked it again. Spanking commenced. But he kept stopping, turning to look, and repeating, “I told you not to touch my jacket! Stop touching my jacket!” Which, of course, I kept doing.

Until I got tired of that. “Fine!” I snapped. “Let’s remove the temptation, shall we?” Then I snatched up his jacket and flung it across the room, where it landed in a heap on the floor.

That did it. With lightning speed, he pushed me off, went to retrieve his jacket, came back, pinned me down and really lit into me. Other people were watching and I heard one guy say, “Daaaaaaamn!” And I was laughing through the entire thing. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

He kept coming to parties, and we played every time. After a while, we developed a pattern where, whenever possible, we were each other’s first scene of the weekend, and sometimes each other’s last. I loved playing with him. He was creative, funny, conscientious, knew just when to push and when to lighten up, and his techniques were flawless.

He could always make me laugh. I recall one Sunday night, end of the weekend, when we’d done our final scene and he was giving me aftercare. I was already starting to feel a bit droppy and I was in tears. He leaned close and said, “Wanna see something?” I nodded. He then sheepishly showed me his right palm. It was mottled and red, with spots that were beginning to bruise and other spots that looked like the skin was close to breaking. Clearly, he’d overused his hand this weekend. And then he quipped, “For once, someone can say this and it’s true — this hurt me more than it hurt you.” I started cracking up and the tears were forgotten.

I certainly returned the favor. What do I love, kids? Making tops laugh when they’re trying their damnedest to be all serious and stern. During one scene, he was really trying to be toppy, keep a straight face. I said something or another, and he scolded, “I don’t like your inflection!” I snapped back, “I don’t have an inflection! I did once, but I took penicillin.” And he lost it. Heehee.

A few years ago, we all met a lovely young woman named B who came to her first party. She reminds me of the Shakespearean line: “Though she be little she is fierce.” She couldn’t have been more than 100 pounds soaking wet, but she was strong, feisty, spunky, and smart. Everyone fell a little bit in love with her at that party… including M. He ended up marrying her.

I was friends with both of them on FetLife and Facebook. It was great fun following all their adventures, both kink and vanilla. They both loved travel and the outdoors, and they’d post lots of pictures and mini-videos on FB. I still crack up, remembering one where they were traveling somewhere in the South and they were trying a Southern specialty, boiled peanuts. They didn’t like them in the least. I can still see B’s face and hear her voice blurting, “They taste like feet!” (For the record, I agree with her. I love roasted peanuts, peanut butter, etc. But boiled peanuts are disgusting.)

The last time I saw them was February 2020, at a Vegas party. They came late, and I felt bad because my first scene wasn’t with M this time. I was anxious to see them, wondering when they’d arrive. When someone told me, “Erica, M is looking for you,” I was overjoyed. I found him, got one of his massive enveloping bear hugs, and all was right with the world.

And then Covid hit.

B was a nurse. She got Covid early on, before there were any treatments, vaccines, when people barely knew what the hell it was. But she was young, healthy, strong… she’d be okay, right?

She never got better. She developed what’s now known as long Covid, as well as POTS. Life became an odyssey of doctor visits, tests, constant probing, and of course, people giving advice. Months went by, then a year, then two. A vital young woman ended up in a wheelchair, with no strength to do much of anything. She had to be carried everywhere. Her nursing career, for which she worked so hard, was over. And M became her full-time caregiver, along with working full-time himself.

For a while, I could still keep up with them on social media. M posted updates. He’d still come on FetLife sometimes and comment on pictures. John and I sent them little presents now and then. I felt like if I could still read about them, they were still somewhat in my life. But then they both removed their FL and FB accounts.

Last week, I got to thinking about them after the FetLife tribute, so I texted M, just to check in and say hello. He texted back. The news was not good. Long story short… not only is B continuing to deteriorate, but now, what with all this never-ending stress and grief, M’s health is suffering too. He said he was tired. And what could I say? There were no magic words, nothing that would help. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry. He said he loved me, and then went silent. There was nothing else to say. And I wept.

Sometimes, life just fucking stinks.

I will most likely never see either of them again. They are in another state; it’s not like I can just pop by with some soup and some hugs. And he will not see this. But I hope that somewhere within, he knows he made a difference. He brought a lot of people joy, including me. He mattered. They both did. They still do.

Over the years, several pictures were taken of M and me at the parties. Here’s the very first one, from (I think?) 2012, in the ballroom on Saturday night. I wish I could show his face, as he had such a joyous smile on it.

A couple of years later, we were playing in one of the suites, and afterward, I stayed in position, both of us so relaxed, we didn’t want to move. I’d bent one leg and put my foot up in the air, and he’d ended up resting his face on it. We were surrounded by others and one person thought it was so cute, he took pictures. (That’s John’s arm off to the side.)

I treasure these pictures and others, and so many memories.

I love you, M. Thanks for being one of the good ones.

Have a good weekend, y’all. ♥

To Bare or Not to Bare: Boobs, That is

This one is geared toward female bottoms, as you could probably tell by the title. But tops are welcome to chime in about their preferences as well. I know I’ve talked about this subject before, but it’s been a long time and I think it’s worth revisiting.

Thanks to Hermione’s Spanko Brunch post, I joined Spanking Needs last week. So far, I am liking it. It seems to be well managed, reasonably simple to navigate, and people have been nice and welcoming so far. I’ve gotten several messages, and all have been respectful.

One local man and I exchanged several messages, and were getting very close to making a coffee date. Then he said that he’d noticed, in all the video snippets he’d watched of me, that I always kept my upper half clothed. Was there a reason for that? Modesty?

This is true. With a single exception, I have not bared my breasts in any of my videos, not in eighteen years. Oftentimes I was down to lingerie, but I always kept the bra on.

I wrote back and told him my personal opinion — that unless the video is depicting husband/wife or lovers, full nudity seems gratuitous to me. After all, he’s not spanking my boobs. The focus is on my butt.

He then said that he has spanked nipples (shudder), but admitted that’s more BDSM-oriented. Then he confessed that he enjoys watching a woman’s breasts sway and bounce while she’s over his knee. Said he would never force that on anyone, though. (But yeah, clearly, that’s what he’d prefer, right? Why even bring it up otherwise?)

Crap.

I’m not a prude. I’m not ashamed of my body. There is nothing wrong with my breasts. They’re small. They’re still perky. I have posted naked pictures of myself on FetLife. Although that one time I posted what I thought was a sultry bare-breasted picture, some idiot’s comment was “You should smile.” Really? That’s what you’re focusing on?? I took that one down.

I have played unclothed with close play partners. My former top of 4+ years used to strip me naked outdoors in broad daylight, for heaven’s sake. (And I have the pictures to prove it.) Another one tied me down naked to my coffee table. But I knew these men very well. However, casual play with friends? Party scenes? With the exception of the occasional full-body flogging, I keep my top on.

I suppose stripping a female bottom fully nude adds to the embarrassment/vulnerability, and people like that, or love to hate it. But I just don’t care for it.

I am curious — granted, I know a lot of my readers are married and play with their husbands only, so of course y’all play naked. But for those who play more casually, who engage in party play, play with groups of friends, etc., how do you feel about full nudity while being spanked? Do you feel like that fits well into your scene dynamics/fantasies? Or does it make you feel uncomfortable?

And a side note: No matter what my state of undress is, I think it’s hottest when the top remains fully clothed. Any thoughts on that?

Back to the man on SN for a moment. I replied that he might be disappointed with me, if this is what he enjoyed doing, so perhaps we should reconsidering meeting. Much to my surprise, he wrote back, saying yes, he enjoys it, but it’s hardly a deal-breaker. That he’s a spanko, and enjoys spanking woman of all types and in all stages of dress. And that having coffee with me would be an honor.

Well. That’s nice. ♥ We’ll see what happens next week.

So, let me hear from you: Boobs or no boobs? Have a great weekend, y’all.

Ever Have One You Just Can’t Forget?

I really don’t like admitting vulnerability on here; while it helps readers relate to me, it also opens me up to ridicule from haters who have nothing better to do. But sometimes, in the process of letting go, one has to first admit there’s something they’re holding onto. I know this won’t be relatable to those who only play with their spouses/mates, but for those who have known the unique connection of a play partner who isn’t your primary, hopefully you’ll get this.

In 2019, I was in a bad place, emotionally. In the second half of 2018, I’d had a friend/play partner I’d let in and trusted completely, who ended up hurting me so badly I dropped out of the scene. I deactivated on FetLife and stopped going to parties, so I fell out of contact with a lot of people I was once close to. And then, in the summer of 2019, I met the man I referred to on here as D. He had answered my long-standing Alt ad.

Mind you, I was in a fog of depression. My spanking libido was nil. My confidence was even lower. But this guy tweaked my deadened nerves. He was warm, friendly, full of questions about me, open about his own experiences. We exchanged copious quantities of email. And yes… he was gorgeous, if I could go by his pictures.

We met for coffee… from the get-go, the attraction was mutual and intense. I remember the way he looked at me, the sparkle in his eye. I remember sitting at the table with him, staring at his face, his big hands, his beautiful physique in a suit. I felt that old familiar stirring, one I thought was long dead and buried. That click. That chemistry. That elusive, indescribable something that’s either there or it isn’t. And daaaaamn, was it ever there in this case.

In the following months, we had three incredible scenes at my place. He brought me chocolate each time. He was fun, sexy, good with his hands and with implements, great with the talk, and very eager to learn and improve. Very caring about how my experience had been, how I was feeling. And the attraction? I am not ashamed to admit that my physical attraction to him made our scenes all the more amazing. I can’t explain what it was or how it was happening, but I was like a teenage in hormone hell around this man. My legs would tremble so hard, I could barely stand. My body came alive in every way. No, we didn’t do anything sexual, just played very intensely and I wept in his arms. But yeah. After feeling rejected and horrible for so long, it was pure joy to feel this alive and sexy and wanted again. Plus, I liked him. I liked talking with him. I saw this as something that could be a real friendship that lasted for years.

But it didn’t.

As you guys may remember, he slowly slipped away, got more distant, wrote less, texted less, told me again and again how busy he was. I knew he worked two jobs… but as I’d said then, he’d always had those two jobs and he still found the time to write and text before. And of course, all the old insecurities kicked in, wondering what I’d done or said, blah blah blah. And then, in a moment of weakness, I posted this blog entry.

And he read it. Shit.

He wrote a long email, apologizing, saying he didn’t mean to make me feel that way, that it wasn’t me, it was him… and then admitted that he was back with an on-again, off-again girlfriend. Our play had been great, he learned a lot, I’m sexy and beautiful, and anyone would be privileged to play with me.

I read between the lines. I reread what I had posted and cringed. More than likely, he thought I was a neurotic, needy nut job and he was backing way off, as kindly as he could.

And I was heartbroken. I couldn’t believe I’d found this kind of special friendship again, only to have it yanked away. It took me a very long time to move past it. I’d see his profile on Alt still, and I could see that he had looked at mine. Several times, long after he ended things. But then his profile was deactivated.

Life went on. I played with others, eventually went back to FetLife, and went back to parties. The person who had broken me in 2018 was no longer around. Then Covid hit and I didn’t play with anyone for 15 months. I found C and reunited with Mr. Woodland, and kept up my search for someone regular. I had moved on, or so I thought.

Last week, I had a coffee date with someone who had been giving me the runaround for, quite literally, months. He was interested, he wanted to meet, then he’d disappear. Then reappear, and start up the correspondence again. He told me one name, and then another name. We were writing on Fet, and then he gave me an email address… that didn’t work. We made a plan to meet… and he stood me up. And then apologized profusely and pleaded for another chance. I said okay… and then he disappeared for seven weeks. By then, I’d said screw it, this isn’t happening. Until he contacted me again. I was skeptical, but he seemed sincere this time. He gave me a proper email address. He sent face pictures. He answered messages in a timely manner. And I thought, what the hell. I was curious. After all this, I just had to see who this was.

Long story short — we met last Wednesday. He was 40 minutes late. The pictures he’d sent me were of a much younger man. And the vibe was all wrong. When I said I was sorry but I just wasn’t feeling what I needed to feel, he abruptly got up and walked away. And I went home.

And on the drive home, D flooded into my mind unexpectedly. I couldn’t help but compare the difference between this coffee date and the one I had had with D in 2019. Oh my God, I wanted that again.

When I got home, before I could talk myself out of it, I emailed D. Kept it brief — just said I didn’t know what his situation was these days, but if he should ever want to play again, my door was open. I also said that if the answer was no, that he didn’t have to reply, and I’d have my answer.

Of course, he didn’t reply. I knew he wouldn’t.

I wish I could talk with him one more time. I wish I could tell him that I’m really not a needy, neurotic nut job, that I’m an independent woman with a partner I adore, but I have specific spanking needs and they are hard to fulfill. That he came into my life at a time when I was at a very low and vulnerable point, and that I developed an attachment to him probably too quickly. I wish I could tell him that I don’t want anything from him except play now and then, friendship, and that lovely bliss from great scenes with someone who gets it, who gets me. But I can’t. And I have to let this go.

It’s disconcerting, to say the least, to have all these feelings come crashing back three years after the fact. I am not sure why last week’s encounter made this happen. But I gave it one last try, and now I need to let go.

The other night, feeling defeated, all I could think was, “I am just so fucking tired.” And then, out of nowhere, a lyric from an old Electric Light Orchestra song, “Hold On Tight,” came into my head.

When you need a shoulder to cry on
When you get so sick of trying
Hold on tight to your dream

I guess that’s all any of us can do.

Have a good weekend, y’all. Be safe. ♥

Another visit from Oregon

What happens when you apply makeup, but then end up haplessly screaming and smashing your face in a pillow?

Well, this…

… and then this, an utterly derpy but blissful face, surrounded by walk-of-shame hair.

Yes, it was another delicious spanking session. A wonderful time was had by all.

I arrived at C’s hotel room at 11:30 last Friday morning. We sat and talked for a while, catching up with everything. And then it was time to play. He hadn’t brought many implements this time, just two London Tanner straps. Oh, and a thick wooden brush of some kind, but I took one look at it and just said, “No.” With the way I’d marked the week before, I didn’t think I could take that. (Plus, I didn’t want to.)

C thought it would be fun to take pictures throughout the various stages, rather than just at the end. So this was the “before” picture:

Then a nice, long, thorough OTK warm-up commenced. He brought me up so slowly, I really couldn’t tell when he started ramping things up. I was pleasantly warm and squirmy when he took this:

Just a bit of color. Then things got a bit more serious. His hand is a force to be reckoned with on its own, and when he goes full bore, it’s not for the faint-hearted. (Or the faint-assed.) He was concerned because I was starting to mark already (!!), so he spread it around, moving onto my thighs more. “Little more sensitive there,” he mused. Gee, ya think? Oy vey.

I had no concept of how much time passed, but by the time the OTK/hand portion was done, I was already quite toasty. But I still had the two straps coming…

I realized later that this angle makes my legs look weird — like two drumsticks! Oh well. And yes, we did take a final picture after the straps, but… I think some people were a little squeamish about my marks last week, so I’ll just stop here, photo-wise. 🙂

We then transitioned onto a pile of pillows under my belly and moved onto the strap phase. I don’t know how long that went; it seemed to simply flow into an escalation of sensation, pain and pleasure. My noises escalate too — I start out with small grunts, which grow louder, and when I am reaching my peak, where the pain is almost unbearable but not quite, when my body and mind are challenged and pushed and exhilarated, the grunts morph into a continuous guttural scream, which is when I have to bury my face in the pillow so the cops won’t get called.

I love that point. I love how I feel extreme power in that moment, if that makes any sense. My body is strong and resilient, but I am soft and trusting enough to give myself over in this fashion. It’s my choice, I want it, and a trusted partner is giving it to me, while feeling his own pleasure and power in our connection. Is there anything better?

When I get to my tipping point, I start babbling. Mostly I say “Please” over and over. It’s not “Please stop” or “Please don’t stop.” It’s just “Please,” and I can’t explain it. But that’s my tell. And around that time is when I break down in tears. That is exactly what happened on Friday. I didn’t know where they came from; I hadn’t been feeling particularly weepy that week. But there they were.

And then it was over. In my haze of tears and endorphins, I felt his hands rubbing lotion on me. I was aware of tissues pressed into my hand. It was a long time before I raised my head and spoke again, and he didn’t rush me. He simply curled up next to me and held me close. Let me come down at my own pace. And then we just hung out, cuddling, talking, relaxing. Returning to Earth.

I think I left around 3:30. I had arranged for the day off work, but I still wanted to get a little bit of it done just to stay on top of things. C, with his usual thoughtfulness, checked in with me later that evening, and then again the next morning. My reply:

“Feeling spacey this morning, sleepy, sore, tender. In other words, great! As always, thank you.”

Of course, what goes up, must come down. I’ve been feeling very droppy the past couple of days. But then I hear C saying, “It’s such a joy to come see you,” and I smile.

Thank you, my friend. You are a joy. ♥