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 “rain”

Some things never change

No matter how many years you spend in TTWD, no matter how many experiences you have, how many things you try, how carefully you hone your own personal interpretation of your chosen kink to where it is fulfilling and joyous… there’s always going to be some nitwit out there telling you you’re doing it wrong.

A few years ago when I was playing regularly with He-Who-Is-No-Longer-In-The-Picture, we used to shoot a lot of goofy videos of our play, some of which I posted on Spanking Tube. One especially popular one was when I’d written a spanking parody of the Beatles song “If I Fell,” and he made me sing it on video — while being spanked.

I still get occasional comments on that one, positive ones saying that it was funny and entertaining. And then yesterday I got this — verbatim, poor grammar and missing punctuation intact:

A spanking not supposed to be fun its supposed to make her correct her bad behavior

Oh, yeah? Says you, illiterate one. Although you’re probably right in one respect: I doubt that spanking or any other kind of kink play is fun when you’re involved.

Who the hell are you, or anyone else, to say what spanking is “supposed” to be? Who are you to deny the unbridled joy that some of us feel indulging in a favorite pastime and fulfilling our desires? Spanking — and all other forms of kink/BDSM/what have you — means myriad things to countless people. There is no “supposed to.” There is no “one true way.” And to impose your rigid (and unsolicited) view and dump on someone else’s pleasure is most unwelcome.

Just a reminder, to anyone out there reading who is new to all this: Don’t let others tell you how you’re supposed to do this thing. Discover for yourself, through trial and error, through following your instincts, what works for you. If it’s discipline, great. If it’s for fun, that’s also great. If it’s a complex mix of the two, have at it. What pushes your buttons and brings you floaty joy, as long as it involves consenting adults, is what it’s supposed to be.

Tell you what, stupid stranger. I’ll go on doing my thing the way I like doing it; if that’s “bad behavior,” oh, well. Report me to the kink police, why don’t you. Or better yet, why don’t you work on correcting your bad grammar and mind your own fucking business, hmmm?

We now return you to your regularly scheduled Monday. Today, it is cold, dark and rainy outside. I have my heater running, warm clothes on, a full fridge, classical music serenely playing in the background, and plenty of work to keep me busy. I don’t have to go anywhere; I can work out in the apartment gym if I want to. I am safe and insulated and at peace in my little bubble.

I know the rain will end, outside life will encroach, and I will need to leave my bubble and re-enter a world that feels ugly and unkind to me. But for this moment, I wish I could stay in here forever.

Rhythm of the Rain

It’s a rainy Sunday night, but not cold enough to close the window. So I sit here near the open living-room window, listening to the quiet drizzle outside and feeling oh-so serene. How is it that rain depresses some people? I wish I understood that. OK, when it’s coming down in sheets and torrents for days on end, causing mudslides, it’s not so great. But nights like this are like a healing balm.

Anyway, an old song comes to mind, from way back in the Dark Ages (i.e., the 1960s), called “Rhythm of the Rain.” It’s a very sad song, actually. The first verse goes:

Listen to the rhythm of the falling rain 
Telling me just what a fool I’ve been
I wish that it would go and let me cry in vain
And let me be alone again
Of course, as I hear these lyrics in my head, my mind transforms them to:
Listen to the rhythm of your falling hand,
Telling me just what a brat I’ve been
I wish that it would stop and let me catch my breath
So I could sass you once again
That’s all I got, folks. I read the rest of the song’s lyrics — mushy stuff about how this guy’s girl left him and took his heart with her — and my inspiration dried up. Perhaps I’ll finish the song if the parody muse comes through for me.
Or how about Eric Clapton’s “Let it Rain”?
Let it rain,
let it rain,
Let your hand rain down on me…
Ugh. That sucks, Erica. Give it up.
Never mind. I will have a good Halloween song parody for you later this week.
J is a little better. I have a fresh new episode of Desperate Housewives waiting for me on my DVR. And I’m playing tomorrow. Beyond that, at the moment, I don’t care. 🙂
When it’s raining, the world is mine.

Edginess

It’s official — Mother Nature has lost her mind. A week ago Monday, it hit 113 degrees in downtown Los Angeles. And it could have been higher, but we’ll never know. The National Weather Service thermometer downtown, which has been keeping the temperature since 1877, broke at 1:00 p.m.

A week later? Cool, cloudy, rainy. Last night, I actually put on a bathrobe.

And by this weekend? Supposed to be back up into the 80s and 90s, and absolutely bone-dry. Blech.

For the moment, it’s gray and cloudy. My window is open, and all is blissfully quiet save for the drizzle coming down and the occasional car sloshing by. My favorite kind of day. I’m still feeling some pleasant residual soreness from Monday night. Yesterday, I got the last of my dental work over with, and amazingly, my teeth aren’t hurting today. I should be quite serene right now.

But I’m not. I’m edgy and nervous, feeling that free-floating anxiety that plagues me sometimes. I’m worried about J. Yes, it’s stupid. He has the flu. Granted, it’s a really bad flu. But he’ll get better. I hope. See? There I go again. Of course he’ll get better.

Yesterday was his birthday; I spoke with him last night. He sounded horrible; no better than he was last weekend. I hurt for him.

This coming weekend, we had plans. We have an annual ritual with a dear friend; each year, she gangs my birthday with J’s and takes us out for dinner. We usually go back to her place afterward for coffee and birthday cake, and she fusses over us. Last year, she took us to a Groundlings show. Today, she emailed me to confirm… and I had to write back to her and postpone. I know he won’t be well enough by Saturday to enjoy himself, and I don’t want her putting out money and effort when it will be wasted. God, I hated doing that. I was so looking forward to seeing her.

Here’s how crazy I am, kids. In my worried state, my mind starts to wander into projection, into future nightmares. This is what getting old looks like. This is what we have to look forward to; one thing after another. If your body doesn’t fall apart, your mind disintegrates, or vice versa. And if you’re lucky enough to stay healthy, then you end up being a caretaker to someone else.

Jesus! Am I a freaking mess, or what? No wonder I need stress-relief spankings.

Sorry to be such a downer. I thought about posting something else, coming up with some sort of interesting and controversial topic, but you know what? Fuck it. This is where I’m at today. This blog is nothing if not honest. This is Erica, tears and fears, self-centerness and all.

I will stay in the moment. Breathe deep, and listen to the rain. Feel the peace of this day. After all, this moment is all we have; the rest is unknown. And that’s probably what drives me the craziest… but I won’t think about it. Thinking is not good for me sometimes.

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