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. ♥

Mine, mine, MINE

I am so not a submissive.

Yeah, Erica, what else is new? I dunno, just something that came to mind lately. Not a judgment, not a statement of any sort of superiority. Just a heightened awareness of how very different we all are, within the same overall community.

I copy-edit/proofread a lot of kink erotica. Therefore, I have regular exposure to fictionalized spanking/BDSM relationships. Some of them resonate. Others do not. And one theme I see repeatedly is that of ownership.

I know the secret behind D/s… that the surrender and submission of the bottom is their choice, and they have the control, even though it seems that they’re relinquishing it completely. It’s a dance and a game. But still.

I am so fiercely, ridiculously independent, I cannot imagine having my autonomy taken from me. Or even giving it away willingly.

Oh sure, a little objectifying is fine. We all do it. We all use the word “my.” My love. My sweetheart. My husband, my wife. Steve will often grab onto my bottom as he’s spanking me and say, “This is mine, do you understand?” Sometimes I’ll say, “No, actually, it’s mine.” But more often than not, I’ll say yes, because I don’t want thigh whacks. 🙂

Everywhere I read, everywhere I look, there is something or another about permission. Just today, I saw a spanking photo with a caption saying something about how she had her hair dyed without permission. Um. It’s MY freaking hair, and if I want to cover the gray, or dye it rainbow colors, that’s MY choice.

Maybe it’s a childhood leftover. My mother had so damn many rules and regulations and rigid standards I had to follow when I was a kid. I seethed with anger and resentment, vowing that I couldn’t wait to grow up and make my own choices. I cannot, for the life of me, imagine choosing to give them away again, even if it’s in a fantasy mode.

Yesterday, I was working on a book with a scene where the woman was punished because she touched herself without her top’s permission. This guy was strict. Everything she did, she had to ask first. Permission to speak (during scenes). Permission to orgasm. Even permission to suck his cock. As I got into the intense spanking scene, which was quite hot, I found myself squirming in my chair. Hey, it’s been a while, I’ve been sick, etc.

So I finished working on the scene, got to a good stopping point, and took a little break to take care of business. Yup, the joys of working at home are many. Office coffee breaks ain’t got nothin’ on this girl’s breaks. 😉

Then it occurred to me: Imagine if I’d had to ask for this first? If I had to feel like I’d done something wrong, something naughty, something forbidden, because I hadn’t gotten permission for it?

Nope. Not me. That simply wouldn’t work. I know it’s a dynamic that works for many. Sometimes, I’m almost envious of those who can let go to that extent and allow another have say-so over what they do. Almost. Then I remember who I am and what I own.

I own my pleasure. I own my orgasms. I own my choices in all things. I own my bedtimes and getting-up times. I own my speech, my clothing choices, my hair style. I own my online time, my TV time, my time for anything I want or need to do. I own what I eat and when I eat it (that’s a huge one, for one in recovery for eating disorders).

I will give my love, my devotion, my willingness, my vulnerability, my tears, my laughter. I will surrender my body to painful pleasure. But I will not — cannot — surrender my choices. The day I begin to surrender my autonomy and independence is the day I begin to die.

And perhaps I take all this shizz way too seriously. 🙂

Have a wonderful holiday weekend, y’all. Be safe.

EDIT: By the way, all comments are welcome, even if you are on the opposite end of this submission spectrum. I’d love to hear what resonates with you about it.