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 “rant”

Things that make me see red, in a bad way

This jackass.


Who might this jackass be, you ask? He is Dwayne A. Stamper, Sr., of Muncie, Indiana. And according to this article (please read; it will infuriate you), he offers up his “services” to parents of misbehaving children. But, he’s quick to add, none over the age of 13, because “they might whoop him.”

I see a Band-Aid on his forehead. I’m fantasizing that one of those older kids snatched that paddle away from him and clobbered him.

I don’t know what horrifies me more: that this is absolutely real, that this cretin is the father of five, or that a lot of people find this funny. It’s bad enough that people spank children. But this guy seems to gleefully revel in it, publicly admitting he does it and actually offering to do it to other people’s kids as well. Who the hell does he think he is??

Seriously, fuck this guy sideways with a 2 x 4.

Apparently, Mr. Stamper believes that “kids should fear their parents a little.” Oh, sure. That’s the way to parent successfully — don’t manage your kids reasonably, just terrorize them with the fear of pain. They’ll be good little children, they’ll toe the line… until they grow up, leave your house of horrors, and act out with all the suppressed rage they’ve accumulated over the years.

Adults engage in spanking consensually. If one grown person hits and hurts another grown person without consent, it’s called assault. And yet a grown person can hit a little person and it’s called “discipline” and “parenting.” Screw that. Stop. Hitting. Children. End of subject. There are ways to avoid raising spoiled monsters without resorting to physical pain.

Yeah, I hear the parents out there. “You don’t have kids! You don’t know!” True, I do not. But I was a child. I know the fear and rage and utter helplessness a child feels when an adult hits them. I know the feelings of betrayal.

Hey, Mr. Stamper? I’d like to stamp on your tiny little man parts. And then take the non-business end of that ginormous paddle you’re wielding and shove it where your Indiana sun don’t shine. Right out there on your street, in front of everyone. See how you like being hurt and humiliated.

Arggggh. Deep breaths. Thank goodness for blogging. I can blow off steam here without finding this POS’s Facebook page and starting World War III with him there, which would change absolutely nothing and just raise my blood pressure to explosive highs.

*rant over* Have a great weekend, y’all.

Important: please do take a moment and read this

No, not my blog. Today, I am focusing on someone else’s writing. A blog post, to be specific, that highlights yet another piece of writing. Roundabout? Yup. But bear with me.

The piece I’d like you to read is by author Ava Sinclair, entitled Twisting a fetish into abuse: One blogger’s dangerous message that hurts us all. (NOTE: I have tried and tried to link directly to this post, and it’s not working. So go to her blog page, and click on the article at the top.) The writer she’s calling attention to is Matt Forney, someone you probably never heard of (I know I hadn’t, before today). This man exemplifies Every. Wrong. Notion about TTWD. When you link to her blog, do click on the link to his post entitled, “How to Beat Your Wife or Girlfriend and Get Away With It.” I guaran-damn-tee you, your blood will boil. At least I hope it does. Because if you agree with him… I don’t think you and I have much to say to one another.

Ava Sinclair writes spanking erotica (I have had the pleasure of copy-editing several of her books). She writes about women getting spanked. I read about women getting spanked, and I am a woman who gets spanked. Because I choose to. Because I love it, even though I like to pretend I don’t. It’s fully consensual, even though I admit to liking the fantasy of non-consent. No man puts me in my place, and no man spanks me because he wants to “inflict the maximum amount of pain” with “minimal risk” to himself. Any man who has that attitude really doesn’t want to be in the same room with me, because I will verbally rip off his nuts and shove them up his ass. The man I play with are respectful, kind, and are interested in our mutual pleasure. They are not misogynistic, hateful chauvinist pigs whose big fat egos mask their tiny little members.

I will speak out against people like Matt Forney until I no longer have breath in my body. Why? Because I need to. Because people need to be told that what we do isn’t about beating women because they deserve it, no matter what jerk-offs like this say.

By the way — yes, I know that Slate called Forney out as being one of Trump’s followers at the RNC. That is not, repeat, not why I’m writing this. I couldn’t give a rat’s ass what this moron’s political leanings are. What I do care about is that he’s spreading a poisonous, sexist message about something I and many others love, making a sick joke of it, and I won’t stand for it.

So please, go read Ava’s blog that I linked above. Comment on it. Share it with others. Don’t let the Matt Forneys of the world taint our pleasurable, consensual fetish.

Oh… and Slate made a point of showing a picture of Matt Forney and saying that he is not married. No shit, Sherlock!

(deep breath)

Have a great weekend, y’all.

OT: May I vent, just a little?

Don’t worry. I’m not going to talk about politics, or about terrorism, or about guns. Although the circumstances of late have got me on edge and are making my tolerance a lot lower for life’s little aggravations. So if y’all don’t mind, I need to blow off a little steam here, over my First World Problems.

My mother passed away in 2012, and my stepfather in 2014. Here it is the middle of 2016, and would you believe all the details of their trust still aren’t fully resolved?? I won’t bore you with who’s who and what’s what, but let’s just say certain people haven’t been cooperating. Not responding to requests, not communicating, not providing what’s needed. And so, things drag on and on and on. Why do people have to be so damn difficult? I have my crazy stepsister’s all-caps emails and one of her drunken rants saved on my voice mail. What a piece of work. She got more money than anyone else in the will, and she’s still complaining. In her last message, she slurred, “I wish Dad were here so I could shake some sense into him.” Really? THAT’S why you want your dad here? Ick. I wish she didn’t have my address and phone number. Thank goodness for caller ID.

Also, remember at the end of last year when I had a root canal and a crown restoration? Guess how much of that my dental insurance covered? Zero. WTF is the point of having dental insurance if they don’t pay for anything? Oh yeah, they cover cleanings and x-rays. Big whoop. But as soon as you need anything besides that, they deny you. I spent a fair amount of time online researching the racket that is dental insurance, and discovered that unless I pay a fortune, I’m not getting any decent coverage. If your dental insurance is covered by your office group plan, give thanks. Because an individual paying for their own plan is screwed. Soooooo… I am now trying something different: A dental discount plan. You pay a small annual fee, and then all your dental procedures are discounted. Not free, mind you. They’re still expensive. Just not as expensive. For example, the root canal that cost me $1300 would have cost $700. I spent about forty-five minutes on the phone with an agent today who explained it all to me. The good news? No waiting period. I’m on the plan immediately. More good news? My dentist and endodontist accept the plan. So now, if my teeth continue to fall apart, at least I won’t go broke as quickly. The plan is Aetna, so at least it’s not some Joe Blow dental plan that will get bought out before I get to use it.

But what a headache. This, on top of paying over $800 a month for medical insurance. This is the downside of self-employment. Still… I wouldn’t have it any other way. Everything comes with a price.

And finally — those of you who have been with me for a while, or who read my book, know that I had the Stepmother From Hell, my father’s third wife. When he finally wised up and unloaded her, he stayed close with her son, B, who is about eight years younger than I am. When Dad passed away, B came to help me with packing up his place, and he came to Dad’s memorial. He was a decent kid, nothing like his mother. After that, we kind of fell out of touch. I knew he had married and had a couple of kids (I got the Christmas cards and the erstwhile email), but we didn’t communicate otherwise. This week, clear out of the blue, I got email from him. Said he’s been through some “crazy life changes” and would love to get together to catch up. Coffee? Sure, I said. We agreed for this Thursday. This morning, he wrote again, asking if we could do lunch instead. Said he had to do something for his son later that afternoon, and that “wouldn’t leave sufficient time for his long-lost sister.”

I know he meant that in the nicest possible way. I know I should be flattered that he thinks of me that way. But I couldn’t help it; I felt creeped out. “I’m not your sister,” I thought. “I had a brother. You aren’t him. And I don’t share any of that bat-shit crazy woman’s blood with you.” Am I horrible? I don’t mean to be this way, but you have to understand — his mother made my life hell for years. I know it’s not his fault, but seeing him, hearing from him, reminds me of her and I feel almost sort of a PTSD. I mean, to this day I still can’t stand to hear the c-word, because she called me that all the time.

And what does he want, anyway, after all these years? What are these crazy life changes? Divorce? Am I a terrible person for wondering if he needs money for some reason? Ugh. Between John’s family and mine, I’ve known way too many truly crappy people. I am suspicious, and I don’t like being that way.

So yeah. I’m meeting B for lunch on Thursday. I am curious. And my dad was very fond of him. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to meet up and hear him out. I’ll just have to brace myself to hear about his mother. Maybe the witch is dead. Ding dong! Oh, please. Trust me, B has no illusions about Mommie Dearest. Years ago, when his first child was born, he said something along the lines of “I don’t want her [his mother] to come anywhere near him.” I think she’d be somewhere in her late seventies now.

Oy. I need to get my spank on. Soon. And I am way overdue for a Girls’ Night Out. I am hoping that both will happen next week. Meanwhile, this week I will stay busy with work and do my best to maintain some semblance of sanity in a world of chaos.

If you can keep your head when all about you are losing theirs and blaming it on you…

Revisiting the “Dreaded Mush-Butt”

How many of you go wayyy back with me, reader-wise? As in, when this blog was on MySpace? Six years ago, in April 2010, I posted about one of my biggest peeves in spanking photos. I decided, since I’m not seeing any improvement in this scourge, it was time to revisit the topic. Before anything else, I will repost the original piece of writing. Many of you didn’t see it the first time, but who remembers this? (Sorry, the photos are a bit blurry.)

April 13, 2010 — Disclaimer: The following is My Opinion Only. Your opinions may vary. Feel free to chime in either way.

Bet you guys know what I’m talking about just from the title, without seeing an example. Anyone who has ever been in spanking videos or photo shoots, had spanking pictures taken of them or simply viewed these pics online knows. Some call it an “impact shot”; I call it the “dreaded mush-butt shot” (hereinafter called the DMBS). A photo that captures the exact moment when the hand or implement strikes the bottom and flattens it.

A lot of men seem to like these shots. I can’t speak for all women, but I can (and do) speak for this woman — I detest them! I think they are criminal. Universally unflattering, no matter what kind of bottom the woman has. NOTE: This is not a weight commentary. It doesn’t matter what size, weight or shape the bottom is; when it’s photographed in this manner, the most perfect bottom on the planet will still look lumpy, squished and misshapen.


That poor girl. She must have cringed at the above shot. Who wouldn’t? What woman wants to see her bum smooshed out like that? Bottoms are beautiful things; full, rounded and smooth. Don’t show them like this, for God’s sake. Where’s your humanity?

We’ve all had the DMBS crop up amongst our photos. Yours truly has had them too. But I make damn sure, whenever possible, that they are swiftly relocated to the cyber trash.

Of course, some of this flattening is due to (again, My Opinion Only) poor technique. Look how these men are striking — completely flat-handed. Hello — your hand is not a board, and the bottom is not a tough cut of meat to be flattened. Take a minute to cup your hand to the bottom you’re spanking; form your fingers around it, take on its shape. Then your smacks will be delivered with a crisp SNAP instead of a dull thud, and the pain and sting will be imparted without pounding down your target like bread dough.


Such an otherwise lovely photo, a lovely behind. Too bad the spanker is plowing into her like a pile driver.

So to recap, folks — just stay away from the DMBS. Don’t take them. If you take them by accident, delete them. I really don’t think any woman wants to see her butt in that state on the Internet. Be kind. Be flattering. Show your spankees in their most flattering photos.

Of course, with some heavy, thuddy, flat implements like thick wooden paddles and solid, inflexible straps, the DMBS is inevitable:


The solution? Simple. Avoid these implements altogether. They suck anyway.  Oh, and while you’re at it, avoid that position too. But that’s another subject.

End of original. As I recall, this actually got Chrossed; his tag line for the post was “I guess I like them.” (It’s OK, sir, I forgive you.)

What brings this up again? Like I said, I’m not seeing any fewer of these atrocities. Here’s the latest one that got my cringe on.


An otherwise perfect photo. Hunky guy, beautiful naked girl, a lovers’ spat in the boudoir. He’s oh-so toppily gripping her hair (yes, I know that’s not a word. Shut up. Blogger’s license) and uttering a yummy challenge.

Aaaaaand he’s giving the poor girl a most unattractive case of Pancake Ass. Am I the only one whose eye is irretrievably drawn away from all the sexy aspects of this photo to focus on the flattened Frisbee that is her backside?

And finally, does this hand have a license plate? I’d like to report it.


By the way, I have no idea where any of these photos are from — I plucked them at random from a search of “spanking impact shots.” If you know the origin of any of them, please feel free to identify them.

But my point remains the same: The DMBS needs to be eradicated. There ought to be a law. Bottoms, rise up and let your voices be heard. Stop allowing the posting of pictures where a bottom is more flattened than roadkill. It’s just wrong. Some of us log too many hours in the gym to countenance our bottoms looking like a deflated ball the cat dragged in.

And on that note, I’m headed to the gym. Happy Monday.

“I will not…”

I don’t write lines. I never will write lines. My mother made me write lines when I was a kid, and that’s one of my many hard limits in this scene of ours. But if I were to do so, here’s what I would write 100 times:

I will not engage with fucktards on Facebook.

I know better than this. Truly, I do. Without going into all the sordid details, today on FB, a friend posted an article about a loony-tune teacher in a certain location I will not mention, and I commented that I never wanted to go there. Then some idiot chimes in out of left field: “Good cause your [sic] not welcome.”

Aaaand I was off. I engaged. Granted, he was much worse, calling me a bitch three times. But I did ridicule his crappy spelling (grammEr, anyone?) and call him stupid. 😀

I apologized to my friend for the flame war on her post. Meanwhile, the jerk-off got in the last insult and then blocked me. Coward.

Why do I bother with this?? I know I can’t fix stupid. Why why why do I let stupid people suck me in and pull me down onto their slimy level? Arggghh.

Have I mentioned lately that I need a @#$%ing good spanking?? I am out of control, kids. Less than a week, and I’ll have all I can handle and then some. And I can forget about all the morons for a while.

Meanwhile, here’s what I wish I had posted to that idiot before he jumped ship:


And he can go sit on himself.

Have a great weekend, y’all. 😉

Anyone got a spare rhino hide lying around?

Because sometimes, I think that’s what I need in order to survive FetLife.

Yeah, this is drama. I’m venting here. So if you don’t want to read any further, I understand.

Toward the end of last week, I posted a bit of writing on Fet, along the same lines as part of what I posted here a week or so ago. It was about identifying as a spanking purist, and how I was reclaiming the term. As before, I was very careful to explain that I didn’t mean it to sound elitist or exclusionary, or that I was better than anyone else. I simply was trying to express that spanking is pretty much my only fetish, and I didn’t want to be judged for it.

The post got a surprising number of “loves,” and a lot of comments. The comments fell into two categories: the first were people who wholeheartedly agreed and were basically saying, “Hear, hear, me too.” The second were those who didn’t care for the term, took exception to it for one reason or another, and who patiently and respectfully took the time to explain why they didn’t like it. Both types of comments were welcome. I was hoping for some lively discussion on this, and I got it.

Last night I came home from John’s and found several more comments on the post, but still, things had remained adult and peaceful. Wow, I thought. Is this really FetLife? I was so stoked that everyone had been so awesome. And maybe I really did need to rethink the term “purist,” if it bugged so many people I like. One person said he completely understood what I meant, but the word still pissed him off. I get that; after all, I have my own knee-jerk reaction to the word “evolved.” I can learn something, too.

I spoke too soon.

One of my friends had written her own post, a sort of counterpart to mine, explaining why she was uncomfortable with the purist thing. No problem; she didn’t attack me. She sent me a private message to let me know she had no issues with me or what I’d said. But then, a woman who, last year, decided that she hates me and has been sniping at or about me on Fet ever since (after she unfriended and blocked me), came on, said she loved my friend’s post, and then went on to pretty much call me out. Viciously. No, she never mentioned my name; she just said “that person” and “SHE” and “HER,” with contempt dripping off her words. But it was crystal clear she was talking about me; everyone knew that. And then she said that anytime in history where people used terms like “pure,” they generally ended with some sort of ethnic cleansing.

Ethnic cleansing???? Oh, no, she didn’t. She did not go there. So now, because I used the term spanking purist, I’m a racist? A bigot?

Adrenaline didn’t just surge — it exploded. The pancakes I’d eaten hours before were flapping their jacks in my stomach. My heart was pounding and a bad taste rose in the back of my throat, so I got up to get some water. When I did, I noticed my legs felt like Jell-O, they were trembling so much. I was beside myself.

(A funny aside: Even in the peak of rage, I couldn’t bring myself to utter that one word that I so thoroughly detest, not even to myself. I, quite literally, was sputtering out loud in my living room, “That bitch! That… that c-word!! “)

And then I felt tears come to my eyes. NO, I thought. Don’t be a baby, goddammit. Be strong and face this.

My voice of reason said, “Take the high road. Don’t get down into the trenches with her.” I told my voice of reason to f&%k off. Because there’s no way I could let this stand. It’s one thing to take the high road; it’s another to sit by passively and let someone use you as a dartboard. So I went on the post and defended myself emphatically, managing to do so without name-calling. She came back and posted another pile of BS, misquoting me, accusing me of deliberately misunderstanding and then crying “Poor me.” What could I possibly have misunderstood? Her words were quite clear. Once again, I stood my ground and returned fire, saying that I was not homophobic, trans-phobic, or any other kind of phobic — except perhaps MEAN-phobic, so yeah, I found her terrifying. I also said that I resented the FUCK out of her ethnic cleansing implication.

Her final words to me were “I’m done with your ridiculousness.” So I replied, “And I’m done with your snarky judgments, and being your doormat.”

Then the private messages from friends began. Very kind and supportive messages. I was shaking so hard I could barely type, but I answered everyone. One very special woman, who was friends with both of us, let me know that she had written to my hater privately and gently, diplomatically suggested that she take 24 hours to cool off, and that I had the right to defend myself, consider how she’d called me out publicly. My friend wouldn’t tell me what her friend responded, but she did admit that it was “horrid” and that they were no longer friends; she didn’t want to associate with someone who could be so mean, who attacked people she cared about.

Oh, geeeezus. I didn’t want this sort of thing happening! It had gone too far, and I thought, oh, screw it. Know what? I’m just going to take my post down. It served its purpose, and I had decided against the purist term anyway, so it was time to end this. So, after copying my post and all of the comments and pasting them into a Word document, I deleted it, and in its place I posted a brief explanation of why I did. Figured that would help somewhat, right? Then I slept on it.

This morning, while poking around the Fet feed, I found this delightful little exchange between the OH (original hater) and a new one. I’ve copied and pasted it here, typos/misspellings intact, nothing changed — all I did was delete the names:

Hater #1: Write a post once again expressing judgey views > shit hits the fan > write follow up post saying ‘Labels are bad.’ Y’all must have your tunes on reserve cuz you change them quick.

Hater #2: But she “changed” in that five minutes! Really! Plus, mean people have been pointing out her fucked up views! Wah!

Hater #1: It’s obvious as hell what these wild out the gate ‘I’m a legitimate born this way never gonna change [insert kink label]’ posts are. Insecurity that other people are evolving in their own journeys, getting support for it, and feeling like you need to be seen. No one has patted your back lately. You want pats too! We see you. And you’re comical.

What, I’m comical now? Why, thank you. My father would be so proud. 🙂 I was tempted to break into their conversation and cheerily comment: “Enjoying your dime-store psychology session, ladies? Yup, I see you, too.” But I refrained. I simply updated my status, saying that my haters were having some bile with their morning coffee. Hey, they’ve blocked me — they wouldn’t see it. And if someone told them about it… oh well. Too bad, so sad.

I’m not made of stone; yeah, it feels sucky to know that there are people out there who think this poorly of me. But on the flip side, I got messages, I got texts, I got supportive comments, even a phone call. People told me I was a class act. One friend texted, “I’m not a purist, but I love you.” ♥

What did I learn? 1. I’m going to stop using the term “purist.” I know what I mean by it, and my friends understand what I mean by it, but it seems to be off-putting and I don’t wish to put anyone off, when I’m simply trying to define myself. 2. I have good friends (but then, I already knew that). 3. If someone pushes me, it is OK for me to push back, as long as I don’t lower myself to their level.

So, am I crying “poor me”? On the contrary; I’m quite thankful for these two bitter creatures. Why? They make me feel better about myself!  C’mon, I’m the first to admit I can be a snarky, intolerant little snot. But compared to the likes of them, I’m a freaking saint. 😀


Kiss kiss! Peace out, haters.

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