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”

“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:

pricks

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. 😀

blowingkiss

Kiss kiss! Peace out, haters.

OT: More sandwiches that should not exist

Can you stand yet another one of my disgusting food rants? (Just to clarify, the food is disgusting, not my rants.) I just had one a couple of months ago, about bacon-wrapped pizza. Now, we have two new sandwiches that endeavor to pile as many substances onto one poor bun as is physically possible. Whether or not you should eat them is another story.

First up in the barf bag queue, we have Carl’s Jr/Hardee’s “Most American Thickburger.”

thickburger

What makes it so American, you ask? Well, number one, it’s excessive. And for another, since it couldn’t decide between hamburgers and hot dogs, it put both in the same bun. Along with a serving of potato chips. Oh, and cheese too, of course.

Mind you, I have nothing against hamburgers, or hot dogs (especially if they’re the good all-meat Kosher kind, not the El Cheapo variety that are 2% pig testicles and eyeballs, and 98% cereal filler). I don’t have an issue with potato chips, either. But for God’s sake, have we gotten so @#$%ing lazy that we can’t even eat our different sandwiches separately? Is it too much effort to put down the sandwich and reach for your chip bag?

Speaking of effort, isn’t it difficult lifting such a hefty sandwich? I have a better idea. Do like KFC does and pile the whole freaking mess into a bowl. Throw in the cut-up burgers and franks, and a jumbo bag of potato chips, smush it all around. Dump ketchup and cheese sauce over the whole fucking thing and then top it off with a slice of apple pie. Yes, I said apple pie. Call it the “Fourth of July Picnic in a Bowl.” When I mentioned this to John, he made a face and said, “You can’t put apple pie on a burger!” Why the hell not? If the sweet/savory fanatics can put bacon on ice cream, or beef jerky in a chocolate bar, or ruin perfectly ripe, luscious sweet fruit with chili powder, I can damn well put pie in a sandwich. Serve it all up with a mini-plastic shovel, and there you go. You even have a bowl handy afterward for… well, you know. Blorrrgghhhhhh, as they used to say in MAD Magazine.

Anyway, should you decide you want to attempt consuming this monstrosity, it will set you back 1030 calories, 64 grams of fat, and 2350 mg of sodium.

If you haven’t already turned green reading this, wait, there’s more! Next up is Applebee’s “Triple Hog Dare Ya.”

TripleHogDareYa_MAY15_1014

Look out, arteries, here comes the Cholesterol Express! Not one, not two, but three kinds of pork. Barbecued pulled pork, plus ham, plus bacon. My ankles swelled just reading about it. Of course, that’s still not unhealthy enough, so they throw in fried onions and cheese sauce as well.

For Christ’s sake — eat a pulled pork sandwich if you like. Enjoy a BLT. Order a ham and cheese. But all three in the same sandwich?? And once again, are we too lazy to eat our side dish separately? Blech.

What IS it with this trend of piling everything but the garbage disposal between two pieces of bread? Please, make it stop. More is not necessarily better. How do you even taste all the separate flavors when they’re conglomerated like this?

Oh, and this heap of Hog Hell has 1140 calories, 62 grams of fat, and a whopping 2640 mg of sodium. Just to give you a perspective on sodium: John, being a heart patient, is supposed to follow a low-sodium diet, because salt makes one retain fluid and that’s hard on the heart. You know what his recommended daily allowance of sodium is? 150 mg. That’s one hundred and fifty, not one thousand and fifty. I believe that’s about two-and-a-half salted peanuts. Or a few crumbs of this sandwich.

Please, people. Stop. Eating. This. Crap. John and I spent a lot of time in the Cardiac ICU recently. Believe me, this is not a place where you want to be.

Rant over. I do believe I’ve earned some crunchy organic peanut butter.

Yes, I’m in a bad mood

Trying to get some work done, and they are replacing some of the pipes in my apartment building. Pipes that are apparently very close to my unit. So, it’s been BANG BANG BANG, POUND POUND POUND, THUD THUD CRASH BANG for hours. This is not working wonders for my concentration, or for my temper.

So take a break, Erica. Go to the gym and work off the aggravation. Can’t. I tweaked my back and it hurts. No gym for me. I know better than to exercise when my back is out.

Steve left early this morning for his vacation. Haven’t heard from him since he called to cancel this week, last Sunday, and, despite his promises to write, to text, to send pictures, I can pretty much bet that I won’t hear from him again until after he comes home sometime next week. I know he doesn’t mean it. I know it’s not personal; it’s just what he does. He’s scattered and he forgets, especially when he’s all excited about a trip. Still sucks, though. It doesn’t take much to get me feeling forgotten, even though I know I’m not. Bleah.

I need a spanking like crazy. Sometimes, I really do wish I had more local top friends, ones who could step in when Steve isn’t available. Then again, I couldn’t play now anyway. Because, you know, my back hurts.

John is going back to work next Tuesday. I wish he were taking another couple of weeks off. He’s just starting to get his energy back, doing some odd jobs and projects around his house, and I wish he had a little more time to build up and be fully ready. But it’s been nine weeks. His friend and co-worker has been calling him nearly every day, regaling him with work stories (and no, they’re not fun, feel-good stories), which annoys the hell out of me. Why do people do that? What, is John supposed to feel guilty or something? He says he doesn’t mind, that in a way, it gets him prepared for what he’s coming back to. Meh. I didn’t want him thinking about work.

Just read online today that Maggie Gyllenhaal (you know, from Secretary), who is now 37, was turned down for a role playing the love interest of a 55-year-old man, because she’s “too old.” Thirty-seven is too old for a fifty-five-year-old?? UGH! I hate our ageist society. Just effing hate it. On FetLife, a woman wrote that her friends are making age jokes because it’s her 30th birthday. Sometimes, I want to slap people. Repeatedly.

Ugh. This day can kiss my ass.

Sorry/not sorry for having a voice

Yesterday, I reactivated my FetLife account. For the most part, it was a positive experience; got a lot of welcome back comments and messages, and some new friend requests. But of course, the peanut gallery had to pipe up as well.

Before the 50 Freaks party in February, I had posted a video on FL of Steve giving me a pre-party “warm-up.” I was in full sass mode for this one (what a surprise), and we had a lot of banter. I got mostly positive feedback on it, with the exception of these two comments:

gag her. she’s annoying

and

What a nice ass! But I agree about gagging her.

Well, nuts to both of you. At the time, I posted this in reply:

Some people, including my beloved top, like me just the way I am, mouth and all. So, with all due respect, up yours.

Then yesterday, the same video got this gem:

Vids have great potential, however, the chit-chat is very annoying. Hard to watch!

Then don’t watch, stupid. It’s really that simple.

Checked out this commenter’s profile. He identifies as an “alpha male” — in other words, he has a small dick. 🙂 And just before commenting on my video, he had clicked “Love” on a video posted by a guy who’s well known for beating the ever-loving sh*t out of women’s bottoms. Figures!

Oooh, he thinks my videos have great potential! Maybe I should try doing them professionally. huh? Oh, wait. I’ve been doing that for fifteen years.

Geez, people. I get it that my style isn’t everyone’s cup of kink. I know some people think I talk too much, sass too much, interact with the top too much. You’re certainly entitled to your preferences. As am I. I would prefer that if you don’t like my stuff, you move on and watch something you do like. Because I’m not interested in your critiques.

I have a rep that precedes me; people pretty much know what they’re going to get when they watch me. And some people enjoy my feistiness. They like a little challenge from a bottom. They know I can take what I dish out. They appreciate the dynamics between me and my top(s). For these folks, I am very grateful, and I will continue to entertain you for as long as you want me to. 🙂

As for the critics who wish to silence me:

Erica's Helpful Hints -- the Monday edition

(OK, so this is an old photo, as evidenced by the old-time monitor, the fax machine, and the fact that I’m hiding the lower portion of my face. But the message remains current!)

Have a great weekend, y’all.

All About That Red: Part parody, part rant

I promised y’all a spanko parody, didn’t I? I was going to wait until I was in a lighter mood, but you know what? Life sucks all to hell right now, and I don’t see that changing any time soon. So I’m going to counter my tears with a little comedy.

So OK. One thing I need to make clear before I say anything else: This is not, not, not about anyone’s consensual hard spanking play. I know some people like to play really intensely, and some bottoms relish being the recipient of that. So if you’re mutually into that, more power to you, and carry on.

No, I’m talking about an attitude I’ve see pervading FetLife and other sites lately — how “it isn’t a proper spanking” until you see blood, and bottoms that resemble a barbecued steak, rare.

Beat them more, harder, faster. Hand and leather? Forget about those; use wood. Heavier, thicker, bigger paddles. Still not enough? Move on to rubber and braided cat ‘o nine tails. Tear that ass up good. And if those still don’t do the trick, have you considered a circular saw, or a nail gun?

OK, I’m being facetious with that last part. But you get my point.

I’m also talking about the comments my fellow bottoms know and love so dearly — the peanut gallery, the armchair (or basement, as it were) critics. “You call that a spanking?” “Needs a lot more red.” “OK, now that the warm-up is over, time for the real punishment.” And our favorite: “I could do a better job than that.”

Because, you see, pink and red just aren’t enough for these bloodthirsty barbarians.

I really resent the implication that if you don’t suffer lasting damage, you’re some sort of wimp, or that a “real” punishment has to be all about agony. What about head space? What about interaction, taking the time to learn and push your bottom’s emotional buttons? Nahhhhh… just beat them more viciously.

Hence my parody. And for those who have been frustrated with my earlier efforts because I so often riff on oldies that a lot of people don’t know or remember, this one is from 2014 and was played so far past death, you’d have to have been living in an underground cave to have not heard it. It’s Meghan Trainor’s “All About That Bass,” her anthem for women with curves. Here it is as a reminder:

Personally, I think countering fat-shaming with skinny-shaming is obnoxious. But whatever. The song is undeniably catchy. So without further ado, here is my version, “All About That Red.” This goes out to all the Uber-Doms who think that a bottom is just a piece of meat to pound, whether it’s wanted or not.

Because you know, I’m all about that red,
‘Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that red,
’Bout that red,
‘Bout that red

Yeah, it’s pretty clear, I ain’t no pain ho
But I can take it, take it,
Like I’m supposed to
‘Cause I’m yellin’ ow ow, the tops are keepin’ pace
All the right sass and all the right faces

I see the FetLife pics, those bloody photos pop
I know those tops are mean,
Come on now, make ’em stop
If someone’s beating beating, say your goodbyes
‘Cause every inch of you is precious
From your bottom to your thighs!

Yeah, my spanker, he told me,
Don’t worry about your bum
He said, “I love your booty, so
Trashing it would be dumb
So all you sadists with your big ol’ axe
You think you need to grind,
Do it on someone else, ‘cause
You won’t be touchin’ this behind!

Because you know, I’m all about that smack,
‘Bout that smack
No thudding

I’m all about that burn,
‘Bout that burn,
No bleeding

I’m all about the marks,
‘Bout the marks,
Not carnage

I’m all about the strict,
‘Bout the strict,
Not brutal

I’m bringing mercy back!
Go ahead and tell them Uber-Dommies Bye
No, I’m just saying, I know you think you’re tough
But I’m here to tell you
Every inch of you’ll be broken on your bottom from your top!

Yeah, my spanker, he told me,
Don’t worry about your bum
He said, “I love your booty, so
Trashing it would be dumb
You know I won’t be no whipping girl, willin’ to take your wrath,
So if that’s what you’re into
Then go ahead and kiss my ass

Because I’m all about that red
‘Bout that red,
No purple

I’m all about that sting,
‘Bout that sting,
No blisters

I’m all about that belt
‘Bout that belt,
No rubber

I’ll all about good tops
‘Bout good tops,
‘Bout good tops!

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