A Little More on that Damned “Age Thing”

Last week, I wrote about life changes (and resulting insecurities). The always thought-provoking KD Pierre said my post triggered his own thoughts, and he wrote this post, clearly indicating that it was not meant to compare or contrast, merely that my post set off his own thoughts. Well, of course, I read his post and now I feel like I want to bounce back off him with some further thoughts on this subject.

KD talked about friends who want to go back, who want to relive their pasts, their “glory days.” He mentioned Gloria Swanson in her classic “Sunset Boulevard” role, the fading movie star who dwells in her past and goes mad doing so. Here’s the deal with me: I don’t want to relive my youth. My youth sucked! A lot of you who have been with me for a long time know this. I went from a chubby, awkward child who was afraid of everything to a confused teenager who went from overweight to anorexic to a depressed but high-functioning adult with anger issues and eating disorders. Exactly what part of that would I want to revisit? Blech. As I mentioned in my book, decades of my life were spent existing. It was only when I finally got on the right meds that I began to live.

And y’all know what happened then. Erica Scott broke out of the closet and there was no stopping her. But I had a lot of ground to catch up on. A lot of lost time to make up for. And I wanted to experience everything.

In reading KD’s post, this statement jumped out at me:

Another positive I have in my life that I recommend to others is to have younger people around you as much as possible. 

Interesting, I thought. Through most of my adult life, I have been drawn to people younger than I am. I’m not sure why, and I don’t think it matters. But of course, since some people really suck, this has been criticized. I remember someone sneering to me somewhere on FetLife or someplace like that, regarding my friendships with some of the younger spanking models, that my “envy of younger women was palpable.” Yeah, yeah. Do I want to be in my 20s again? Christ, no. Okay, I’d take 40s. But that’s beside the point. I’m also, for the most part, attracted to younger men. I play often with younger men. I’ve taken heat for this too.

Following are a few random past pictures of me with friends. In the first one, I’m buried in the pillow fight pile at a party. The second one is Alex Reynolds’ bridal shower. And the third one is me with the incomparable Sierra Salem at her birthday party. Yes, we are lying on the pavement.

What do all these pictures have in common? Every single other woman in them could be my kid. I’m not sure why they all wanted to hang out with me, but I’m glad they did.

Here is a possible explanation, not that I owe anyone one. You have to keep in mind that, regarding people my own age, I actually have very little in common with them, aside from an aging body. The larger percentage of people in my age group are married, or have been (often more than once). A lot of them have grown kids, and even grandkids. They have houses and mortgages (with all the accompanying taxes, repairs, and other grownup headaches). They’ve traveled the world (or at least part of it). And then there’s me. Never married, never lived with anyone, never had kids. Have lived in an apartment my entire adult life. And aside from Mexico, I’ve never left the United States. I don’t even own a passport. I just can’t relate to the life experiences of most of my peers. And let’s face it — with my unusual experiences, a lot of them can’t relate to me, either.

However, there is one major drawback to having young friends. They don’t get my references. They don’t know the music I knew, the TV shows I watched, the world events I lived through. My cultural literacy memories are not theirs. I recall years ago, being in an airport gift shop, traveling with a 20-something co-star for videos back East. There was a t-shirt with the Marx Brothers on it, and she asked me who they were. I said, “You’ve never heard of Groucho Marx?” She thought for a moment and then answered, “I’ve heard of Karl Marx…?” Oy vey. This kind of thing makes me feel ancient. Compare it to just recently, when I mentioned to a new friend (who is a mere five years younger) that I like the Marx Brothers, and he not only knew who they were, he started quoting their movies and calling me “Spanko, the unknown Marx Sister.” It’s comforting to have someone speak your language.

Recently on Twitter, someone tweeted, “Can you imagine being alive during the time The Beatles were writing and recording music??” Uh… He sounded so incredulous, I couldn’t help but comment, “Yeahhh… a lot of us are still around. It’s not like we were there for Beethoven composing his nine symphonies.” (sigh)

There are exceptions, of course. When I was 50 years old, I was approached by a man of 21 who wanted to play with me. I balked. I said I was too old for him and I’d feel ridiculous. He said, “You’re not too old — I’m an old soul.” We met, I was impressed by his poise, and yup, we played several times. I remember the first time he was at my place and I had an oldies station playing in the background. I was shocked when a song from the 1960s came on and he started singing along with it. “How the hell do you know this song?” I blurted. He really was an old soul. I still know him, and I still play with him when I see him at a party.

So, in short, generally speaking, I don’t comprehend the life references of many people my age. And younger people don’t comprehend mine. Is it any wonder that I refer to myself as a square peg in a round world? And question just where the hell I belong now?

As I mentioned on KD’s post, I don’t want to go back to the flower of my youth. It had way too goddamn many weeds in it. But, as many of you know, I’m also terrified of aging. Watching one’s mother rot for seven years from dementia will do that to a person. It’s terrifying to witness. If you’re lucky enough to remain healthy, have some money in the bank, have loved ones to be with, getting older doesn’t have to be a train wreck. But for many, it is, and there’s no sugar-coating that. That’s why I hate age jokes. My former top used to think it was so hilarious to say, “We’re gonna still be playing in our 80s! I’ll be pulling down your Depends!” I always responded with a disgusted, “Don’t say stuff like that,” and then he’d compound it by laughing and adding, “Don’t worry, I’d wipe your ass for you!” And I’d want to punch him in the nose. Not funny, jackass. Incontinence isn’t funny, and neither are diapers. And they sure AF aren’t sexy either — not when you have to wear them, because your body and mind have stripped you of your independence and your dignity.

What would be my ideal? If I had my druthers, I’d hang around indefinitely in the middle. Old enough to have gained wisdom and experience, to have outgrown a lot of the insecurities and doubts of youth (although we never fully outgrow some of them). But not so old that I don’t recognize my own body and face anymore. I really, really hate looking down at my arms and thinking, “When the fuck did I get my mother’s arms???” No, I don’t want my teenage skin anymore. But I could do without some of the weird shit I see going on with my skin these days.

And of course, to swing this back onto topic a little, there is always the niggling fear that we’re too old to spank. That no one wants to look at our butts or anything else anymore. I mean, I heard from a lovely woman on FetLife who just friended me, who lives in another country. She wrote that she would love to come to a U.S. party someday, but time is running out and she’s afraid she’s too old. She’s 52. (heavy sigh) So yeah. The fear is real. And it gets a little worse every year.

But of course, the clock continues to tick, and life stages continue to morph and change. I don’t want to go back. But I’m not sure who the hell I am and where I fit in now, going forward. Hence the rambles.

If you slogged through all this, thank you. If you relate, please feel free to chime in. Have a good weekend, y’all. Stay safe. ♥

What would you have done?

Those of you who have been with me for a while are aware that I’m a bit OCD, and it especially manifests itself in my need for routines, schedules and sameness. I don’t deal with the unexpected very well — which, as you can guess, has me stressed a great deal of the time, because life is full of the unexpected. Spontaneity? Sure, I’m okay with spontaneity, as long as I have advance notice of it.

Backtrack to a couple of weeks ago. I had a very nice first-time public visit and chat with a potential play partner. He works very long hours, being an office manager, but he said he could meet with me around lunchtime. I told him to choose something near his work; he asked if I was okay with sitting outdoors, as long as we were in shade. And then he asked, “Is it all right if I bring a friend?” My first thought was “HUH??” Then I saw the attached picture: a big fluffy white dog. What do I love, kids? People’s dogs. What didn’t I get to pet and fuss over for 15 months? People’s dogs. I was thrilled.

So it was a fun afternoon (and the dog was adorable). We agreed we would try to get together sometime before he left in mid-July for a two-week family vacation.

Last week, he said he might be able to come over on Tuesday (this past Tuesday, the 6th), but wasn’t sure. Could he let me know as late as Monday? I said okay. However, Monday came and went… and I heard nothing. (sigh) I figured he got busy with pre-vacation stuff and it wasn’t a go.

Tuesday morning, I was in a foul mood. I had gone from famine to feast with work, and while I always want work, my first reaction to getting a lot of it is OVERWHELMED. Plus my car had been making a very alarming loud noise and I had to bring it in to my mechanic. It was going to be a busy day. I hunkered down in full “I’m working I’m busy Leave me alone” mode… and then at 10 that morning, I got a text:

“I know this is last minute, but would you like to get together later this afternoon?”

Arrrggghhh. I wanted to slam my head into the desk. Yes, I would have liked to get together. Of course I wanted to play; it’s been two months already since I saw my Oregon friend.

But now, with my day planned and my head firmly geared toward getting things done?

Yeah, I know. A whole lot of people would have said, “Screw it, let’s move this, adjust that, blah blah blah, and just say YES.” But we’re not talking about the average normal person. We’re talking about neurotic me.

When would I do my work? When would I take my car in and Uber home? When would I do my workout? When would I shower and shave and put makeup on and tidy up the place? How long would he stay? We hadn’t discussed limits and boundaries — how long would that take? On and on and on it went until I was feeling like I’d just drunk 15 cups of coffee. Meanwhile, he was sitting at the other end, waiting for an answer to his text.

Politely and regretfully, I told him no, that I’d figured he couldn’t make it when I hadn’t heard from him and now I was slammed with work and other stuff. He understood. Said we’d have to plan something when he came back. He mentioned something about having bought a leather paddle, so he’s invested already.

But of course, I was left feeling really annoyed with myself. (“Why can’t you be more flexible?” “Why can’t you be more spontaneous?” “You could have said yes and made it work; why didn’t you?” “You just let life’s opportunities pass you by! What’s wrong with you?” In case you’re wondering, that critical voice sounds a lot like my mother.

However — I did make good use of the day. I got a ton of work done. I got my car into the shop. I did a killer workout and blew off all the aggravation. And then things turned around.

In my restless mood, I had gone on FetLife and written a status grumbling about how I’d said no to last-minute play and that adulting sucks, just to bitch a little and blow off steam. Got some fun commiserating comments. And then… I got a message from Mr. Woodland — remember him? We played several times in the past but hadn’t seen each other for a couple of years due to the pandemic and some other circumstances. He said he was sorry my plans fell through… and if I was interested in playing with him again sometime, please let him know.

Um. Well. Was I interested?
You bet your ass I was interested.

Long story short? I couldn’t do the spontaneous play thing, but now I have a play date for next Tuesday. grinning

Occasionally, life works. So, readers, would you have said yes to the last-minute play, or done the boring and uptight responsible adult thing? (And I say it that way because that’s what I did, so I’m allowed!)

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

Community ♥

It’s been nearly a month since I posted, but really, there hasn’t been that much to write about. Well, except one huge thing that happened two weeks ago, and I haven’t had the time to talk about it since because of work and life and so forth. But now is a good breaking point to stop and reflect. Settle in and grab your beverage of choice.

Let’s backtrack a bit; you all know I dropped out of the public scene for all of 2019. It was a really dark time for me, one in which I felt like I didn’t belong anymore, I didn’t know who my friends were (with a few exceptions who stuck with me through it all). Come 2020, I was ready to reenter things. I reactivated FetLife, and in February, I went to a big national party after skipping the last two. I had a fabulous time, felt reconnected and renewed, and was looking forward to further adventures.

Then COVID-19 hit. And everything shut down. No parties. No play dates. No coffee dates. No anything, socially. I’d reentered the scene just in time to have it disappear.

Virtual meetings became the norm. Zoom, FaceTime, Skype, etc. The only way we could see our friends was on a computer screen. But it was better than nothing, right?

Except I couldn’t do any of that. Because I still had this old desktop that ran perfectly well with just one glitch: I couldn’t chat with anyone online. It didn’t have a built-in cam, and I tried three different external webcams, all with the same result: picture, but no sound. I had my computer tech take the system home with him and tear it apart, trying to find out what was wrong, and he couldn’t. So I knew I wouldn’t be able to do virtual chat with anyone until I got a new computer system.

Which I couldn’t afford.

However, my birthday is at the end of September. And John was making noises about how I should start shopping and researching computer systems. I knew what that meant; he was going to buy me a new system for my birthday. He does stuff like that. I mean, he bought me my current system, and insisted I get the best. When I was going to buy a 19-inch monitor, he said live a little, get a 21-inch one. This system has served me well, and still runs well (and quickly), save for that webcam issue. But perhaps it was time to move on. After all, I was still on Windows 7 and Word 2010.

Online, I complained endlessly to anyone who would listen about how I couldn’t cam with anyone. People said things like “You really need to upgrade.” Sure, okay. Wanna buy me a new computer?? Tell me something I don’t know.

A couple of weeks ago, my dear friend Jay and I were having our usual daily email exchange, and she cryptically told me that she’d “done a thing” and had help with it. That I would be getting a package from Fed-Ex that I’d have to sign for, and it would be coming from Zack’s address. (You remember Zack from 50 Freaks; I had several pictures of him and me in my party blog.) Um… what? She said she knew it was my birthday next month and she had planned an early surprise gift. She had one request: when I got it and opened it, she wanted me to record my reactions on my phone.

What on earth had she been up to?? I couldn’t imagine what it was. John couldn’t either.

The package was supposed to arrive sometime Thursday… but then midday Jay got a notification that it was now bumped to sometime Friday. (Of course, they don’t give you a time window — they just say “sometime before end of day.”) Argh. Well, at least I was going to be home all day and evening Friday, right? So we waited.

On Friday, I got up early and got as much work done as I could. Jay had warned me that once the package arrived, I wouldn’t be getting much of anything done for the rest of the day. Good grief, this was getting more and more intriguing. And at 2:15, my doorbell rang. Yup, Fed-Ex. A huge, heavy box. I signed for it and dragged it inside. Then, as requested, I set up my phone to record my opening it. I grabbed a sharp knife and hit the record button.

Oh. My. God.

There was a ton of packing material, piles of bubble wrap, and two distinctly wrapped packages within. Recording all the while, I babbled in confusion as I tore through things, trying to figure out what the hell I was looking at here. And then I saw the laptop case.

No. They didn’t.

They did.

I fumbled and fumfered around with the case; I was so flustered, I couldn’t even get the damn thing open! Finally I did, and then I pulled out the new Asus Chromebook. Oh. My. God.

When I lifted the lid, I saw a couple of sheets of paper within. One was a note from Zack, explaining everything that was included, and letting me know that he had installed software to allow him to remotely get into my computer, help me figure things out, copy over all my files, etc. The other sheet was from Jay. Along with a very loving note, she let me know that this had been a group effort; she’d contacted several people and gotten contributions from them. She listed all of them and their FetLife/Twitter names. And on the other side was a list of messages from all the people. Besides Jay and Zack, ten other people had contributed to this. When I saw the messages, the waterworks started.

Mind you, I was being recorded. So here I was, sobbing, babbling incoherently, sitting on the carpet fumbling about with all this wrapping detritus around me, thanking Jay and Zack, saying how much I loved everyone, that I couldn’t believe they did this, that I didn’t have the faintest idea what to do with this right now because I’m such a techno-dork… and then I shut off the recorder.

Before I finished unwrapping the gift(s).

There was still another package to open. They thought of everything.

Besides the laptop and its new travel case, there was a separate, larger monitor. A separate webcam, because Zack said the built-in cam was a little grainy. Plugs and connectors and other things I didn’t recognize. And a wireless mouse.

The laptop was loaded with software. Microsoft Office 2016, which Zack said was the latest and the best before they went to that Microsoft 365 nonsense that you sort of “rent” instead of buying the program. A full Adobe suite, including Acrobat and Photoshop. Zoom was loaded. Zack had even linked me into his streaming service, so I could watch things from his collection of shows and movies.

Unreal.

I ended up making a second recording to add my thanks for all the other stuff I’d discovered after I made the first one. Yes, I came off like a complete dork. But it was real. It was me, raw, overwhelmed and touched beyond belief.

Priorities. The first thing I did was upload the two recordings of my reactions and send them to both Jay and Zack. I took a selfie, in the midst of my sob-fest, with red nose and wet eyes and the whole shebang. I sent a tweet, linking nearly everyone involved, and attached the selfie, saying words couldn’t express what was in my heart, so here was a picture of me bawling with joy. For the three people who weren’t on Twitter, I texted two and emailed the third.

Zack told me that he’d be available that evening and would help me figure stuff out. After I had my nightly phone chat with John (and I cried all the way through that too), first thing I did was take a picture of the bits and pieces I couldn’t figure out and text it to Zack, and he explained what they were. I connected the laptop to my WiFi. Then we connected via Zoom (first time for me, using that) and then were online together for the next two hours. He was in my system remotely, so he could see everything that was going on, and after I let him into my desktop, he copied over all my files, pictures, and music. He showed me around some of the programs.

During our chat, my signal dropped twice and I lost the connection. I asked him what this could be, and he said perhaps I should reboot my router. I did that after our talk, but then the next time I tried the laptop, the signal dropped again. My desktop is connected to my router via Ethernet cable, so the signal never drops, and it never drops on my cell phone either, so I couldn’t understand why this was happening. I spent some time on the phone with AT&T, and they said my router is fine and the connection is strong. So, that’s the next project with Zack — try to work out why the signal to the laptop is glitchy and how to strengthen it without using an Ethernet cable. But that will be later. Also, I want to try to figure out how to sync my laptop and desktop. I’m still keeping the latter, so I’d like to be able to have whatever I do on one happen on the other, if that’s possible. I have so much to learn. Oh, and my work table now has the desktop, laptop, and extra monitor on it, and it’s too crowded. So I’m shopping for a small side table I can use for the laptop. Oh, and accessories like a lap tray and a cooling pad. And and and… I’m getting ahead of myself. This is all so new and exciting.

Back to that night — after I said goodbye to Zack, I played around with the laptop for a while longer, adding my email accounts, choosing a desktop picture and screen saver, adding my MalwareBytes account. At 10 p.m., I was still so wound up I was shaking, and I realized I hadn’t eaten any dinner. I shut everything down, figuring I’d done all I could for one night, and grabbed a KIND bar and a yogurt. The next day I went to John’s, but I didn’t bring the laptop with me — I figured I wanted to give John all my attention and it would be waiting for me when I came home. John was as blown away by this as I was. I think he was a little disappointed that he didn’t get to buy it for me, and he confessed to being worried that our friends would think he was cheap or something because he didn’t do this first. I assured him that they all knew he had intended to, but they just did it sooner!

So. Even though the bulk of this year has been a clusterfuck, even with pandemics and elections and protests and fires and general mayhem happening all around me… I got a wonderful gift. No, not the laptop and the accessories, although those were indeed wonderful. I got the gift of feeling loved. Of knowing how many people care about me. I still can’t believe all the preparation that went into this. First, Jay painstakingly contacted as many people as she could think of, collected the funds, coordinated the messages, kept in touch with everyone with updates. Then Zack took over, getting the system, loading all the software, packing everything so thoroughly and carefully. (I was popping bubble wrap for a week.) It was a labor of love by all, and I still can’t believe I was the recipient. Even two weeks later, writing about this makes me choke up.

And yes, I’m typing up this blog on my new laptop.

In this awful time of isolation and uncertainty, I feel very much loved. I belong.

I love you, Jay. I love you, Zack. I love all of you who contributed to this. When I finally get all this stuff figured out, I hope to Zoom or FaceTime with some of you.

Although I haven’t worn makeup in months and I have about an inch of gray roots and maybe I don’t want people seeing me after all…

SHUT UP, ERICA!

Take care, everyone. Stay safe and well. ♥

 

Our high school selves… who knew?

Yup, I’m getting notices for yet another one of mine. And not just any high school, mind you, but good old Beverly Hills High School. Home of former/future stars, kids and other relations of famous people.

Have any of my readers attended their high school reunions? I’ve never gone to any of mine. High school wasn’t a good time for me; I was pretty much a loner and a misfit there. I didn’t fit into any of the cliques; I wasn’t a brain, I wasn’t in the popular crowd, I wasn’t into sports, I didn’t belong to any clubs. I wasn’t even part of the “bad” crowd; I dabbled in that in my first two years, cutting classes, smoking cigarettes in the 3rd floor girls’ bathroom, hanging out with stoners and highly sexually active kids (I was a virgin). But that wasn’t a good fit for me either. In my freshman and sophomore years, I was overweight. Then I lost a bunch of weight, developed an eating disorder, and in my junior and senior years, I was pretty much invisible. I really doubt anyone would remember me, so why bother attending?

Then, when I think back on school days and people I knew, my mind wanders to this story. When I was in grade school, I had a friend named Rebecca. She had one of those moms who were involved in everything — Girl Scouts and other groups, school functions, etc. — and Rebecca’s family was always on some adventure or having some party or gathering. Rebecca was very sweet… and painfully shy. Like me, she went through years of being pudgy, of having braces. She was smart, friendly, but quiet. I liked being at her house because there was a warmth and family enthusiasm there that wasn’t present in mine. But she and I fell out of touch and went through high school basically passing one another in the halls, but not in contact.

Cut to my high school’s 10-year reunion. I did not attend, but another friend did, and she told me all about it, showing me pictures and relating stories about people we knew. The biggest shocker? Rebecca. She had changed her name from Rebecca Xxxxx to Becky Xxxxxx, lost weight, dyed her hair blonde, bought a pair of 39DDs, and was now acting in soft-core porn. I saw a picture of her and she was unrecognizable.

Who knew??

I Googled her recently, thinking about her after I got the high school reunion notice. She is certainly all over the internet, not just as a model and actress, but a producer and distributor. She has an IMDB page; I was amused when I looked it up to see she’d shaved five years off her birth date, when I know she was born the same year as I was. She’s successful, no doubt wealthy, and although I don’t think I saw any recent pictures, she’s probably still quite stunning.

I wonder if she’d remember me. There’s a contact on one of her websites, and I thought for about thirty seconds about writing to her, then thought “Nahhhhh.” Ancient history.

But it makes me think. What did my high school peers think of this sad, colorless, semi-invisible girl?

Looking at this picture makes me sad. I was sixteen. I look sad. I was sad. And, like Rebecca, there was a whole other self yearning to break free and express herself. Rebecca transformed herself, and so did I. I just took a lot longer.

Did anyone who saw that girl imagine she’d become this woman?

So no, I won’t be going to my high school reunion. I seriously don’t think anyone there would care about Erica [real name] OR Erica Scott. But in a week, I’ll be going to another reunion of sorts — the party in Las Vegas. After a year off.

I have a feeling — at least I am hoping — that this reunion will be much more fulfilling. ♥

Yeah, still here…

I’m like that little floppy-eared bastard with the drum… I just keep going and going.

So what’s been going on? This is another long one, kids. But there’s something fun at the end, if you want to slog through. Or just fast-forward. Up to you.

The past few months, I’ve been dealing with two separate issues. One you already know about; a bad bout of depression that was triggered by something that happened at the end of last year and then decided it wasn’t going to go away. And two, I started having shoulder pain a few months ago. At first I thought I just pulled something or another at the gym, so I worked around it, saw the chiropractor, iced it. But that didn’t go away either. Then it started hurting when I wasn’t even moving it. When it started impacting my sleep (damn near every position except on my back hurt), I knew I’d have to do something about it. And I was sick to death of feeling like death every day, too.

So at the end of March, I started making appointments. First, my regular doc to look at my shoulder, and second, with my HMO’s therapy department to 1. see if my meds need tweaking and 2. try to find a new therapist, as the one I had for over twenty-five years retired two years ago.

Going through the questions and interviews and appointments for therapy are so much fun, especially the tests they have you take, asking you to rate various thoughts and feelings and situations 1 through 5 (1 = Never, 5 = All the time). “How often do you have thoughts of hurting yourself?” “Do you use recreational drugs?” “Do you drink?” “Do you have trouble sleeping?” “Do you feel useless, guilty, unloved, hopeless, blah blah blah?” And then you have an appointment with a psychiatrist to assess your needs — said psychiatrist essentially asks you the same questions again. Because I am my father’s daughter, I couldn’t resist a bit of dark humor.

Doctor: Have you ever tried to commit suicide?
Me: Yeah, when I was nineteen.
Doctor: How?
Me: It was pretty lame; I blew out the pilot lights on the stove and in the heater, turned everything up full blast, closed the windows, and went to sleep. But I woke up.
Doctor: And are you thinking about doing that now?
Me: No, my apartment is all electric now.

What can I say. I saw her trying to hide a laugh. I mean, I get why they have to ask all this stuff. They want to make sure you’re not going to leave the appointment and then go jump in front of a bus. But still… enough. If I haven’t offed myself by now, it ain’t happening.

Anyway, after that, she decided not to switch my meds to something else, just to up the existing a bit, and also suggested I try exercising a little more and to start taking melatonin at night for better sleep quality. And then she referred me to a therapist, who I heard from shortly thereafter.

I’ve had two appointments with her so far and I like her. The first hour, I gave her an overall intro of my younger life: alcoholic dad, hypercritical mom, brother dying, the revolving door of stepmothers, eating disorders and depression, and other general suckage. The second appointment, I told her about Erica Scott and that part of my life. I didn’t get overly detailed, but I needed her to know about the scene, since so much of my current depression is around that. It took all the nerve I had, but I felt better afterward. So I’ll be seeing her regularly. Best part — the copay is only $15.

As for my shoulder, that’s been a lot more challenging. First my doc took an X-ray, found nothing, and suggested I simply stop exercising my upper body until this goes away… in six months or so. Not happening. I’m no doctor, but one thing I do know is you do not stop moving a body part just because it’s injured. You work around it, strengthen the area, keep things moving and flexible. So I asked the doc to refer me to the physical therapy department (after she turned down my request for an MRI). Long story short, I have a vague catch-all term for what’s happening: “Shoulder impingement syndrome.” I’ve had to adjust my workouts, my sleeping position, and the PT has been giving me exercises to do at home, adding another couple every time I see her. I’m up to eight exercises in the series, which take about twenty minutes to a half-hour, and I have to do them twice a day. And that’s on top of regular workouts. Oh, and ice, heat, and Advil/Aleve as needed.

Having shoulder pain is, well, a pain. Never take for granted simple things like pulling a shirt over your head without wanting to scream and cuss. But I’m working on it. You can’t say I’m not being proactive through all this crap.

I’ve been on the new dose of meds for about six weeks now. I do feel a bit better. Through all this, I’ve been highly functional. I got up every morning, got dressed, worked, did what needed doing. But I cried every day, and every night, my last thought before going to sleep was “Please let me die.” That hasn’t been happening for a while. So, progress. And along with a better mood came… guess what. Yeah, you got it. A renewed desire to play.

I had deactivated FetLife, and had no desire to go back on there, because there is someone I don’t want to encounter. So I reactivated some old ads on *shudder* Alt.com and SpankingPersonalAds.com. Yeah, I know. I was opening myself up to CHoS entries once again… and they delivered. Good grief. The very first reply I got after rejoining Alt was a dick pic accompanied with the message, “Want your ass, bitch!” However, there are occasional diamonds in heaps of coal, so I soldiered on. Had a couple of coffee dates; nice men, but just not a fit. One flat-out said he couldn’t imagine giving a woman a spanking and then not having sex afterward. “Guess I’d go jerk off,” he said. Charming.

Then I heard from B, an Irish gentleman who lives in Northern California. I liked how he wrote, I really liked his picture, and we started sending long messages, taking it from the kink site to email. Then he suggested we talk on the phone. I’m not a phone person, as you all know, but I was curious. So he called me one evening at a predetermined time, and we chatted for about two hours. He mentioned that he’d decided when he turned 50 (he’s 51) that he was going to travel to meet people and play, and he asked what my availability was. I said I spend Friday evening through Sunday at John’s, but Monday through Thursday I was home and my time was flexible. He said, “Well, that’s a problem. I work Monday through Friday.”

Well, crap. There goes that, I thought.

Until next day, when he texted me to say he’d enjoyed our conversation, mentioning that he gets chatty when he’s had a glass of wine. I texted back that I enjoyed it too, and I didn’t even have any wine.

He then wrote back that he was going to have to punish me for letting an Irishman drink alone.

Jesus Freaking Christ on a cracker. I was reading this in the locker room at the gym and damn near had a spontaneous orgasm. I answered that I failed to see the logic in this.

His reply: “Just Google ‘Irish stereotypes drinking’ and you will see how punishable this infraction is.” Ye Gods. We bantered a bit back and forth until I finally said that I was at the gym and if he didn’t stop talking like this, I was going to drop a weight on my foot.

Two days later, he texted again and asked what was the closest airport to me, and I said Burbank. He said he could fly out on a Friday night and we could play, and he’d fly home the next day.

Oh, my.

I told him I’d have to talk with John about this, because it would impact my time with him and I make a point of trying not to do that, so I’d get back to him. John’s reaction? “Life is short. Try it once.”

I love this man. ♥

So we planned it for the weekend of May 11. One snag — it turned out he was arriving around 11 p.m., so we’d need to play Saturday. Argh… I had planned to meet him Friday night, play, then head on to John’s. Now it was looking like I wasn’t getting to John’s until sometime Saturday afternoon. But I was all in, and that was that. And for once, the stars aligned; as it happened, John had a crew scheduled Saturday morning to cut down a tree in his back yard, and they were going to be chain-sawing and jack-hammering all morning. So it was just as well that I not be there.

I asked B if he could please come early Saturday morning, say around 9:00. We settled on 9:15. In the meantime, he’d friended me on Facebook, so I could read all about him. I had a full name, a number, an email. He said he could provide references; just the fact that he offered that meant (to me) that I didn’t need them. I was ready. Oh, and did I mention I was nervous AF? It had been six months. And did I also mention this guy is very big on caning? What the hell kind of tolerance was I going to have after such a long hiatus?

B didn’t like the idea of playing in his hotel, so he was coming to my apartment. Bright and early, he showed up. Even more handsome than his pictures, with that accent and the most beautiful blue eyes… oh, Christ, was I ready.

He’d brought his suitcase with him, having checked out of his hotel, and as he settled in, he unzipped one compartment and pulled out four canes, an implement that looked like a whole bunch of skinny canes bundled together, two tawses, and one short strap. Easy, Erica. Don’t panic. You’ve got this. Bionic Butt, remember? It’s like riding a bike. Oh, wait… I never learned how to ride a bike. Fuck. When he showed me the tawse, he explained it was a Scottish Lochgelly tawse, and it looked like one mean mofo — two tongues and very thick. He then added, “We probably won’t be using this.” Probably thought it was a bit too harsh for a first session. I certainly didn’t argue.

Mercifully, he did give me a brief warm-up OTK with his hand and the short leather strap, over my jeans. But all too quickly, it was done, and he had me get back up while he searched for the best place to bend me over for caning. The ottoman was too low, the armchair had no swinging room — but my bed was just right.

What is it about UK men and the cane? I have been caned many times by many tops, but no one seems to have the prowess and precision quite like UK tops. B was no exception. He was very methodical in his corporal punishment delivery — I had to count every stroke, I had to say “sir” with each one, and he was measured and even and focused. I’ve often said that a lot of people are afraid of the cane, but they shouldn’t be; the cane is only as bad as the person wielding it, like any other implement. In the right hands, in conscientious hands, it is intense, it hurts, but it’s a good hurt. It’s deep and it’s lingering and it’s…. mmmmmnggghhh. Yeah, that’s the word for it.

He gave me sets of twelve, and occasionally sets of twenty-four. I lost count of how many there were. He used that cane bundle too. We took breaks periodically, his decision. Here I am somewhere in the middle of it all.

Look how spot on those cane strokes are. And yet, I felt all of those implements on my back, plus one more cane not in the picture.

You would think that after six months of no play, of practically re-virginized skin, this would have been enough, yes? You’d be wrong.

He stopped when he thought I’d had enough. He was gauging my skin and my color. And because we had just met and he didn’t know the full scope of my tolerance, he exercised caution. I knew all that and appreciated every bit of it. But…

I still wanted more.

So when we got up, went back into the living room and sat on the couch to talk, I told him so. I said it wasn’t a criticism; I just liked to be pushed a bit. And because I haven’t played for so long, I’m feeling insatiable. He didn’t answer that, and changed the subject. I figured okay, this was great, we had a good intense scene and I got to dip my toes back in the water.

Until about ten minutes later when he suddenly stood up, picked up the tawse, and said, “Back in the bedroom.”

Uh oh.

Once there, he said, “I’m going to give you twelve. After that, I will ask you if you want twelve more. You will not want them.” I still had my jeans on; how bad could it be?

Oh, crap. That tawse is one mean son of a bitch. It packed a wallop, even over denim. I felt a bit shaky after the twelve were done.

“Do you want twelve more?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I replied.

The next twelve were harder, and I was barely able to keep count by the end. He told me to stand, and I did, on shaky legs. “Wow,” I murmured, looking at the wicked thing in his hands. “That was intense. I can’t even imagine how that feels on bare skin.”

He just looked at me, not putting the tawse down. “Want more?” I hesitated. “How about six.” “OK.” “Pants down.”

Oh, shit.

Took down my jeans, and he gave me six hard ones. And then, he gave me six more. I took thirty-six with that beastly thing.

And I felt so. Damn. Good. I haven’t lost it. I’ve still got it. Now I was done.

Notice the absence of something? Like, I don’t know… wrapping? Unevenness? Perfect balance and distribution. I was impressed.

It was now almost 12:30, so we started to pull our things together. I had already put my weekend suitcase in the car, so all we had to do was gather all his stuff and then I was driving him to the rental car place near the Burbank airport (which was on the way to John’s), so he could drive into Orange County to a shop he wanted to visit there, and then he would fly home from LAX. As he was getting ready, I glanced at my bar top and saw a box that hadn’t been there before. “Is this yours?” I asked. “No,” he said, “it’s yours. It’s a gift.” It was a stove-top espresso pot! In one of our earlier conversations, he had asked me, apropos of nothing, if I liked coffee, and I told him I did. I thought, okay, maybe he’ll bring coffee when he comes over, but then he didn’t, and I forgot about it. Wow. I did not expect a present, and I was really tickled. Thank you, sir, for everything.

I have to admit, what happened last year made me seriously question my judgment in people, my instincts about who is good and who isn’t. But even someone who’s usually pretty accurate about sussing people out could be thoroughly taken in by someone who was so charming and convincing. My instincts are not flawed; they’re just not perfect every time. This time, they were spot on.

I wasn’t sore that evening, which was strangely disappointing. But when I woke up Sunday morning and sat up… holy hell. My butt felt like it had been hit by a bus. Repeatedly. I was sore, deep into the tissues and muscles, but not a mark on me. I think that might have been due to B kneading out the cane strokes in between sets. He asked me which I preferred: having the massage, or having marks. Naturally, I said I like both. I felt the soreness for two days and relished it.

So. Project Erica Taking Her Power Back. Getting my life back, my spirits back, my kink mojo and confidence back. And finding new ways to indulge it, because I can’t go back to the way things were. There’s too much mistrust and pain. Eventually, I will write more about this. I still won’t name names. But I think it’s time to talk about it; I just have to figure out how. Meanwhile… please hold a good thought for me. Healing thoughts for my shoulder and my psyche. And for God’s sake, wish me a local play partner!

And finally, a side note: RIP, Tardar Sauce (yes, that’s how they spelled it), AKA Grumpy Cat. The iconic kitty has passed away at age 7. I mention this because she was my spirit animal, and I related to so many of the memes. But I will always have my little desk mascot.

As always, thanks for reading.

Catching up a bit

Aside from the op-ed post that I copied and pasted last week, I haven’t written for a while. Couple of reasons: one, I’ve been too freaking busy with work. And two: what with all the godawful stuff going on in reality, it felt somewhat disingenuous and forced to post about happy spanky stuff. But life goes on. So I figured it was time to update just a little.

In the past couple of weeks, we’ve had two birthdays — John’s and mine. I had a bit of a struggle with mine, as just a few days before, my play partner and I had officially ended things and I was dealing with residual sadness. But John went all out to make it a happy time for me, starting with flowers a week early and then taking me to Walt Disney Concert Hall for the L.A. Philharmonic on the actual birth date. I’d never been there before, so it was quite the adventure. The architecture of the place is pretty bizarre (oh hell, it’s just plain ugly), but the auditorium itself is breathtaking and the acoustics are perfect.

My birthday flowers:

Full house at the Concert Hall:

We got all dressed up, and later went out for a nice dinner. It was a lovely birthday.

I got some cool presents too — lots of Beatles stuff! A Beatles clock from Lily Starr, a HELP! placard from Alex and Paul, and coffee table books and a poster from another friend (I’m not sure which name to use for her, so I’ll leave that blank).

Last week, I got to have a fun little adventure. Alex contacted me and said one of her clients wanted to do a double session with her and me. I’ve shot custom videos for her, but had never participated in one of her sessions before, so I was game. Her client was from out of town and had booked up a bunch of sessions with several of her friends, so mine was in the middle of three last Wednesday. I hadn’t seen Alex since Shadow Lane, and Paul since a couple of months before that, so it was great to see them again, even though I didn’t get to talk with them too long. Alex’s client was into role-play and we did two half-hour scenes; he turned out to be a lot of fun and I enjoyed myself a great deal.

Even better? Catching up with Alex, I finally got pictures from her birthday party last July!

Before this photo was taken, I had been trying to launch myself onto a floating pool swan… and fell over off the side of it, getting thoroughly dunked. I blame my innate clumsiness, and the vodka-spiked lemonade might have had something to do with it also. Anyway, I was hanging in the background while Alex was taking pictures, and she called out, “Erica, get in the picture. I don’t care if your hair is wet!” So here we are: Alex, me, Ulf, Lizzy McAllister, and Maddy Marks. Happy bunch!

And here’s a really nice shot of John and me, with downtown L.A. behind us:

Fun times. Anyway, work-wise, I dealt with famine for the first half of this year and now I am feasting to the point of gluttony. I get stressed when I feel like I can’t control my workload, but I’d rather be busy than not. Other stuff keeps coming up, appointments need to be made, but I’ll take care of them one at a time in the order of importance. One friend has been asking to meet me for coffee for the past several weeks, and I’ve put him off so many times, apologetically, that I finally decided I’m never going to find time, so I just have to make time. We’re meeting up tomorrow afternoon and catching up. Oh, and I have to break away on occasion to work out.

I miss playing. A lot. But I suppose the other advantage of being busy with work (other than the money) is that I don’t have much time to dwell on it. Even if I did have a play partner right now, I don’t think I’d have time to play with him! (sigh) So, that’s all on hold for now. Life feels a bit unbalanced, but things have a way of righting themselves. I am just going to plow on and hope for the best.

And hey, it’s almost the holidays! (Oh, fuck…)