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…)

And so it goes

Hello, everyone. Sorry for the absence.

After much thought, going back and forth, changing my mind and then back again, I have decided it’s time to bring this blog to an end.

I have been in the spanking scene for twenty-one years this month, and online for nineteen. I have watched many changes in what became known as social media. In the early days for spanking chat and exploration, there were what was known as newsgroups, and various chat rooms. Often the latter devolved into a bunch of silly cyber spanking, but one could find intelligent conversation if one looked carefully. Then, around 2000, give or take a year, those gave way to chat forums, such as those on MSN and Yahoo, the old Shadow Lane chat board, etc. People posted and chatted and shared and connected. I co-managed a successful forum for a few years and had a blast.

When the forums began to run their course, they were overtaken by a new phenomenon: the spanking blog. Soon, everyone and their second cousin twice removed was blogging. I joined this bandwagon in 2005, on what used to be the hopping place (!): MySpace. My blog there straggled along for a while, trying to find its audience, but there was so much competition. But then two things happened. One, I was listed by our blog queen, Bonnie, who made a point of spotlighting new blogs in her “In With the New” column. Things really picked up for me after that, but I still had a second holy grail to achieve. The buzz in the blogosphere was about a gentleman who went by the name of Chross, who had a weekly list of what he considered the most notable blog posts. If one was lucky enough to be “Chrossed,” they would be treated to a highly gratifying spike in blog hits. But how did one get on Chross’s radar, I wondered? I finally grew so frustrated that I wrote a post called “Who Do I Have to @#$% to Get on Chross’s List?” Apparently, that got his attention. 🙂

After that, wow. Views, comments, etc. skyrocketed. Until MySpace died, and I took the plunge and started a new blog on Blogger in 2010. I flourished there for years, getting Chrossed often, sharing adventures and party stories and photos and scenes and video shoots, as well as bits and pieces of my personal life. When Blogger threatened to censor or shut down all their “adult” blogs, I migrated to WordPress. Turns out it wasn’t necessary, since Blogger backed off, but I don’t regret it.

However, things changed yet again. Slowly but surely, the spanking blog was overtaken by the Tumblr blogs: pictures. Lots and lots and lots of pictures. The lengthy blog entry morphed into quickie sound bites, gifs and jpegs. Comments became likes and reposts. The spanking models, who all used to blog, now opened Tumblr accounts. Twitter came to be, and now, instead of writing party and shoot reports, people tweeted the action as it was happening. There were some exceptions who maintained their popularity (Hermione and Ronnie come to mind, as well as some of the DD/Hoh blogs and some author blogs) but it seemed that overall, the traditional written spanking blog had gone the way of the VCR and the variety show.

Even so, I figured as long as I had stories to tell, experiences to share, connections to make, I’d have an audience. For quite a while, my views remained high thanks to being Chrossed often. But now, it seems even our beloved Chross has given up the ghost. And the annual Spanking Blogg Awards, put together by John Osborne of Triple A, finally eliminated the Best Creative Blogger category last year because it wasn’t getting any nominations. I was lucky enough to win second place in 2015, that award’s final year.

After many years and thousand of words, kids, I’m fresh out of things to say. On topic, anyway. I don’t want to hash and rehash the same discussions; there’s FetLife for that. Scene-wise, things have changed for me. I no longer have a top, and I haven’t played since 50 Freaks in February. I go to two parties a year. I do not shoot anymore, and even if someone were to offer it up, I’m not sure I would do it. I don’t enjoy looking at myself on film anymore — those HD cameras are not kind! And as for my personal life, I have been dealing with a great deal of grief and challenges over the past few months, including an ongoing situation with John that is stressful and scary. But you know, I don’t want to go into that on here anymore either. I have ranted, raved, wept, opened up and laid myself bare (physically and emotionally) in these posts over the years. I think it’s time for that to end. Everyone has problems; they don’t want to hear mine. And if I can’t post on-topic fun stuff, there’s really no point in continuing.

Also, I made the mistake, in a time of weakness, of writing political posts on here. Please. Can we all agree that there’s enough of that shit out there everywhere you look? I mean, really — using a spanking blog, of all things, to push one’s political agenda is arrogant, self-serving and a big waste of time, don’t you think? So I do apologize for that bit of foolishness.

I am not taking this blog down. I want to preserve it, because I’m proud of it. I would like people to be able to refer back to it, reread posts they liked, enjoy the pictures, etc. My life, my heart and my soul are in these pages. So it will remain intact, even though I won’t be adding to it any longer. I will always be grateful for my readers, all the comments, all the feedback. Without you guys, we writers might as well be talking to ourselves. And hey, I even appreciate those hapless dumbasses who gave me so much wonderful CHoS fodder. One more for the road? Sure, why not…

Hi I would like to spanking you hardly but it is turning me on and in the end which will be not short time I would like to have sex or atleast blowjob becouse I don’t want go away horny and I don’t want jerkoffing if you are okay with that or you have some other way to make e come and relax after when I spanking you hard and long tell me

(sigh) Some things never change, I guess. I suggest you come the way you always do — in your mama’s basement in front of your sticky keyboard. And for the last time, fuck off.

I don’t get as much of this nonsense nowadays, but I still see it. Recently, Alex got a critique on her Tumblr that she is neglecting to post pictures of her anus. She’s nicer than I am: I would have replied that if this person wants to see an asshole, they should look in a mirror.

Some of you have my antiquated (but still functional) AOL address. My gmail address is at the end of the About Me section here. I’m still out there, on Facebook, Twitter and FetLife. I have always welcomed polite and civil correspondence (and no, you do not have to agree with me, just don’t be a dick about it), and that will not change.

So what should be my last gasp? Perhaps I’ll just say screw it and reveal all… my real name, my family, the TV shows they worked on…

…

…

…

wait for it…

…

…

…

ready?

…

…

…

Come on, you didn’t really think I’d tell all that, did ya? Besides, I wanted to go out on a Big Bang. 😛

And so this hard-edged, tender-hearted, snarky spanko bids you farewell, in this venue at least. Have a great life, y’all. ♥ ♥ ♥  Thank you for reading.

Friday odds and ends

MIA again — busy! All work and no play is making Erica very dull. I haven’t seen Steve in two weeks, but I’ve been so work-crazed, I really didn’t have proper time for him anyway. In fact, I actually had to turn down a girls’ night out with Alex and SpankCake last week, which sucked! But life interferes with one’s fun. But fun is coming next week! Shadow Lane, here we come (leaving next Friday morning). I’ve already arranged for a work break, so my plate will be cleared.

Meanwhile, how about some weird search phrases for your Friday amusement?

First — folks, my name isn’t that complicated. Really, it isn’t. So why did I find these in my search phrases?

earica scott

euricka scott

jane erika scott

EAR-ica? Really?? I know I have big ears, but that’s just mean. :-Þ

For those who like it rough:

belt spanking video not for the squeamish brutal

dress down brutal girl belt spanking stories!

That last one especially confuses me. Is the belt spanking brutal, or is the girl brutal? And is her dress down, or does she get dressed down? And why the ! ?

I can’t resist spanking my gf

What do you want, my permission?

my boyfriend spanking to red ass desi story

WTF is a desi story? Lucyyyyy! You got some spankin’ coming!

And while we’re on weirdness, I got a bizarre tweet last night. Some guy I don’t know, has a really creepy profile, clicks “like” on a bunch of my tweets. OK, fine. But then he tweets to me:

I love you erica. Thought u wuz dead.

The reports of my death are greatly exaggerated. I’m not THAT old, for Christ’s sake!

Anyway… so last Friday, I had a bit of a meltdown. I was overwhelmed with work, John was having major problems with his own work, I’ve been having computer issues, and I was so stressed out, one side of my face had broken out in hives. (Either that or something or things bit me — I never did figure out what it was. It went away after a few days.) I seriously considered cancelling Shadow Lane — it seemed like too much work and hassle to prepare for, I didn’t have time, I wasn’t in the right head space, blah blah blah. Fortunately, when I went to John’s that night, he convinced me that we’d be OK, everything would work out, and we really do need the getaway. “When am I going to get stuff done for the party?” I asked. “I’ve been so slammed with work, I haven’t even had a chance to go shopping.”

“Let’s go to the mall tomorrow!” he suggested. “I need pants, and we can shop for a dress for you.” And so we did; we made an afternoon/evening of it. And what did John do? He picked the perfect dress for me, straightaway. We walked into H&M, and there were some dresses at the front of the store. He plucked one off the rack and said, “This is it.” I demurred, saying we should look at everything else, so we wandered through the store and selected a few more items. But in the dressing room, it was clear… the dress he’d chosen was THE dress. He zipped me into it and it fit perfectly, looked fabulous. “Who knows you better than you know yourself?” he teased. “Who’s the perfect boyfriend who picked the perfect dress?” I also managed to slip into a store this week and buy some new panties, so I am set.

My enthusiasm for the party has been restored. And so, I am looking forward to next week. Monday, something special is happening, but I don’t want to jinx it so I’m not going to talk about it until after the fact. Tuesday, John and I will have been together for twenty years (the Shadow Lane trip is our celebration). And then we head off early Friday morning for three days of spanko debauchery with our friends. I need to play. I need to laugh. I need this so, so much.

But for now, I still have work to do, including some more of that nasty medical stuff. However, thanks to my most excellent computer tech friend Jesse, I now know how to set placeholders for the photos, so instead of those disgusting images, all I see are plain white boxes. 😀  And unfortunately, it does seem that my computer needs a new hard drive, but that can wait until I come back. It’s still working, and every time it’s crashed so far, I’ve been able to fix it with Disk Check, so fingers crossed.

Life is good today. Have a great weekend, y’all.

OT: My family

A comment was made to me recently. I don’t think it was intended to bother me, but it did anyway. Something along the lines of how I’m trying to drive you all nuts with my tease about who my family is.

Not my intention, and I’m sorry if it comes off that way.

Here’s the deal, for those who haven’t been following me for a while: I have three family members who are/were in show business. My father and cousin — TV writers/producers. My stepmother (the nice one, not the evil one) — an actress/dancer. I spoke of all three of them at length in my book, and have mentioned them many times in my blog. But I’ve never given their names. Why?

First, although I’m fairly open about who I am and what I do, I still don’t feel like being outed to the world. My father passed away in 1998 and most people under a certain age don’t remember who he was anyway. But to tell his name would give away my real name. My cousin and stepmother are very much alive, and mentioning either of their names would tie back to my father.

Second, while I’m not ashamed of what I do, I know it’s not widely accepted. And if I were to mention my family members’ names on here, that would mean that if anyone Googled them, my blog would come up in the search. “Whoa! Look at the kinky skeleton in so-and-so’s family closet!” Think of the embarrassment and awkwardness this could incur, for everyone involved. The consequences could be far-reaching. It’s not worth it.

Am I dying to share more information, stories, names? You bet. I’m very proud of these people. Even though their era is bygone and their names would mean nothing to most of my younger friends, I still wish I could reveal more. My father and cousin won nine Emmys between them. My stepmother was a stunningly beautiful and talented woman, one I often wished was my real mother.

So yeah. I tell the stories that I can, when I can. I love wearing the necklace my stepmother wore for 50 years, that was given to her by Jerry Lewis in 1962. I love that my dad co-wrote a sketch that is considered one of the funniest in TV history. I love that my cousin created indelible TV characters. But that’s all I can and will say. It is not my intent to tease or be obnoxious. It is my expression of pride, and my yearning to tell more. Because every time someone compliments my writing or tells me that I’m funny, I give a silent thank you to my DNA, the genetic talent passed on to me. Because there is a lot more to me than the spanky stuff. Mind you, I’m proud of that too. But it’s not all there is.

Who knows. Maybe when I’m older, everyone in question has passed on, and none of it matters anymore, I’ll say “screw it” and reveal it all. And then most people will say “Who??” and it will be rather anticlimactic. 🙂

Have a great weekend, y’all.