Somebody that I used to know

Have you seen her? Sometimes I wonder where she went. I look around, look back behind me. Then I realize she’s still here, just not the same as she once was.

Me. At the beginning of this journey. The first picture I ever sent to Eve Howard of Shadow Lane, right before the birth of Erica Scott. Fresh. Excited. Looking forward. So many possibilities.

I have not been posting much lately. Sometimes I think about it. Sometimes I want to. Then I don’t. Because I really don’t have much to say these days that hasn’t already been said a million times.

I had years and years of adventures and stories to share. Milestones. Friendships. Experiences I only dreamed of when I was younger.

I have all my memories. But right now, I am quiet, just pondering them. I have been done shooting for three years. The pandemic put the kibosh on the national parties, and just as they started to return, there was a stream of very ugly admissions from various people that turned the community inside out. Lines were drawn, sides were taken, and a lot of people disappeared. Myself included. I deactivated from FetLife for two months, and only just reactivated yesterday. It’s the same, and yet it isn’t. It used to be a place where I felt like I belonged, where I’d be missed if I were gone. But people come and go all the time now. Attention spans are fleeting. The overall broad scene community seems now to have distilled down into smaller, more local pockets.

I no longer have a regular play partner. I know a couple of men who I am able to see once in a great while for a special treat, but at this time, I do not have a regular source of play. I don’t know of any scene in Los Angeles, any munches. I still try to meet new people, but between the pandemic and just plain getting older (and not to mention being a reclusive introvert), it’s much more of a challenge now.

Times change. I remember years ago, I casually commented on a young woman’s blog because I liked what she wrote. And she went nuts, “SQUEEEEE”-ing and marveling about how “Erica Scott commented on MY blog!!” Recently, I saw another blog post that resonated with me and said so, although I’d never commented on this person’s blog before. The blog owner was unfamiliar with me and commented to that effect. Not meanly, just matter-of-factly. I wanted to reply back, “I used to be somebody.” But I didn’t.

No, this isn’t another one of those “I’m closing this blog” announcements. I did that a few years ago, and a year later, I decided I still had a lot to say and restarted it. And what do I detest, kids? People who make a big thing about leaving, and then don’t leave. Sooo… I am not doing that again. Perhaps this is just to say that my posts will be few and far between. When I feel like I have something to contribute, I will do so. If I ever go to parties again, I’ll write them up. Of course, there will always be the CHoS, because some things never change. People will always write rude, inappropriate things to strangers. Oh, and of course, there will no doubt be a 2021 Christmas carol parody. Just waiting for my creative muse to make her appearance.

I have been called things like “legend” and “icon.” I have also been referred to as a has-been and washed up. I suppose that’s the way it always has been and that won’t change either. I am not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m opinionated, I’m snarky, I’m outspoken. I’m also honest and passionate. Some people hate me. But others love me. And to this day, I’m still getting emails that tell me my encouragement to explore kink without shame enabled people to acknowledge and find what they needed. That means a hell of a lot to me.

So I’m not going anywhere. I’m still here. Just a lot quieter. I don’t need to keep talking. I’ve talked enough. Now is the time to sit back and let the fresh faces and voices have their turn. Allow the Jillian Keenans of the scene to speak their truths. I will chime in when I feel like it would be welcomed or enjoyed.

Oh, there she is. Yes, I know her. ♥ I hope she won’t be forgotten.

The State of Erica

So it’s been an interesting few weeks, ones of much soul searching and roller coaster emotions. I’ve learned a few things, made some mistakes. And now I think I’m ready to move forward once again.

One of the mistakes I made was breaking my own promise to myself and allowing politics to pervade my blog, Twitter and Facebook. The events of the past few months have consumed me, as they have many, and I let myself get swept up in venting. The reactions were enlightening and depressing at the same time. I got a lot of backlash, but not necessarily from the opposite polarity. I also was ignored, unfollowed and unfriended by people I least expected to do so. In times of emotional crisis, I find out time and again who cares about Erica, the entire person (even in her darkest, angriest, most unlikable times), and who just wants Erica Scott, the witty, snarky spanko showing off her butt. I find out who my friends are. It’s a painful process, but a necessary one, I guess.

Look, I get it. This is a spanking blog. Politics can be read anywhere, anytime, any place these days, ad nauseam. When one comes to a spanking blog, one wants to read about spanking, yes? Same deal with followers on Twitter and other social media. Therefore, for the bulk of my venting, I have found two secret groups of Facebook (“secret” meaning that posts only show to the group members) where people can share their political concerns and fears. Likewise, I started another Twitter account and when I feel like retweeting the Orange Menace’s stupid posts and adding my own comments, or just want to rant about whatever’s going on, I use that. And as for here, I will not be posting anymore strictly political posts. They get crickets, for one, and then I have to put up with rude rebuttals from the likes of people who are so stupid, they need to be told how to spell their own name. So, it’s back to spanky stuff.

There’s just one problem with that; lately, I simply don’t have spanky stuff to post. I am not going to explain why, so please don’t ask, but I have not played (except for a brief moment at a holiday party) in over three months. My parties are few and far between, and my shoots are pretty much down to once in a great while. And I’m tired of hashing and rehashing the same tired discussions we’ve all seen a million times. Therefore, this blog will probably be periodic rather than regular. When the spirit moves me, when I have something fun and topical to report, I will do so. For example, in a couple of weeks we’re going to a big party in Vegas for a few days, so no doubt I’ll have some fun stories from that. But I’m no longer going to rack my brain trying to come up with things to write. I’ve written and written and written, for years. And lately, I’m (thankfully) so busy with work, I don’t have as much time for blogging anyway. So, when time passes between blogs, don’t fret. I’m still around. I’m just going to be here on a “need to post” basis from now on.

Oh, and mind you, I am not saying that I’ll never slip in some political snarky humor again, here and there. I mean, it’s inevitable, since this entire administration is one big punchline.

And with that, on to my most excellent segue*…

Last week, Triple A Spanking released a clip that I shot with them three years ago. In it, John Osborne and I play husband and wife, and we are supposed to go to a gathering given by one of his friends. However, because I cannot stomach this friend, I make up a bunch of lies, including that I’m sick, to get out of going. So, what did John call this film about lying liars?

Yup, he went there… 😀

(Yes, I edited that last photo. I hate those freaking straight-on shots! Unless you’re a proctologist, you don’t need to be getting up in there.)

I confess, seeing that title made me laugh harder than I had in weeks. So, who used that phrase better? John Osborne…

… or Crack-Whore Barbie Con-job?

I’d say John Osborne for the win!

So that’s it for now. Back to work with me, and then I’m off to spend the pre-Valentine’s Day weekend with my beloved. ♥ And no, we are not going to see “Fifty Shades Darker”!

Have a great weekend. y’all.

*For those who were educated at Cheeto-face University, that word is pronounced “seg-way,” not “seg-yoo.” 😛

A (not so) sweet holiday fantasy

My regular readers know that, at this time of year, I like to write a naughty Christmas carol parody. However, due to the grim circumstances of 2016, I’m not in the mood to do so. For those who would like to revisit last year’s parody, I present “Elves Gone Bad,” here. In the meantime, my gift to you, in lieu of a parody, is a sweet (well, sweet for me) holiday fairy tale.

Once upon a time, there was a forlorn crybaby named Erica. She was unhappy all the time, now that her country had been taken over by a large orange fascist blowhard named The Trump, and she no longer felt safe or assured of her future. Despite the fact that his opponent got nearly three million more votes than he did, he still won, due to an antiquated electoral college and most likely Russian some outside influences. He was filling his cabinet with elitist millionaires, and everyone but the richest of the rich and the whitest of the white was basically as fucked as Ivanka in her daddy’s fantasies.

To add insult to injury, some* of his supporters were especially hateful people, members of a white supremacist movement called the Alt-Reich, gloating and sneering and name-calling. They were the ones who had labeled her a crybaby, among other nasty names such as “libtard” and “snowflake.” This last one especially puzzled Erica. She lived in the grand blue state of California, on the west side of the DSA (Divided States of America). She’d gaze out her window at the perpetually sunny sky and wonder, “What’s a snowflake?”

Another thing the Alt-Reich people were fond of saying was, “Suck it up.” “Suck it up, whiner!” “Suck it up, buttercup!” Suck what up? Erica couldn’t quite figure out what “it” was. She combed the Internet, seeking answers, but as was often the case, there were too many answers and not enough real information. At one point, she saw this picture of Mitt Romney groveling like a pussy eating dinner with Trump…

…and was horrified. After all, everyone knew what Romney had to choke down for dessert at that meeting. “Oh, no,” she thought. “Surely they don’t mean suck that up? Ugh!”

So what was she supposed to suck up? After much thought (in between bouts of weeping), it dawned on her: California had just legalized marijuana. Erica was not a big fan of mind-altering substances, but in this new order, she figured reality was intolerable, so perhaps an alternate reality would be a pleasant escape for a while.

She then consulted her younger, hipper friends, whom she knew would be able to steer her in the right direction to the good stuff, and procured a huge blunt of the best weed she could afford. Settling herself at home into her favorite chair, ensuring she had plenty of peanut butter Oreos and Hershey’s Nuggets for later, she lit up and took a deep, deep suck inward, drawing the sweet, pungent smoke into her lungs.

Ahhh. Suck THIS.

As Erica grew dreamily stoned, she watched lazily as the smoke curled from the joint, drifting across the room and gathering into a cloud over the couch. She closed her eyes briefly, opened them, and blinked rapidly. “What’s in this stuff?” she muttered. For she could swear the sweetly scented puffs were coalescing and morphing into a shape, slowly but surely. She rubbed her eyes and looked again; to her shock, the amorphous cloud had settled into the form of a man, sprawled on the couch. As he came into focus, Erica could see he was in faded jeans, barefoot and shirtless, with long dark hair. His eyes were heavy lidded and slightly bleary, and in one hand he clutched a can of Pringles. His other hand came up into a lethargic wave.

“Who are you?” Erica spluttered.

“Just call me Gene,” the stranger said, stretching his legs out, then tipping the Pringles can to his mouth. As he crunched, she stared. “What’s your last name?” she asked.

He swallowed and yawned, then gave her a languid smile. “Everstone.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Erica groaned. “Everstone. Initial E. Gene E. I get it. What are you doing here?”

“You’re always crying,” he drawled. “It’s bad for your eyes. So I’m here to cheer you up with four holiday wishes.”

Erica shook her head. I’m really wasted, she thought. “You’ve got to be kidding,” she scoffed. “And isn’t it supposed to be three wishes?”

“What, you’re complaining ‘cause it’s more?” He shrugged. “Four is the standard these days. Inflation, I guess. So come on. What do you want? A few million dollars? Eternal youth? And please don’t bother me with that ‘world peace’ crap. Everyone knows that’s completely impossible.”

Erica took another hit, savoring it as she thought about her options. She sat up, curling her legs under her. “No,” she mused. “I want some things that will help restore the country to sanity.”

Gene munched a few more Pringles. “Go for it,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

“Wish Number One,” Erica began, her eyes lighting up. “The Trump resigns. He’s like, ‘Hey, I just wanted to win the presidency; I didn’t actually want to be president! This job is yuuuuge! It takes too much time away from my own self-serving interests! And people are mean to me!’ He then gathers up his entire family, including these two ghoulish greaseballs…

…and of course, his eldest daughter, whom he has lusted after since her adolescence  adores…

…and moves them all to Russia, where he spends the rest of his days with his nose firmly embedded in Vladimir Putin’s ass.”

Gene snickered. “You sure it’s just his nose?”

“Ewwwww!” Erica moaned. “Please! Don’t go there; you’ll make me throw up. I’m high and I might aspirate.”

“OK, OK. Anything you wanna add to that one?”

Erica thought for a moment. “Yeah. The Trump has to wear electrically wired underwear at all times. Every time he tries to tweet, he gets a big jolt of juice to his junk.”

“You really should get stoned more often,” Gene laughed, cocking an eyebrow. “It gives you a wicked imagination.” He waved his hand. “OK, it’s done. But honey, now your people are stuck with Mike Pence, Mr. Funerals-For-Fetuses.”

“Ah, that’s Wish Number Two,” Erica grinned, extending her hand for a chip. “I have special plans for Mike Pence.”

“Do tell.” Gene stretched back, reached into a smoke ring and pulled out a bottle of microbrew. He cocked one finger and the top snapped off.

“Mike Pence finds himself trapped in a large room that’s locked from the outside. On one side, he’s flanked with a mob of angry LGBTQ folks who didn’t appreciate his views on how they should be forcefully converted; and on the other side is a group of very angry rape victims who were denied abortions, because, you know, Jesus.”

“And what happens then?” Gene smirked.

“Mmmmmmm,” Erica said, wrinkling her nose. “You don’t wanna know. Let’s just say that after they’re through, er, expressing themselves, ol’ Mike isn’t fit to lead a Boy Scout troop, let alone the country.”

“Couldn’t happen to a more deserving guy. OK,” Gene said, placing the Pringles can between his legs and waving his hand once again. “Consider it done. So now what? What about Speaker Ryan? What about The Trump’s clown car of idiocracy?”

“Wish Number Three,” Erica smiled. “In which Paul Ryan, Steve Bannon, Jeff Sessions, Ben Carson, Kellyanne Conway, Rudy Giuliani, Newt Gingrich, Michael Flynn, Rex Tillerson, Corey What’s-His-Face, and all the others in The Trump’s elitist parade are shipped to a newly discovered planet, an angry little red orb called Ignoranus.** Oh, and we throw in Ann Coulter and Sarah Palin too, because Coulter is Conway’s long-lost twin and Palin is… Palin. Here, they will govern over the planet’s citizens—snow white, sheep-like creatures—and spend their days in activities such as flag waving, burning books written by women and minorities, and target practice. Oh, and we build a giant wall in the sky so they can’t return to Earth, and so that all their hot air and noxious gases don’t infiltrate our atmosphere.”

“Oh, that’s good,” Gene chuckled. “OK, done. But what about those alt-Reich fuckers? Don’t you want to do something with them for your fourth wish?”

Erica pondered for a while, taking the last hit off her blunt and closing her eyes. Opening them again, she said, “Hmmm. If I were a deplorable like Mike Pence, I’d say they should all be put in conversion camps and given shock therapy until they see the light and realize they’re in the Alt-Wrong. But this is still a free country, so I say leave them be, let them go on with their miserable little lives.” She paused. “Well, sort of.” She gave Gene her best beguiling smile. “Can I have five wishes?”

“Wha—?” Gene said, with as much indignation as a stoned hippie genie could muster. “Now you want another one? What for?”

“Well, it’s sort of a two-parter. Please-please-please?” Erica wheedled.

“Geezus,” he grumbled, downing the rest of his beer. “You’re kinda spoiled, you know that?”

“So they tell me,” Erica murmured, blushing slightly. “But hear me out. Can you make it so the alt-Reichers wake up a different race? Doesn’t matter which, it can be random, as long as it’s not Caucasian. Pretty hard to be a white supremacist if you’re not white. Let them experience what it is to be persecuted, profiled and hated and see how they like it.”

“Very fitting,” Gene agreed, his soporific nature back in place. “Where does the fifth wish come in, then?”

“Well, they’re going to be mighty pissed off, and we can’t take away their guns and all their other macho toys, because who wants to listen to them whining about the Second Amendment for all eternity? Personally, I’d choose to let them all have muskets, which were the only arms in use when their precious fucking Second Amendment came to be, but that would be silly, I guess. So for those of us who just want to live in peace and equality, make us bulletproof, and make all our homes, offices, venues, etc. fire- and bomb-proof. Does that work?”

Gene sat up, put his beer bottle on the coffee table and did a slow golf clap. “Works for me,” he said approvingly. “That way they can still have their weapons, but no longer harm innocent people with them.” He snapped his fingers, twice. “Well done, Erica. Have a good life.” And as Erica watched incredulously, he faded into a haze of smoke. The Pringles can and beer bottle remained; otherwise, she would have thought it had been a dream.

After indulging in copious quantities of chocolate (because this was a fantasy, so there were no calories), Erica cleared up and went to bed, thinking that had been a nice high and she’d deal with reality in the morning. That night, she had her first nightmare-less sleep in months, and when she woke, it was to the realization that her wishes had indeed come true. Gene, the Stoner Genie, hadn’t been a figment of her weed-infused imagination after all. When she turned on the television, the first thing she saw was the newly elected President Kamala Harris. Ms. Harris had chosen Elizabeth Warren for Vice President, and for Speaker of the House, she had picked George Takei, who everyone knew was the wisest man in the land.

And so, that was how Crybaby Erica sucked it up and saved the country. She lived happily ever after, and she no longer cried. Her mojo was restored and she was able to engage in kinky adventures once again. And they were even better, because all men were now respectful of women and safe words were no longer necessary.

You’re welcome, America.

* Notice I said some, not all. Of course I don’t think all Trump voters are ignorant white supremacists. That would be generalizing on my part, and heaven forbid I do such a thing. I almost feel sorry for the swing voters who just wanted a change and thought they were doing the right thing, as they’re going to be screwed along with the rest of us, but they brought it on themselves. Voting for a man who publicly mocks the disabled; is personally endorsed by the KKK; who is so fucking stupid that he spells “unprecedented” “unpresidented,” and who brags about how he can get away with sexually assaulting women “because he’s a star” is never a good idea.

** Ignoranus: One who is both stupid AND an asshole.

Just a few notes, because after this, I am going to do my best to avoid politics on here altogether: No doubt I’ve pissed some of you off with my flagrant disrespect for the office of the president. You’re right; I’m a very bad girl. Tell you what: I’ll give your CheetoFace NaziPants Donald Trump respect, just like you respected President Barack Obama, mmmkay? Remember all those memes, likening the Obamas to monkeys? Remember Michelle Obama being called an “ape in a dress,” or an “ape in heels”? Remember the picture of the White House lawn, with watermelons Photoshopped all over it? I sure as hell do.

And all your snarking about how Trump is payback for how you “put up with” Obama for eight years? I’m calling bullshit on that too. Obama restored the country after your idiot frat boy George W. Bush took us down the dumper for two excruciating terms.

So for those who don’t like this post, to them, I give back their own words: Too bad. Suck it up. You’re more than welcome to read something more up your alley, like Breitbart News. Oh, and this too…

(Of course, I mean that in the figurative sense, not literally. Because I wouldn’t actually let any of you anywhere near my ass.)

To my friends and faithful readers, I promise I will be back when my kinky mojo returns and I feel like posting on topic again. In the meantime, Merry Christmas HAPPY HOLIDAYS, y’all. 😛

Hopping on the Meme Train

Memes — we’ve all seen them, and love them or hate them, they’re here to stay. You know, those ubiquitous pictures with funny, pithy captions that make their way across the Interwebs. You’ve seen the more common themes: Grumpy Cat. The Most Interesting Man. Batman slapping Robin. Gene Wilder’s Willy Wonka. That scruffy looking guy from The Walking Dead (or is it Game of Thrones? Whatever). Some people take personal photos and create their own original memes. The possibilities are endless.

I have a major peeve about memes. (Gee, there’s a big surprise, huh?) I’ll see one that is clever and funny… and then there’s a blatant typo or grammatical error. And it ruins the meme for me. I can’t unsee the mistake, and I don’t want to forward what could have been a work of comic genius because of some glaringly stupid mistake.

The other day on Twitter, some guy I don’t know had posted a meme that was quite original. He had posted the letters T R U M P vertically, then spelled out a word corresponding with each initial. I can’t remember what the first three letters stood for, but the MP? Maniacal Putz. Pretty funny.

Except he spelled it “Manicial.” Arrggh.

Still, it was funny, so I clicked Like. Then I tweeted: “This would have been even funnier if maniacal had been spelled correctly.”

A minute later, I went to look at the meme again. All I saw was “Tweet is no longer available.” I clicked on the guy’s name. He’d blocked me.

Sheesh! Hypersensitive, much? I had to laugh. People have tissue paper for skin these days, it seems. Yeah, I know, I’m pedantic and some people find that to be a pain in the ass. Too bad, so sad. I wasn’t mean. I did “Like” it. But I guess pointing out the spelling error embarrassed him. Or he just didn’t give a damn and didn’t want to take a chance of hearing from me again. Oh well!

I know what you’re thinking. “Well, Erica, let’s see you do a better job creating memes!”

Challenge accepted.

I found a Meme Generator site, where you can take an existing template, or upload a picture of your own, and caption it. Instant meme! I figured out how to work it, and then my devious little mind was unleashed. So now I’ll share a few of my efforts. 😀

We all know this guy, don’t we?

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And while I’m on the grammar bandwagon, of course I had to make this meme, highlighting one of my biggest peeves:

I can still hear you — “What, no spanking meme?” Really, you should know better. 🙂 Here’s one with one of my favorite signature phrases:

Aaaaand finally, I felt the need to make a statement to people who aren’t fond of my particular brand of sarcastic wit. I chose the following photo, which you’ve all seen before — it’s about ten years old, but it still works:

I posted that last one on Twitter. It got sixteen Likes and two Retweets. 😀 Yes, the meme generator has generated a Frankenstein. I have seen the future and it is Erica memes.

All right, back to work for me, and then on to John’s. Have a great weekend, y’all.