Erica Scott: Life, Love and Spanking

Ruminations, opinionated observations, darkly humorous blathering and the occasional rant from an outspoken spanko and unapologetic attention wh–, um, hog.

Archive for the category “spanking”

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 5/12

Some sweet sentiments just in time for Mother’s Day! I haven’t posted one of these for a long time. Not because I’m not still getting this crap, but I just haven’t felt like exhibiting it lately. However, I recently got not one but two of those bizarre scroll-down blathering entries, and I just had to share. If I have to suffer through this, then you do too. šŸ˜›

i saw your profil and i like everything on it.
you look sexy and i like it. your words sounds good to me and i hope your really mean it and are not playing here. i hope your attitude is as beauty as your look. i hope you are into the lifestyle like i am into BD(SM), because i am not going for less.
i know, i am not half as sexy as you are, but i know, if you are seirious, i could be the best master for you. if you are the sexy slave i see, dressed like i like for the right situation, i will respect, admire and love you for that.
here are to many fakes and many are playing.
if you aspect that i will pay your for anything before meeting, you are wrong. i don’t wanna be rude, but i have to make that clear.
i will pay for relocation, if we click, but when i pay, it will happen the way i want it.
my experiences are here was good, because i met my all-in-one-slave years ago. after her death, i was mourn for long, got married and divorced very quick (to personal, but will tell you later) …. there are some reason.
if you are serious and want a man that will be proud to be on your side, to live a safe live, you want a strong dom and a good protector, wants to have a good, happy and active life, that i am the right one for you.
so, show me that you are the right one for me.
kiss you all over
sir Xxxxxxx

Some people can’t believe these are real, that someone actually sends me this kind of stuff. Trust me, I am not making up a single word. The only change I made was to x out his name.

If I aspect? The only thing I aspect is that people who correspond with me be somewhat literate. In my best Carol Burnett/Eunice screech: “Is that too much to ask???” As for everything else, sorry, pal, but I didn’t ask. I don’t want to know anything that’s to [sic] personal. And if you think you saw a sexy slave in my pictures, you need a visit to the optometrist. (What? Oh. That’s eye doctor, Einstein.)

Iā€™m very impressed with that secy ass

Secy? You can’t be that impressed if you can’t even spell what it is.

Hey sexy lady I have read every word of your profile and I got to stay looking at your pretty red ass has got to be so excited

I think you meant “got to say,” not “got to stay.” Please, please don’t stay. My ass has got to be excited? How do you know how my ass is feeling? I mean, that’s pretty presumptuous of you.

I just got this last one yesterday, and I posted a snippet of it on Twitter, because it made my brain bleed. But here it is in all its glory.

I must be honest, all that yelling and name calling in the BDSM world, that bullshit isnt for me, But I will restrain your ass and toy you till your dehydrated from squirting your love seed all over my face, So the answer to your question is a yes,..I love to eat pussy,..and if your a multiorgasmic girl that isnt afraid of passing her limit,..perhaps we should chat? Do you ride a Motorcycle, work on motors, are you like me and happen to be in healthcare or even better are you too a ventriloquist? Perhaps when you have the time you will come and say hello,.until then, I’ll be patiently waiting to hear back from you,.

Oh, brother. Where do I start with this? Um… I never, ever asked you if you like to eat pussy. I asked if you knew what a spanko is. Not even close. Squirting my what? That’s about as cornball as “lady garden.” No, I don’t work on motors. I wouldn’t know a fuel pump from a water pump. Or what the hell a head gasket is. Although your post just made me blow my own head’s gasket.

What the heck is this about? ,. ,.. ,.. ,. ,.

And finally… WTAF? Am I a what? A ventriloquist? Yeah, sure, honey, I’m a ventriloquist. I guess that makes you the dummy.

I hope you have plenty of patience, because you’re going to be waiting… *checking watch* … forever. Does forever work for you?

Ye gods.

In other news, last weekend for the Spanko Brunch, Hermione asked what we think during a spanking. I didn’t participate, but I gave the question some thought. I guess I think a lot of things, until I go into subspace and then I don’t think anything at all. If he’s starting out too light and the warmup is going on too long, I suppose I’ll be thinking along the lines of “Jeezus, ramp it up already.” But one thing I have noticed many times when the scene is at that point where I’m just teetering at my limit, where I don’t want it to stop but my body can’t stand anymore, where I’m wondering if I can finish: I have a little encouraging voice within that counteracts the voice saying “Ugh, I can’t do this” with “Yes, I can do this. I’ve got this.” (Yes, I have a rich inner life.)

In a recent scene that went on for a long time, I was loving it, I was in amazing hands, but I was getting tired. I was reaching my threshold. I was this close to saying, “I think we need to wind down.” And then that cheerleader voice piped up with, “Like hell you do! You don’t need to stop anything! You can take it! You’re Erica Fucking Scott!”

Swear to God. Those words went through my head. And of course, I then lasted until he ended it. šŸ™‚

Have a great weekend, y’all. Happy Mother’s Day to those who celebrate it. ā™„

The power of words

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, ever since what happened last Friday, and how an afternoon and potential play partnership was ruined with a single word. I know I’ve talked about this before; I believe words have a lot of power. That whole “sticks and stones” thing is BS. Granted, words can’t physically wound you. But what they can do to your heart, soul and psyche is as painful and lasting as any gun or knife.

We spankos are big on words. We all have our buzz phrases, our trigger words, the words we love, the words we hate. What is a massive button-pushing turn-on for one might be vomit-inducing for another. Since I spent so much time last week focusing on words I hate, I thought this week I’d counteract that with one of my all-time favorite phrases in our realm. I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before, but I’d like to delve into it more in detail today.

It’s a simple phrase. Three words, and sometimes four.

“That’s my girl.”
Or “That’s my good girl.”

Hearing those words makes me melt. I don’t know why. I have said many times that I’m not a submissive, but that I can be submissive when someone taps into my headspace. And when a top says that to me, in the right context, I want to hang the moon for him.

I am not sure when I first realized that this particular phrase was such a turn-on for me, but I can remember an earlier awareness. Those of you who go wayyyyy back with me, back to the days of the MSN board Southern California Spanked Wives and Girlfriends, may recall that I had an ongoing crush on a gym instructor (who I ended up hiring as a personal trainer), P. For those who don’t know this story — essentially, P was a very popular instructor/trainer. His classes were always packed. He was enthusiastic and fun, encouraging, pushed us, but knew what he was doing and was very skilled at it. He made a point of learning everyone’s name, and addressing us in class, calling out praise. And yes, he was very, very toppy… and it was sexy AF. I think, back then, every heterosexual female gym member with a pulse had a thing for P. And probably some of the males too. He was that charismatic.

I remember he’d call out names, sometimes mine, saying, “That’s it! Good! Come on, [name]. That’s my girl.” And I’d feel a jolt. Suddenly, I had more energy. More willingness. I could push harder, do more. Just from those three words and what they did to me.

Of course, it didn’t hurt that P looked like this, but I digress…

Once I became aware of how that phrase affects me, I noticed it more within scenes. It’s not all that common a phrase to hear — not like “Good girl,” for example. Which makes it all the more special when it does happen. One of my favorite Vegas party playmates, Roy, who I’ve discussed here before, uses it, and I adore it. When we’re in scene, in the zone, and the energy and connection are at their peak, he’ll lean down to me and say, “More?” In my blissful stupor, I will murmur, “Yes, please,” and then I can feel him smiling as he says, “That’s my girl.” Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmffffffffff…

What made me think of this? Something that happened recently; in fact, on the same day as that wretched coffee date.

I have a friend, A. He lives up north. We’ve never met in person, but we’ve been corresponding for about a year. We talk often on kik. We both love word games and do the daily Wordle faithfully. We both love Jeopardy! And of course, we’re both spankos. A has an extra fetish that I don’t happen to share — along with bottoms, he loves women’s feet. I’ve known a lot of foot fetishists over the years (they give damn good foot massages), so this is nothing new to me. After we’d gotten to know each other a bit better, he would ask me to send him pictures of my feet now and then. Sure, why not. He always asks politely, and he’s so appreciative and complimentary when I do. And it’s just feet.

Cut to last Friday, when I was reeling from my unpleasant encounter. I got a kik from A, asking about my day and how I did on the Wordle. I didn’t tell him about what had happened; I didn’t really feel like it. And then he said he felt like he hadn’t seen my soles in forever, and he’d love a new picture.

My first thought was “Oh, crap. I’m not in the mood for this. I’m feeling so unsexy and icky right now.” So I messaged back that I’d been super busy and preoccupied, but I’d send him something soon, I promise. And then he replied:

“That’s my good girl.”

There it was. That jolt. He has no idea how I feel about that phrase; he said it organically, not to be manipulative. And just like that, my mood shifted. My deeply hidden soft center melted like a Lindt truffle. I became willing. I set up my phone’s timer, and took not one but three pictures for him. He was his usual effusively appreciative self, and I enjoyed making him happy with such a simple thing. But what he doesn’t know is that he made me feel good too. And it helped me get past the ugliness.

While we’re on the subject of buzz words, here is another one of mine: Punish. Or punishment. Again, I have no idea why. But damned if hearing that word doesn’t do things to me. Yummy things

Funny story about that word, and as it happens, it has to do with the aforementioned P. One day in class, he had pushed us particularly hard, and when we were lying on our mats and stretching, I felt a twinge in my lower back, which tends to act up anyway. So, as we stretched, I idly reached down with one hand and massaged that spot. P, with his eagle eye, noticed that from across the room and called out, “Erica, is your back hurting?” I said, “Yeah, it’s okay, just a little.” And then he teasingly said… wait for it…

“Aw, I’m sorry, honey! I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just wanted to punish you a little.”

Oh. My. Freaking. GOD. I felt that blush all the way into my hair follicles. I thought he was going to have to scrape me off that mat. Of course, he had no idea what he’d said and what it had done to me. That was around the time that I became convinced that he was one of us, and I was determined to find out for sure. But that’s another story, a very long one.

Any of you want to share your button pushers? This is always a fun subject. I know that just writing this out has gotten me rather… flustered. And on that note, guess I should re-route my mind and get back to work.

Have a great weekend, y’all. ā™„

For my friend

About a week ago, someone on FetLife posted that she’d love to see some shout-outs from others about the good tops they know. In the past few years, there has been so much upheaval and acrimony on FL, many accusations of assault, consent violations, etc., and I thought her suggestion was a great idea. The good guys deserve to be acknowledged! So I wrote something about one of my favorite tops, one I’ve known for years, who is no longer on FetLife, but is known by many.

Circumstances beyond his control have taken him from our circles, and I miss him. So I thought, why stop at FetLife. Why not give him his own tribute here? I will not use his real name here. His public scene name was InspectHerHide. I will simply use his initial M.

I’ve lost track of how many years I’ve known him. We first connected via email. He was newly divorced, and was just beginning to explore his spanking side, something he’d buried for years. He’d found my email address online and contacted me. We began a correspondence; he asked lots of questions, and I answered them to the best of my ability. Eventually, he decided to attend his first spanking party — Shadow Lane, of course. I encouraged him to find me there. I felt like I already knew him.

So we met in person, and had instant chemistry. A single man at these things is sometimes received with suspicion (which is a damn shame), but he did well for himself at this first party, making friends. And then it came time for us to play for the first time. It was Saturday night after the ballroom dinner/dance, so we were all dressed up. In the party suite, he approached me, and we went into one of the bedrooms to do our scene. He was in a suit, so he took off his jacket, folded it and laid it on the bed. Then he said, “Don’t touch my jacket.”

Of course, I reached out and poked it.

“I said, don’t touch my jacket.” I poked it again. Spanking commenced. But he kept stopping, turning to look, and repeating, “I told you not to touch my jacket! Stop touching my jacket!” Which, of course, I kept doing.

Until I got tired of that. “Fine!” I snapped. “Let’s remove the temptation, shall we?” Then I snatched up his jacket and flung it across the room, where it landed in a heap on the floor.

That did it. With lightning speed, he pushed me off, went to retrieve his jacket, came back, pinned me down and really lit into me. Other people were watching and I heard one guy say, “Daaaaaaamn!” And I was laughing through the entire thing. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

He kept coming to parties, and we played every time. After a while, we developed a pattern where, whenever possible, we were each other’s first scene of the weekend, and sometimes each other’s last. I loved playing with him. He was creative, funny, conscientious, knew just when to push and when to lighten up, and his techniques were flawless.

He could always make me laugh. I recall one Sunday night, end of the weekend, when we’d done our final scene and he was giving me aftercare. I was already starting to feel a bit droppy and I was in tears. He leaned close and said, “Wanna see something?” I nodded. He then sheepishly showed me his right palm. It was mottled and red, with spots that were beginning to bruise and other spots that looked like the skin was close to breaking. Clearly, he’d overused his hand this weekend. And then he quipped, “For once, someone can say this and it’s true — this hurt me more than it hurt you.” I started cracking up and the tears were forgotten.

I certainly returned the favor. What do I love, kids? Making tops laugh when they’re trying their damnedest to be all serious and stern. During one scene, he was really trying to be toppy, keep a straight face. I said something or another, and he scolded, “I don’t like your inflection!” I snapped back, “I don’t have an inflection! I did once, but I took penicillin.” And he lost it. Heehee.

A few years ago, we all met a lovely young woman named B who came to her first party. She reminds me of the Shakespearean line: “Though she be little she is fierce.” She couldn’t have been more than 100 pounds soaking wet, but she was strong, feisty, spunky, and smart. Everyone fell a little bit in love with her at that party… including M. He ended up marrying her.

I was friends with both of them on FetLife and Facebook. It was great fun following all their adventures, both kink and vanilla. They both loved travel and the outdoors, and they’d post lots of pictures and mini-videos on FB. I still crack up, remembering one where they were traveling somewhere in the South and they were trying a Southern specialty, boiled peanuts. They didn’t like them in the least. I can still see B’s face and hear her voice blurting, “They taste like feet!” (For the record, I agree with her. I love roasted peanuts, peanut butter, etc. But boiled peanuts are disgusting.)

The last time I saw them was February 2020, at a Vegas party. They came late, and I felt bad because my first scene wasn’t with M this time. I was anxious to see them, wondering when they’d arrive. When someone told me, “Erica, M is looking for you,” I was overjoyed. I found him, got one of his massive enveloping bear hugs, and all was right with the world.

And then Covid hit.

B was a nurse. She got Covid early on, before there were any treatments, vaccines, when people barely knew what the hell it was. But she was young, healthy, strong… she’d be okay, right?

She never got better. She developed what’s now known as long Covid, as well as POTS. Life became an odyssey of doctor visits, tests, constant probing, and of course, people giving advice. Months went by, then a year, then two. A vital young woman ended up in a wheelchair, with no strength to do much of anything. She had to be carried everywhere. Her nursing career, for which she worked so hard, was over. And M became her full-time caregiver, along with working full-time himself.

For a while, I could still keep up with them on social media. M posted updates. He’d still come on FetLife sometimes and comment on pictures. John and I sent them little presents now and then. I felt like if I could still read about them, they were still somewhat in my life. But then they both removed their FL and FB accounts.

Last week, I got to thinking about them after the FetLife tribute, so I texted M, just to check in and say hello. He texted back. The news was not good. Long story short… not only is B continuing to deteriorate, but now, what with all this never-ending stress and grief, M’s health is suffering too. He said he was tired. And what could I say? There were no magic words, nothing that would help. I miss you. I love you. I’m sorry. He said he loved me, and then went silent. There was nothing else to say. And I wept.

Sometimes, life just fucking stinks.

I will most likely never see either of them again. They are in another state; it’s not like I can just pop by with some soup and some hugs. And he will not see this. But I hope that somewhere within, he knows he made a difference. He brought a lot of people joy, including me. He mattered. They both did. They still do.

Over the years, several pictures were taken of M and me at the parties. Here’s the very first one, from (I think?) 2012, in the ballroom on Saturday night. I wish I could show his face, as he had such a joyous smile on it.

A couple of years later, we were playing in one of the suites, and afterward, I stayed in position, both of us so relaxed, we didn’t want to move. I’d bent one leg and put my foot up in the air, and he’d ended up resting his face on it. We were surrounded by others and one person thought it was so cute, he took pictures. (That’s John’s arm off to the side.)

I treasure these pictures and others, and so many memories.

I love you, M. Thanks for being one of the good ones.

Have a good weekend, y’all. ā™„

Jumping on the poetry bandwagon

This weekend for her interactive brunch, Hermione called upon all of us to write some spanking poetry/limericks. I would have loved to contribute to this, but my creativity was buried in nausea. But better late than never, no?

Some of you know I love to write spanko song parodies, but limericks are great fun. I wrote my very first one at nine years old. Why nine? It was a school assignment. And I still remember it. (Disclaimer: this is not PC, and I would never write it now. Forgive me — I was nine, and it was a different time.)

There was a young girl from upstate
Whose stomach would always inflate
She got stuck in the door
And fell through the floor
And decided she’d need to lose weight.

Okay, it’s not Shakespeare. I was nine, FFS. šŸ˜›

However, in the interest of staying on topic, and because I am feeling somewhat human once again, I came up with these three today.

There were two sweet brats from Algiers
Who practically begged for red rears
Two gents were on tap
To lend them a lap
And soon they were smiling through tears.

I often love going to town
With my sass, till I garner a frown
From a top whose strong will
I’m attempting to still
But the top will prevail, hands down.

For Valentine’s Day, some love flowers
Or chocolates to munch on for hours
But roses will croak
And toothache’s no joke
But spanking, well, that never sours!

Okay, that last one is lame. You try rhyming flowers and hours.

Thank you, thank you. It’s good to have creative juices running through me again instead of Pepto Bismol.

Some words about pictures

We’re all visual creatures, aren’t we? We love our spanko pictures, videos, clips. We talk about them, we share them, we collect them, and some of us get to create our own. But if you’re like me, after seeing a ton of content for more years than I care to count, you get a little jaded. Not as easily impressed. It takes more to push my buttons these days. Especially since, being the male-top-focused woman I am, I’m looking more at the men in the shots/clips than the women.

So what’s one of my buttons, kids? Men’s hands/forearms. Bonus — rolled-up sleeves, or in the process of doing so. You wanna make me weak in the knees? Don’t send me your junk. Send me your arms.

Remember this shot I took in my own living room in 2019? Still one of my personal favorites.

What is it about button-pushing pictures? If you’re like me, they take you somewhere. They ignite fantasies and/or memories. They quicken your pulse and make you catch yourself grinning like an idiot. It had been a while since I’d had that happen.

That is, until a couple of days ago when I stumbled across this.

First, I fainted.

Then, after I scraped myself off the floor, I stared. And stared some more.

Fellow bottoms, do you agree that this is perfection? The purposeful stance. The well-worn jeans. The doubled-over belt, and his strong grip on it. Knowing that just seconds ago, he unbuckled it and whipped it out of his belt loops with a loud snap. And also knowing that the next snap you hear will be that belt across your backside.

So, kids, do tell — is it possible to fall in lust with a photograph?

Of course it is.

For those of you who have been with me for a long time, bear with me, because you’ve read about this before. For my newer people, about twelve years ago, same kind of thing happened. I ran across a public photo from a kinky video company and it stopped me in my tracks. And strangely, it had absolutely nothing to do with spanking. But it touched off the part of me that is turned on by the thought of helplessness, of being overpowered by a handsome stranger. This was the picture:

And so I wrote a post about it. I had no idea who the man was. However, someone who read my blog did… and they told him.

Turned out he was local. And he contacted me on FetLife. Cue heart attack.

Most of you remember this story. For those who don’t, the short version was we met, we played, we became friends, and we even got to shoot together. Extra awesome bonus: I got to re-enact that picture with him.

This is the sort of thing the fantasy stories are made of. And I got to live it. Damn. Sometimes it doesn’t suck being me. šŸ˜€

So, if anyone happens to know who this handsome stranger with the belt is, do feel free to send him here. Hey… a girl can dream, can’t she?

In other news, I actually got my lazy cranky butt in the car and went to a lovely munch last night. We had the entire back alley behind a pub, with outdoor heaters, and we had a nice group. Got to see some old friends, and made a couple of new ones. This is a new group, run by my friend Mr. Woodland and his adorable partner, and so far, it’s gaining in popularity. Great to see some spanking scene in L.A. again!

Crap. I have to adult now and work. How tedious. Anyway, enjoy. The line for swooning forms to the left.

Strange Days Indeed

Most peculiar, Mama.

No, I’m not losing my mind (yet). It’s a song lyric.

Life is change. Which sucks, if you’re a person like me who hates change. Therefore, coming to terms with it is a process and a struggle. Feeling the need to ramble a bit, and not knowing where to put it, I return here, to my failsafe.

Those of you who have been with me for a long time know that the theme of my life was “I’m different.” Not just because of my kink, but overall, in so many ways. I scrambled and bumbled my way through the first half of my life, never feeling like I quite fit in anywhere.

For the longest time, I desperately craved to fit in somewhere, anywhere. Then in my 30s, after a lot of self-examination, I came to realize that yeah, while I was an oddball sort, I no longer cared. I was who I was. And really, fitting in with the straight and narrow and the expected wasn’t what it was cracked up to be. As a very wise friend said, “I don’t think you can help being different, Erica, so maybe you should just stop worrying about it.”

And with self-examination and exploration came my entry into TTWD. And after that, I got involved in “the scene.” The spanking community. The party groups, and later, the video groups, the blogosphere, all the related pockets of people who love spanking and everything about it. It was never perfect. There were always bumps and clashes and rollercoaster emotions.

But. I belonged somewhere. For years. I felt like I was part of the fabric of something. Not just something peripheral, like a decorative button, but deeply woven into it. These feelings were new to me, and I never took them for granted, because I’d never known them before. I liked them. And oh my God, nothing brought those feelings home like the spanking parties. My people. My friends. My peers. My bubble of unreality, where real life went away for a few hours or a few days and we immersed ourselves in hedonistic joy.

However, life goes on, and as I’d mentioned, life changes. Bodies, minds, situations change. And the happiest people are those who adapt and roll with it.

I’m not a very good adapter.

A strange thing has happened. Within the past six months, I have been to three separate spanking events. I enjoyed all three. I played at all three, had laughs, got hugs, did all the things. But I didn’t feel the same. I felt angst and otherness. And for the first time, the good didn’t outweigh the bad.

Why? That is what I’m in the process of accepting. So many changes. Some are me. Some are outside of me. All combine to make me feel like I’ve lost something, and perhaps it’s inevitable. Because that’s how life is.

The party scene has changed a lot, in many ways. I could list some of them, but I’m not going to. Because if I do, there will be readers out there who feel like I’m criticizing and shaming the changes, and I don’t want that. I am not saying anything is wrong. I’m saying it’s different. And I have that square peg feeling more and more. That “not enough” feeling. I didn’t “evolve” with the scene. I am of a past mind. I suppose some of that is simply due to ageing, and seeing so many people who are decades younger than I am. But it’s also just who I am. I like things a certain way. My niche in the scene is specific. And I don’t fit in like I used to. I can’t participate in so many of the various role-plays and games of the scene. I’m not a little or a middle. I’m not a student. I’m not one who enjoys period costumes and other cos play. I don’t have elaborate scenario fantasies. I don’t want a mommy, a daddy, an uncle or a teacher. I’m just a grown woman who wants to be spanked by a grown man. More and more, I feel like I’m the oddball. Again.

Also… the national party scene has gone through a lot in recent years. Mind you, there was always drama. Anywhere you find groups of people, you find drama. But when #MeToo hit our scene, it hit hard. Abuse was exposed. Stories went viral. People I’ve known and cared about for years were brought into question. Sides were taken, and it was no longer okay to choose not to take them. If you didn’t, you were considered part of the problem. And honestly, I don’t think I have the stomach for it anymore, especially since I’m really not in the loop these days. I can’t keep track of who hates whom, who is a must to avoid, who I’m supposed to be nice to even if I don’t like them because I don’t want them as an enemy, who’s rape-y, who’s back-stabby, who’s two-faced and gossipy, who is real and trustworthy and who isn’t. On the grand party scale, it’s just too overwhelming.

So… I’ve been trying something different. Trying to find something on a smaller, more local scale. I have dipped my toes into a couple of munches. I will go to more. I need to find different ways to scratch the spanking itch. Because I don’t think the big events are going to make me happy, not like they used to.

There is a party in Vegas next month. Of course, there is a part of me that craves to be there. There are people I wish I could see. I want to play. I want the hugs. I want the bubble. But then I remember the reality of the last party, where I had a great time, but I also struggled. I spent way too much time alone in my room. I cried too much. And I spent way too damn much time of the weekend feeling like a spare button instead of part of the fabric. That was reality. The good times were great. I don’t regret going, even after catching Covid. The party owners did a great job. But this time, I don’t feel like risking it. It feels like a lot of time and effort and money to shove myself in like a mismatched puzzle piece. Not because anyone is doing anything wrong. But simply because things change. I used to feel like I was home, at a big spanking party. Not so much anymore.

When you spend half your life feeling like you don’t belong, and then you finally do belong somewhere, it is one hell of a wrench to feel like you’ve lost that. I am dealing with a lot of grief these days. A lot of new realities. It’s definitely a life transition, and I’ve never been one to transition smoothly. I kick and scream and fight it. Until depression takes over. Then I withdraw. Then it’s even harder to do the things so I can find a new path. Last Thursday there was a local munch. I know and like the person who put it together, I know and like several people who were going. I wanted to go. But I didn’t. It was cold and drizzly out, I was tired and down, and I simply didn’t have the spoons to get my ass in the car and drive there. That’s on me.

My therapist says that perhaps I’m having an existential crisis. That’s a bit too dramatic for me. I’m not in a crisis. I’m functional. I’m working. I get up, I get dressed, I do the things. But yeah, I’m questioning who I am and where my place is, these days. And I’m sad. So perhaps it’s an existential bleccchhhh. An existential “fuck this.”

And now that I’ve written all this, I’m questioning whether or not to post it. Because it’s so damn raw. But I’ve always been real on here. I’ve always been who I am, the good and the bad. And damned if I’m going to change that.

So, kids. Thanks for reading. ā™„ Oh, and just to return to topic briefly — those cane stripes from New Year’s? Those took three weeks to completely fade. I think that has to be a record for me. Not something I think I want to repeat, but it was quite the experience, with people I trust, and I wouldn’t undo it.

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