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 “trust”

Admitting the need

On Twitter, there is a sort of side site called “Curious Cat,” where people can anonymously ask you questions. I try to answer all the questions I receive, unless they are rude or completely ridiculous. A recent one was quite interesting; I’ve talked about this before, but I think it’s worth revisiting.

Do you consider spanking to be a hobby, an interest, an obsession, a need, or something else?

I have to laugh at “hobby.” No, it’s not a hobby. My doing crossword puzzles every day is a hobby. Books and movies are both an interest and a hobby. I have an interest in various types of trivia. My answer to the person who posed the question was that I’d rate it a need — except for when I’m not getting any. Then it can become an obsession.

But what level of need? This question spilled over onto Twitter, where some others joined in. Thanks to Lily Starr for posting this chart, Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs.

maslow-5

Clearly, it’s not a physiological need. I can continue to exist without spanking. The quality of my life may be somewhat compromised, but it will continue.

Safety, security? Meh… not so much.

But the top three? Each spot on in their ways, for me.

Belonging and love needs: Before I came out as a spanko, I felt like I was completely alone in all these weird thoughts and feelings. We all know the story about how I came to know that I wasn’t. The spanking scene enabled me to make connections like I never would have had. I was able to meet people, in person and online, who felt the way I do, who craved the same sensations and experiences, who got me. I found my life mate through exploring kink. In recent times, I have removed myself from the scene, and while life goes on, there are definitely feelings of bereavement, of floating adrift. So it’s clearly a belonging need, for me.

Esteem needs and accomplishment: Well. As far as accomplishments go, it’s not like I have bragging rights. I didn’t cure cancer. I didn’t go up in space. But I sure as hell made up for lost time, making myself known in the spanking world. I wrote three books, countless blog posts, etc. I went to parties, shot videos, opened myself up to public view, revealed myself physically and emotionally. Some people say I touched them, made them feel like they weren’t alone. This fulfills my craving for acknowledgment, the feeling that I matter. And as far as personal, physical and psychological self-esteem is concerned… I’ve said this before, but it too bears repeating. When I’m fully engaged in spanking, making those special connections, riding those endorphin waves, I feel prettier. Sexier. More desirable. More… alive.

Self-actualization: By embracing my kink/fetish/whatever you choose to call it, I was finally allowed to discover, explore and embrace my fullest self. For years, I was half alive, living under a shadow of depression, eating disorders and a sense of being on the outside of everything. I existed under the fallacy that I had to be “normal” to “fit in.” It wasn’t until I came out that I realized society’s version of normal is highly overrated, and that I don’t want to fit into it. As I have often described myself, I’m a square peg in a round world, and now, I prefer it that way. My mother’s favorite refrain, “People will think you’re weird,” echoes less and less in my ear these days. Fuck ’em. Let them think I’m weird. I’m real. I’m ME. And if spanking led me to that, then hallelujah.

So yes, it’s a need on several levels. And I still struggle with the balance, with trying to get these needs met but not letting myself get consumed by them. I do miss the days when I had dear play partners I saw once a week or every two weeks; where I could get that special connection regularly. I hold out hope that I will find that again.

This is going to be a difficult week for me. I wish I could lose myself in the escape and rush of an intense spanking. But it looks like I will simply bury myself in work instead, and just move through it and past it. I wish I could call/write somebody and say, “I’m feeling needy. I’m craving cathartic touch, some pleasurable pain. Please come deliver this to me — I need you.” There really should be a spanko Uber service. Although that would be pretty impersonal, I suppose. I prefer to connect with a trusted top. Plus, tops are not spanking delivery systems; they are people with lives and their own needs. But I hesitate to come out and ask for what I need. Exposing my vulnerability and neediness carries risks. My inner self is tender and wounds far too easily; thus my outer core must stay tough. For protection.

September will be better.

So, readers, where do you fall on the hierarchy of spanking need? Or would you say it’s not a need, but something else?

The ephemeral nature of kink intimacy: Can it be real?

And if it can, how do you know when it is?

ephemeral

[ ih-fem-er-uhl ]SHOW IPA

adjective

lasting a very short time; short-lived; transitory:

the ephemeral joys of childhood.

 

lasting but one day:
an ephemeral flower.

 

(Why do you show off so damn much with your million-dollar words, Erica?) I can’t help it. I like them. But you can’t complain if I provide the definition, right?

37k83l

Note: I’m aware that many of my readers are married to or monogamously involved with their spankers, and don’t play with others. This post is more for those who do play with others, whether or not they have a primary relationship… a situation that can be a lot more confusing. Leave it to me to choose the more complicated route.

According to general societal patterns (you know, those “normal” people), here’s the blueprint: Couples meet, however they meet. They exchange names. They talk, share basic information. In the course of a few hours, a few phone calls, a few dates, whatever, they learn more about one another. Preferences of all kinds. Music/book/movie tastes. Political leanings. Fears. Hopes. Dreams. Failures. The jigsaw puzzle of personality gets filled in, a piece at a time. In the course of this time, there are physical exchanges, often starting with kisses. Then a little more, and a little more, until we have full-on sexual intimacy.

Now we kinksters, we do everything ass backwards (word play intended). Oftentimes, basic vetting aside, we play first and ask questions later. We have physical intimacy first. Instead of that slow burn of growing attracted to one another as we learn more, we burn hot from the get-go, act on chemistry over personal knowledge, invite others into our homes, our beds, our bodies, our playrooms, etc. before we’ve even begun to invite them into our hearts or our day-to-day lives. Oftentimes, that last part doesn’t happen.

Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that. It’s kind of hot. If I wanted to go the traditional route, I would have. I tried it for many years. It’s overrated.

Funny and perfect case in point: When D came over a few weeks ago, we’d met only once, and briefly. Essentially, I brought a strange man into my home, my space. I felt completely okay with that. We played. We had intense and close-up contact. I laid myself out, physically and emotionally. He inflicted both pain and pleasure. He saw me raw and open, exposed.

Afterward, when I was lying on the couch bare-ass naked with him massaging lotion into me, I dreamily turned my head and asked, “What’s your last name?”

He told me. I told him mine. And the massage continued.

I’ve been doing this for so long, this feels perfectly normal. But I know there are tons of people out there who would be shocked at the idea of someone seeing their bare ass (not to mention exposed genitalia) before said someone learns their full, real name.

This is what I call “pseudo-intimacy.” It’s an intimacy quickly forged out of a strong cocktail of physical attraction and a shared desire, a common bond of kink. But is it real intimacy — whatever the hell that is? And if it isn’t, can it become so? When does a play partnership cross over into a real friendship, a relationship of sorts, where people care about one another?

Most of you know the story of how John and I met. I placed an ad; he answered it. We chatted once on the phone. And then we met for coffee. We talked at Starbucks until they closed, then went for a walk. He ended up pulling me over his leg in the alley behind Starbucks and spanking me, until we heard the telltale jingle of a leash and a man appeared, walking his dog (and getting quite the eyeful). We then proceeded to John’s vehicle where he spanked me some more, gave me an orgasm, and he took my panties, claiming I’d have to see him again if I wanted them back.

This is not your typical “first date.” We were both seeing other people at the time.

Cut to the present — on August 30, we’ll be together 23 years. Somehow, that initial pseudo-intimacy became real, blossomed into something much fuller. It can happen.

But it’s complicated. Because of the nature of what we do, it’s easy to confuse pseudo-intimacy for something real. It’s easy to fall for the actions, thinking you’re falling for the person. When in fact you really don’t know them at all.

I remember my very first spanker. Saw him a total of three times, played twice. Paul. I never did learn his last name. But he changed my life. In one afternoon, in the time span of no more than an hour, he put me on a path of no return, opened me to a vast new world to explore and experience. That first spanking meant more to me than losing my virginity did.

At the time, I remember feeling like I’d fallen in love with Paul. But even then, in my haze of hormones and endorphins and wonder, I knew that wasn’t it. Of course I wasn’t in love with him. I was in love with what he gave me. But of course, sometimes, when your emotions get involved, it’s hard to compartmentalize it like that. The boundaries blur. Your mind says one thing, your body says another, and your heart says yet another.

No wonder so many scene relationships go sideways.

I have been thinking back on some of my play partnerships over the years, many of which have been chronicled in my blogs. All the time I’ve been with John, I’ve played with other men, all with his blessing. I am lucky that way. A lot of these partnerships simply faded away, due to various life circumstances. A couple, I really regret losing. Two come to mind that did indeed blossom into real friendship, much more than just the physical act of getting together to play.

Danny Chrighton and I were play partners for over three years. But we were also the best of friends. We didn’t just play. We hung out. We did stuff together. He and John were buddies. Our play chemistry was awesome, but beyond that, our closeness was true. He knew me, and I knew him. There was mutual trust and respect. And the only thing that ended it was distance, when he moved out of state. I loved him. I still do. I miss what we had, to this day, even though I haven’t seen him in years.

Then there was ST. Same deal, we met through an online ad, got together to play. From the beginning, we were consistent; he came over every Monday evening. We hung out and talked after playing. Our play was sometimes edgy, dancing on the boundaries and limits, maybe at times a little scary… because I trusted him. I knew within that he would never really hurt me. And on the flip side, we had our silly times, like when he showed up at my place on Halloween, masked and dressed as “Super Spanko.” I knew all kinds of odds and ends about him; the farming community, population 350, he’d grown up in; the names of all his siblings; how much he adored his dog.

We were friends/play partners for over two years. And… then he met someone. There was a mutual attraction, a couple of dates. He told her about me. She said, “I don’t think I like that.”

And just like that, we were done. The last time we played, I wept. I told him I loved him. He said he loved me too, and he always would. But then I never saw him again.

Does that mean that what we had wasn’t real? Is something real when it can be tossed aside so easily? Or is that simply just another sad fact about the nature of relationships? I don’t know.

I bear him no resentment. I did hear from him briefly once, via email. He’d bought a house. I hope he found happiness. He was a good guy; he deserved it.

I suppose the point of all this rambling is — damn. I’ve been doing this for over twenty-three years, and I still get muddled and mixed up emotionally over what’s real and what’s simply born of the intense, instant intimacy and vulnerability. And if I still get taken in by it, how the hell do scene newbies handle it?? How do they navigate the sea of feelings that can be stirred up when you put yourself into someone else’s hands? When they cut through layers and layers of outer bullshit and go straight to your core? When you gift each other with trust and vulnerability, and then it’s gone as quickly as it came?

In a perfect world, pseudo-intimacy would indeed develop into something more real, and more lasting. We could keep those wonderful feelings and experience them again and again. Where real life wouldn’t take them away. Where no matter what relationships go in and out of each person’s life, the core friendships and caring remain.

Is that too much to ask for? I know some say that I don’t have a right to expect this: that I have a relationship, so I shouldn’t want for this too. Well, guess what. I do anyway. I guess I will never stop yearning for it. Because I know it’s possible. And don’t ask me what the man is getting out of it, if he’s not my primary relationship. I sure hope to hell that all the men who have been my play partners over the years got something out of it.

Because I sure did, and I don’t think we could have connected as deeply if they didn’t.

Anyway. I should be working. But sometimes, I just have to ramble. And hope that it resonates with someone out there. Thoughts, anyone? Your own experiences with this?

The more I experience…

…the less I know, it seems. Specifically, about implements.

implements

The above photo contains but a mere sampling of what’s out there to use on a spanking bottom. I’ve probably felt them all at some point or another. You’d think after 20+ years, I’d be an expert on implements and how they feel. But, aside from some general knowledge, I remain woefully in the dark. Which doesn’t help my ass any.

This post was precipitated by my getting together with an old FetLife friend for coffee last week, someone I haven’t seen in seven years. We chatted it up for a couple of hours and of course the subject of implements came up. He showed me a picture on his phone of his “punishment paddle” and I immediately said that would be a hard limit for me.

I’ve often said I don’t like wood and I prefer leather. However, “wood” is ridiculously general — it doesn’t account for the myriad types, thicknesses, etc. All wooden implements are not created equal. All woods are not created equal. I have heard many times that some are lighter, some are dense, some are quite tolerable and others are practically unbearable. But damned if I know which is which.

I do know that thick, heavy frat-style wooden paddles are a hard limit. When I said nay to my friend’s photo, he asked why. I said it’s just pure pain to me, no pleasure whatsoever, and the pain is BAD. I can’t absorb the impact; it thuds me down to the bone. “Even if it’s lower on the butt? Maybe people are hitting you too high with it,” he suggested. Nope. Even if it’s on the fleshiest part of my sit spots, I feel this horrible, heavy thud deep within my sit bones, and it’s wretched. I’m a tad more willing about other wood, like lighter paddles, hairbrushes and spoons, but even those are hard for me to take. I will take them on video a lot more willingly than in a private scene that’s for mutual pleasure, because they really don’t pleasure me.

So, generally, one would think leather is the ticket for me, right? Not necessarily. Because all leather implements aren’t created equal either, damn them. Thickness comes into play again, as well as wear. A buttery soft, well worn flexible strap feels entirely different from a stiff brand new one. Straps can run the gamut from a sensual snap to sheer agony. And I can’t tell just from looking at them which it’s going to be. I have made godawful mistakes in choosing implements at parties before: sometimes the most innocent looking items can be utter torture. Conversely, sometime the items that look the meanest can be fairly innocuous.

I like leather implements in general. But one of the worst things I ever felt was a double razor strap. Yeah, it was flexible. It was also thick, very heavy and very thuddy. I have made many people laugh by saying it felt like being hit with a side of beef.

And speaking of flexibility — if the give of leather feels so much more acceptable to me, then wouldn’t it stand to reason that other materials with give would also work?

Again, not necessarily.

I recall a scene at a party, many years ago, when I was playing with a top I knew well, and I knew the feel of his implements. He had a strap I loved to hate, and he wielded it with precision and evil intent. After I’d played a prank on him, he put a blindfold on me and then proceeded to strap the bejesus out of me. From the start, it hurt like hell, like nothing I remembered. I screamed and squawked and fussed, and he laughed at me. “What’s wrong?” he taunted. “It’s just my strap! You’ve felt it before! What’s the matter, are you losing your tolerance?” I gritted my teeth and bore it, took all he gave, even though my mind was screaming, “What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I take this? Why is this hurting so much?? Aaaaaaaagh!” Perhaps I was having an off night? A really off night?

It wasn’t until the next day that I found out from his girlfriend that the strap was NOT leather — it was rubber. Hence the blindfold, so I couldn’t see it. Grrrrr. I was marked like crazy, too. Deep bruises.

So now rubber is pretty much a hard limit as well. Although I guess Delrin is a sort of rubber, or similar? I will take a Delrin cane, although they hurt like a bitch.

Even canes don’t all feel the same. If I say in a general statement that canes are OK to use on me, what am I letting myself in for? I’ve never experienced a Singapore-style cane, nor do I want to. But a proper rattan caning, with a thin whippy one, in the hands of someone who knows what they’re doing? Intense, but in the right head space, amazing.

I have felt everything, I think. From canes to belts to brushes to carpet beaters to tawses to crops to paddles to whips. I used to pride myself on what I could take. Nowadays, I find my desires changing. I still like to play hard… but only, ONLY if it’s someone whom I know is going to be measured, even, and careful. I no longer have any tolerance for stray shots–too high, too low, wrapping to the sides. I don’t like unevenness in cheekage. These days, I appreciate accurate and skilled players more than ever. The types I can trust with anything in their hands, no matter what it is, and know I’ll be safe and given just the right amount of pain. It’s a rarity, I’m afraid. Tops can be wonderful and kind and sensitive and skillful and many wonderful things, but still not adept with all the toys.

Perhaps now that I’m older, now that I’ve been doing this for a while, I don’t feel like I have to prove myself? (And to whom… to the scene, or to my own self?) I no longer have to show the world that I can get my ass beat all to hell with everything but the weed whacker. Or maybe I just don’t want that much pain and damage anymore? I really don’t know. But it does make me wish I understood the makings, the physics of implements better, so I could make the best choices for my play. Because, like everything else, I want quality over quantity.

But of course, there’s always hands. 🙂

Speaking of everything but the weed whacker — remember this?

dscf4121

Anyone else find they have been fooled by implements before? Or that something they used to like is no longer acceptable? Vice versa? Has anyone’s tolerance levels changed?

My answer to my question

Last week, I tossed out a mini-poll to readers — rather than restate, I will paste what I wrote:

I have an informal poll for my bottom/sub/DD or D/s practicing readers, whatever you choose to call yourselves.

Say there’s something kink-wise that you don’t really care for, but your top/dom/whatever loves it. Say it’s not one of your hard limits, and the next time you’re scening, he says he’d like you to do X. (As I always do, for simplicity’s sake, I’m assuming the M/F orientation. Feel free to switch it up in your mind.) You groan and say, “Oh, do I have to?”

Which of the following two answers would you prefer to hear? (in a calm, deliberate tone, of course)

A: “You know better than to ask me that. Yes, you have to, because I said so.”

B: “No, you don’t have to; this is about consent. Use your safeword if you need to. But it would please me if you did it — do you want to please me?”

Something I probably should have clarified: I’m aware that A and B don’t represent the wide variety of possible answers. If I’d wanted to broaden the scope of the poll, I could have added more, like:

C: Neither. I don’t care for roleplay/scene banter.

D: Neither. I would choose to comply right away without resistance.

E: Neither. We play for fun only, so there is nothing done that pushes limits.

And so on. However, I had a specific purpose in mind — narrowing the choice down to those two, because I was curious about the knee-jerk reaction to them and what readers thought.

So what’s my choice? Mine is A.

I can hear some of you out there. “What?? Since when? No one tells Erica what to do.” Ah, but remember the context. This is within scene with a trusted top. I have already chosen to give my choices over to him. And within that frame, him asserting his will is hot as hell.

But what about B? Isn’t that preferable because it makes it clear that the choice is mine? Not as I see it. In fact, I think A and B are the same — they both take my choice away (so to speak, because, as mentioned, I’ve chosen to give it away). How is B taking my choice away, rather than giving it back to me? Because, if I were in submissive mode, or if I were a submissive player, a lot of my scene well-being would hinge upon pleasing my top. So, when he says, “No, of course you don’t have to, but if you want to please me, you will,” then that’s my answer. Implied is the continuation: “And if you don’t, I won’t be pleased with you.” Which is passive-aggressive and manipulative, IMO. Screw that. The top is saying it’s the bottom’s choice, but it really isn’t. I’d much rather be flat-out “ordered” to do something than be psychologically coerced into it by the implied threat of disapproval/disappointment.

Thoughts?

By the way, does anyone know if Chross is OK? He hasn’t posted since April 30.

50 Freaks 2016, Part 2

Upon further communications in social media, I’ve discovered there was indeed some sort of plague going around Vegas. With John and myself included, so far I’ve numbered seventeen people who are sick. Fascinating.

Friday morning, I got a text from SC, asking if we’d like to join her group for breakfast. She was rooming with her guy (I’ll refer to him as E for Englishman), Alex, another Alex (known as The Bad Alex), and one more woman whose scene name I don’t know so I will call her A, and the five of them had gone to a nearby restaurant. John Googled the address, but it was still hard to find, not knowing the area, and we took a while to get there. But once we did, it was definitely worth the effort! I love shared meals at these gatherings, where people are relaxed, happy, not in play mode, just kicking back and enjoying with friends. E & SC had to leave early because they were scheduled to do a straight-razor shaving demo (and no, we aren’t talking about E’s face), so A left with them while John and I lingered with the two Alexes. We caught the end of the demo, but discreetly positioned ourselves in back of SC so we couldn’t see anything. We adore our friend, but didn’t find it necessary to view her quite so intimately!! (I think she appreciated that. When John commented afterward that we’d seated ourselves out of the line of vision, she cracked something along the lines of, “Good, so I don’t have to avoid looking you in the eye for the rest of the weekend?”)

We hung out in the suite into the afternoon, and I did a scene with Tom from Chicago. After a lot of chatting and mingling, it was nap time. On Friday evening, a portion of our group was going to Caesar’s Palace to ride on the giant Ferris Wheel that overlooks the city, in a pod that Joe had rented for a half hour. Spanking was allowed, but skirts were to remain down and panties were to remain up, Joe was firmly informed. Afterward, people were going to hang out on the strip, have dinner, whatever. So John and I knew that Friday night we’d be on our own. I think that’s where I first had that disconnected feeling. In fact, I ended going back to our room for a while, feeling teary-eyed and at loose ends, wanting to play but not wanting to ask people, wanting to chat and yet not feeling like it. So silly, and such a waste of perfectly good party time. But it happens. Emotions run high at these events.

With John’s help, I picked myself back up and went back to the suite, and when people started coming back from the Caesar’s event, the party livened back up. I sat at the bar talking with R — I’d taken my glasses off and had them perched on my leg. He picked them up and began cleaning them, lecturing me on how dirty they were. Well! One thing led to another and we ended up doing our second scene. This one was quite lively — he then complained because he could see the tag in my panties. “You don’t like my glasses! You don’t like the tag in my pantie! Anything else?” I snarked. “Why don’t you just rip it out with your teeth if it bothers you so much?” “I would if I could!” he retorted. When he thought we were done, he said, “OK, up you go, kiddo.” No way! “What, that’s it?” I blurted for the second time that weekend. “Lightweight!” Accepting the challenge, he gave me more. Good.

From what I hear, after he got me, R went on to spank both SC and Alex in succession. I’d been telling them how much fun he was to play with, and this was the first time for them both. I didn’t see Alex afterward, but I watched as SC came staggering out of the bedroom with her hair disheveled (he likes to run his hand through hair, it seems), and the look on her face was one I will forever think of as “the after-R face.” Yes, she was pleased.

Soon after that, there was quite the free-for-all scene going on in one of the bedrooms with Alex, Adriana (Evans) and Fun Allowed. Adriana was sprawled face down on the bed, with FA whaling on her bare bottom, while Alex knelt on the carpet at her side, wielding a ginormous Hitachi wand. R and I joined in, sort of — he held down one of her legs, and I sat on the bed at her head, acting as a bumper to keep her from sliding forward as she writhed around. I stroked her hair while she reacted most vociferously to the Hitachi, over and over again. And if I had one picture, it would be of Alex’s face as she gleefully tortured Adriana — how does such a sweet girl look so diabolical?? 😀 I know there were pictures taken of this, but I haven’t seen any turn up yet. Oh, and a side note: While all this extreme hotness was exploding, what did R notice? That the Hitachi wand cord had a knot in it. LOL! Is someone just a wee bit OCD?

The night went on, and at 2:20 a.m., I was deep in conversation with The Artist Formerly Known As Ralph Marvell (AKA Tall & Strict on FetLife). As we chatted, Joe approached and said, “Erica! We had a 2:20 appointment!” I blinked, at a loss for words temporarily, and John chimed in with, “Yeah, honey! I told you about that!” Oh, sure he did. Well, who was I to argue — it was two against one, after all. “To be continued?” I said to T&S, and he agreed.

As it had been in the past few parties, the St. Andrew’s cross was up against the wall. I played on it last Shadow Lane, in an attempt to dispel the bad memory I had of a cross scene many years ago, and it helped. So when Joe suggested we switch things up a bit and try the cross, I was game. I needed to do something bold and different, get out of my head, with a trusted partner. This was it.

I took off my dress and stood at the cross in a brief thong and my bra, my hands gripping the upper part of the X, my back arched. I didn’t know what Joe was going to use, and I didn’t care. If I may, I need to stop for a moment and express just how much of a pleasure it is to know that a top is so good, so conscientious, that I can trust him with anything in his hands and know I can relax, carefree, fully into the scene. Only a select few can go there with me. Once we started, I closed my eyes and hunkered down for the ride.

The scene is a blur. All I remember is Joe’s hard hand, then a very hard strap, and some guttural moaning coming from somewhere. Oh, wait. That was me. More. More. Give me more. I want this. I didn’t care that it was only Friday night. It was Joe. It was OK. All was good. I felt him checking in, testing my skin, pressing his hand into me. I gave myself over to him. I think he ended the scene when he saw that my legs had begun to shake and was concerned that they might buckle.

He gently took me out of position, sat down with me in a nearby chair and held me in his lap while I shook all over and gasped for breath. I made him laugh when my first coherent words were “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“I’ve never heard you growl before,” he grinned. Somehow, with his help, I managed to stumble over to the couch and collapse on top of both John and T&S, and Joe brought me a blanket and a bottle of water. I was toast. Friday was done.

When I went to the bathroom to take a look, I did a double take. That couldn’t be me. I was marked. Not in weird spot off to the side or down below, but on my butt proper, both cheeks, fully marked. Holy crap. I couldn’t believe it. I had John take a picture, back in our room. For those who don’t like seeing marked bottoms, you might want to scan past this.

scenewithJoe

I know. It was Friday night, with two more nights ahead. How do I explain that I was OK with this? I can’t. I just know that because it was Joe, and because I love him and trust him, that this was good. I wanted it. From a casual play partner, no. From a stranger playing with me for the first time? Hell no! But from a friend, a top of Joe’s caliber? Yes. I told him, “Joe, I don’t care if I don’t play for the rest of the party; this is the weekend scene for me.” And I meant it. My head space had been all in turmoil; now I was calm. Now I was fully invested in the party. (And of course, I did play again over the next couple of days. What am I, an amateur? 😉 )

Even if you don’t like marks, you have to give credit to his flawless precision. Not one stroke out of bounds — nothing too high or too how, no wrapping. Equal attention to both cheeks. It doesn’t get any more perfect, kids. And no, I’m not talking about my butt. I’m talking about a top’s handiwork.

John put me to bed with ice packs and we went to sleep around 4:00, I think? And now I’m fading again. Damn this illness. But I should get some work done anyway, before my brain completely disintegrates for the day.

Part 3 coming soon.

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