All Over the Map

It’s been quite a week. I have been at the heights of joy, in the pits of sadness, and boiling over with frustration and anger. Because everything has felt so random and crazy, I think I’ll just list things in no particular order. That way, people can read, pick and choose what they relate to, and ignore the rest.

I watched a special on ABC last night: “Eyewitness to the Death of John Lennon.” It was first aired in December 2020, marking the 40-year anniversary of John Lennon’s murder. Jeezus, forty years. And just like that, all the feels and the tears came rushing back. Guns and crazy people then; guns and crazy people now. What’s changed? What’s gotten better? Broke my heart all over again.

Here in Southern CA, Orange County specifically, there is an Italian restaurant who — yes, you are reading correctly — will not allow people to wear masks inside and who demands proof of NON-vaccination before you’re allowed to dine there. (How the hell do you show proof of that, anyway?) The owner is self-righteous and smug and militant about his stance; I watched part of an interview with him and he was so belligerent that the newscaster cut it short and said, on the air, “You sound like an idiot.” Last Tuesday night, I saw a tweet about an article that stated the owner was getting a huge kick out of the anger over this and he’d said he was “enjoying watching people’s head explode.”

So, Miss Mouth here tweeted: “What an asshole. I hope HIS head explodes when his restaurant is shut down due to massive Covid infection.”

Y’all know I didn’t mean that literally, right? You know it’s a figure of speech? Of course you do. Well, apparently Twitter didn’t. They locked down my account for a week. Said I violated their policy about “abuse and harassment.” Seriously?? Unbelievable. I saw many tweets that were a great deal worse than what I’d said; Twitter is so damn arbitrary. Oh well. I do have an alternate account for these instances, so I’ve kept up. Oh, and just for grins, I went and checked out the restaurant’s Yelp page. The place was bombarded with so many one-star angry reviews that Yelp temporarily disabled all the reviews and comments. Good. Fuck that guy. It’s too bad, though. It would have been fun to post a review along the lines of “Be sure to try the special: Roast Leg of Lambda with a side of Covidini. Better yet, stay the hell away from this Petri dish.”

On the good news front: Guess who is coming back to CA to visit me? C from Oregon! I can’t believe he is making that long trip again, and just for one day this time, but I’m thrilled that he wants to. I am seeing him two weeks from Monday and I can’t wait. Also, I heard from Mr. Woodland and he wants to play again soon too. Ah, this makes me happy.

And it helps make up for the fact that the man I played with a week ago Tuesday has seemingly dropped off the planet. Never heard another word from him — no email, no text, nothing. No feedback on our play. No check-in. Radio silence. I thought he enjoyed himself — I guess I was mistaken. Fortunately, I had no emotional investment this time.

Covid is on the rise again, escalating rapidly, with the Delta variant taking over. Breakthrough cases in people who are fully vaxxed are increasing. First they said the cases were 99% unvaxxed people; the latest I read is that the new cases are 86% unvaxxed. The numbers are going in the wrong direction. And guess where the latest really bad red zone is? Yup. Las Vegas.

Where we’re supposed to be headed in a month.

Our tickets are purchased, our hotel room is booked. I am craving this party with all my heart and soul. Not just because of the play — that’s actually secondary. I want to see our friends. I want hugs, lots and lots and lots of hugs. Jay, my sweet, wonderful Sister In Spirit is coming — this is her first SL. And it would be our first time meeting in person. We have been online friends for seven years, shared a million emails and texts, exchanged many presents… but I’ve never gotten to look her in the face, throw my arms around her.

But I have to face reality. It might not be safe to go. Yes, everyone at the party will be vaxxed. But we’ll be all over the hotel. Hallways, restaurants, elevators. Constant exposure. Tons of people — it’s a holiday weekend. And even vaxxed people can carry and transmit the Delta variant. Yes, the vaccine helps. Yes, even if we got Covid, it would most likely be a mild case. I’m not concerned about myself.

But John is another story. He is high-risk. He is compromised.

I’m seeing the writing on the wall. He’s already saying things like “Well, we’ll have to spend more time in our room, take more breaks,” “We can bring more snacks and eat in our room more,” “We’ll have to keep our masks on even in the party rooms,” “Maybe we can just stay for a couple of days instead of all four,” and so on. It sounds like if we go, we’re going to be uptight and preoccupied about the specter of Covid every damn minute. And what fun is that? People are coming from all over, bringing who knows what. And, as mentioned, Vegas is a hot spot now.

I suppose I could go by myself, take John out of possible harm’s way. But the thought of that is nearly as unbearable as not going at all. I’ve never gone to a party without John, not once in 25 years. I can’t imagine being there without him. Yeah, I’d have lots of people to hang with. But I’d feel like I was missing a limb.

So. There isn’t a blessed thing I can do at this point. All I can do is watch and wait, and hope. Maybe things will improve in Vegas over the next month.

Or maybe things will get so bad that we’ll all get locked down again. Who knows. It’s unthinkable. But then again, having this pandemic go on and on like it has is unthinkable as well.

Here is where I could go on a long, expletive-filled rant about what I think of anti-vaxxers and Covid deniers. But I won’t. Y’all know me. You can well imagine what I’m thinking and feeling right now about these people with their willful ignorance and utter selfishness.

Perhaps this says it all.

So yeah. I’m all over the place. Oh, and did I mention that John’s and my 25th anniversary is at the end of August? SL was going to be our celebration getaway. Hopefully it still will be. Only time will tell.

How are you doing? Come talk to me. Stay safe, everyone. ♥

PSA for Tops: We Want Your Hands!

Yesterday, a Twitter friend posted that her husband (to whom she recently came out as a spanko, and who is now learning the joys of topping) had some post-spanking soreness in the palm of his hand. She was putting this out to all of us Twitter spankos, asking if this was caused by a flaw in technique, and what could he do to avoid this?

First, kudos to her husband for being willing to learn about this stuff and make her happy! Out of curiosity, I read through a lot of the replies she got.

About half the guys who answered gave helpful tips or suggestions. Try cupping the hand more, rather than hitting flat-handed. Don’t let the skin dry out. Warm up gradually. And of course, the more you do it, the more your hand toughens up. One man said when he first started, he had bruises and blisters on his hand, but he kept going, slowly building up a tolerance until that no longer happened.

And the other half essentially said to use implements instead. One gentleman said that he will only use his hand for a light good-girl spanking. “The bottom should hurt, not my hand.”

Hmmm. Readers, guess which guys Yours Truly would choose to play with?

Before I get too far into this: for the intents and purposes of this post, I’m going to speak in the M/F orientation, just to keep things simple. That does not mean I’m disregarding other orientations. Anything I suggest in this post should probably be adjusted for female tops. Anatomically, generally speaking, a man’s hand is larger and stronger than a woman’s. (Don’t yell at me that I’m a sexist; I did say generally speaking!) However, for the purpose of being the best possible top, the same advice goes for any gender — toughen your hand.

So I bet there are some of you thinking this is going to be a snarky post, giving tops the business for complaining about how their hands hurt. Break out the world’s smallest violin! Boo-hoo, no pity for you, our butts hurt worse than your hands! Suck it up! Etc. Yeah… that could give some of my fellow bottoms a giggle, but overall, it’s not at all helpful. So this is more of a plea; I am requesting that you guys endeavor to toughen up your hands so that you can deliver a topnotch hand spanking. No top should have to fall back on implements simply because hand spankings make them uncomfortable. This is fixable.

Why is it so important? Well, for one thing — for spankos, hand spanking is golden. I don’t know any bottom who doesn’t love a good hand spanking. Opinions vary about various implements and toys, but I’d be willing to bet that no bottom would say they don’t like the hand. In fact, I’d say many would claim it to be their favorite. Why? It’s the most intimate, for one. There is nothing like the feeling of skin on skin, not to mention the inimitable cracking sound of a palm on a backside. We love the feel of your hand in all its forms — chastising or caressing. The dichotomy of pain and pleasure is all right there, at the end of your arm. You can feel your bottom’s skin for heat, for dryness. You can gauge your strength so much more clearly.

For another thing, as mentioned, not everyone likes implements. Some bottoms are scared of certain ones, like the cane. Newbies to the scene can be intimidated by them. Yeah, I hear some of you out there — “It’s a punishment! They’re not supposed to like it!” Come on. There’s a big difference between loving to hate something (and vice versa), and being just plain terrified and miserable because they really can’t stand what you’re using. If we’re talking a consensual relationship where the bottom has the power to set limits, then yes, it’s a concern if they don’t like certain implements. But would any of them say no to your hand? I think not.

With many implements (particularly those that can wrap), there is a learning curve with them. You can’t just pick up a cane or a heavy paddle or a flogger and start whaling away with it. You have to learn how to use it, how to aim it properly, etc. Implements in the right hands can be sublime and deliciously, painfully effective. In the wrong hands, they can be a damaging disaster.

And finally, unless you’re at a party, or you have a collection of spanking toys, implements are not always readily available. But your hand is.

Most of you know me, but for those who don’t — I am not anti-implements. Far from it. I have felt most of them. I adore some of them. A few are hard limits. But overall, I fully approve of them, and I own several myself. However, my first love is a good, thorough hand spanking. And some of the best tops I’ve known have been ones with hands so seasoned and powerful, they could make me say mercy with their hand alone.

So what are some useful hints for building up hand tolerance? I don’t have personal experience with this as I’m not a top, but these are things I’ve heard over the years.

This sounds ridiculous, but I know tops who have done this and it worked. Get yourself a brick, or a block of something equally resilient. Sit yourself down in front of your favorite binge-streaming show, and slap the brick. Over and over, as hard as you can tolerate. Take a break, and then do it some more. When your hand gets tired, stop. Then do it again tomorrow. Over time, this toughens your hand.

Lift weights? Try going without weight-lifting gloves for a while. Your hands will build calluses. Hell, I lift wimpy girl weights and even my palms have little calluses.

When spanking, warm up slowly/gradually rather than going full strength right out of the gate. This benefits both your hand and your partner’s bottom. (If you’re reading this right now and you’re thinking, “Warm-ups are for sissies” or “I don’t do warm-ups, it’s supposed to be punitive,” you may want to stop reading right here, because this post clearly isn’t for you.)

A lot of newer tops hit the bottom flat-handed, which not only feels lousy to the hand, but it thuds instead of smacks, which sucks. Try cupping your hand to the bottom; run your hand over the cheeks, get the feel for the roundness, and shape your hand to it.

Have lotion available and keep your hand moisturized. If the skin gets too dry, it’s a prime setup for it to break open. And no, guys — using lotion is not “girly.” (Think I’m kidding? I’ve actually heard this.)

If your hand feels tender/sore afterward, ice can be helpful; it reduces inflammation.

And above all — Please. Don’t. Stop. Keep practicing. Keep persevering. Your hand strength will build up. But you have to give it a chance. And you have to really want to give your partner what they crave… a long, thorough, delicious, intimate, hurts-so-good hand spanking.

If anyone has suggestions I didn’t mention (other than “shut up, Erica, we’ll top how we please,” of course) please chime in with a comment.

I’m reminded of a party story from a couple of years ago; I know I mentioned it in one of my party reports, but it bears repeating. It was a Sunday night, the final blow-out, and I was doing a late-night scene with one of my favorite tops/friends. Afterward, because it was the end of the weekend and I was tired and feeling emotional, I started to cry, so he held me for a long time. Then he whispered, “Wanna see something?” “Okay,” I said. He then held up his right hand. Holy cow. There was no broken skin… but his entire hand was mottled-looking, speckled with small bruises and red dots, all over the palm, up and down the fingers. It looked excruciating. He then quipped, “For once, I can say this and really mean it: This hurt me more than it hurt you.”

And of course, I started giggling madly through my tears. Now there’s a trouper. (And yes, that’s the correct spelling in this context, not trooper.) There’s a dedicated spanker.

So please, all you toppy types out there who want to give the best spanking possible. If you love us — toughen your hands. ♥

Did ya miss me?

I haven’t blogged for a little over a month, so I have a lot of catching up to do. Honestly? What with the insanity around the midterms, mass shootings, displays of antisemitism, and lately, the horrendous fires in my state (still burning), I haven’t really felt the kink mojo. It’s hard to be lighthearted and funny and flippant when it feels like everything around you is devolving into a massive sinkhole of shit. This has been me:

(OK, my boobs aren’t that big. But whatever.)

However, life goes on and I need to remind myself of that. So here I am.

And I got to play again last week, thank you very much! Much needed stress release! Mr. Woodland paid me another visit, last Thursday (you know, after the Thousand Oaks shooting, but before the Woolsey fire exploded). This time he showed up with his toy bag. Uh-oh.

But never fear, the good Mr. W. started me off with a proper warm-up. At some point, this exchange happened:

Him: Do you prefer your underwear up or down?
Me: That’s up to you.

Although it was more like “That’s up to y—,” because I didn’t even have the word “you” out of my mouth when my panties were unceremoniously yanked to my thighs.

“Well, that was an easy decision,” he said. Humph.

Warm-up passed in the blink of an eye, it seemed. “Time for some implements,” he announced. “Get up, please.”

Well, at least he said please.

We moved to my ottoman, and he said, “Set this up the way you want it.” I protested, “Why me? You set it up last time, so you’d have room to swing.” “Fine,” he said, and nudged it a few inches with his foot — which then sent the cushions askew. “Well, now it’s crooked!” I huffed, leaning down to straighten it.

“I have a belt in my hand,” he said. “Is this really a good time to be a smart-ass?” (What better time is there?)

And so the strapping ensued. At a good breaking point, he went to get his bag. “Let’s see what I’ve got for you in this bag of treats,” he grinned.

I sweetly requested a Snickers bar. He didn’t have any.

I then got to meet several of the items in his bag, including a tawse, some sort of leather thing, and a very thin, light wooden paddle. “This is a sting-y little bastard,” he commented about the latter. “Kind of like you?” I commented in return. He sighed. “That wasn’t smart.”

It was worth it, though. 😀

More chit-chat:

Him: Well, that’s about all I can use for now. The rest [of the bag’s contents] is wood.
Me: (sighing) What’s wrong with you?
Him: I like wood!
Me: That’s what she said.

Damn, did we play hard. I could feel the strength he was putting into it, and I was drinking it in like a freaking desert in a rainstorm. I just wanted more, more, and more. Even the tawse. Normally, I’m leery about those suckers. I have had experiences in the past where one of those skinny little tails snaps into nooks and crannies that I really, really don’t want getting snapped — and I damn near go through the ceiling. But then I took a deep breath and remembered.

He knows what he’s doing.

So much so that when he seemed to be wrapping things up, I blurted, “Are you done??”

“You want more?” he asked.

“Um… maybe?”

He laughed. “Be careful what you wish for…”

Holy crap. That last round pushed my endurance, for sure. I quickly realized my error of not tossing a pillow on the carpet before we started. First, because I was scraping my elbows along the carpet as I leaned over the ottoman. Not my choice of pain. And second, because I didn’t have anything to scream into. And sometimes, you know, I just have to scream. So I ended up clamping both hands over my mouth and screaming into my palms. And all the while, I could feel the stress flowing out my pores, out of my limbs, out of my head. Magic. So lovely when I can just put myself into a man’s hands and know I’m safe. As Mr. W. says on his Fet profile, he might hurt, but he doesn’t harm. Knowing that makes such a difference.

He was impressed. “You can take one hell of a spanking, Erica,” he said. Despite the fact that I was limp as a dishrag and so sub-spacey I could barely think, I managed to croak out, “You know, this is all your fault.”

“Really? How’s that?”

“Because,” I squeaked, “if you hadn’t made me wait three weeks for this, I wouldn’t have been so fucking needy!!”

I wish I could have seen the look on his face at that. “Ah… well, I think we’ll have to address that next time.” Yeah, you think?

(I was kidding, of course. I am responsible for my own stress management; no one else. But a helping hand — or strap, paddle, etc. — is most welcome.)

And so we wound down. Then, I heard the two words that always melt me into the final oblivion:

“Good girl.” Of all the sweet phrases we love to hear, I think that’s one of the sweetest. Right up there with “That’s my girl.” 🙂

He hung out with me for a while, but had to get going before the traffic got bad (or worse, really, since L.A. traffic is pretty much always bad now). Have no idea what our schedules will bring over the upcoming holiday weeks… but I hope I get to see him again before 2018 is over.

As soon as he was gone, I thought, “Oh, damn! Pictures!” So, since I was still in living color, I grabbed my phone and tried to take a mirror selfie in the bathroom. I’m embarrassed to admit how many attempts it took to get this:

I still didn’t like it, but all the physical cogitations were making my back and neck ache worse than my butt. So I broke out the old-school digital camera and timer, and tried a different angle in the living room. Unfortunately, the lighting there didn’t show the red very well. But you get the idea.

I slept well that night. Sadly, the next day brought all new stress when the damned Woolsey fire blew up and I was worried about my stepmother in Thousand Oaks (all turned out well for her, thank goodness — she was without power for a couple of days, but didn’t have to evacuate). But such is life.

What else is going on… oh, yeah. Did I mention that my Twitter account was frozen for a week? “But, Erica,” I can hear you all crying, “what horrible, egregious, terrible thing did you tweet to earn this extreme penalty??” I called Tomi Lahren a bimbo.

(Never heard of Tomi Lahren? All you need to know about her is that she’s the millennial version of Ann Coulter. And if perchance you don’t know who Ann Coulter is — consider yourself fortunate.)

Let’s review. I’ve been insulted on Twitter over everything from my age (“granny porn”) to my body (“a poor man’s Olive Oyl”) to my face (I was likened to the character “Hatchet-face” from the movie Cry-Baby. Google her) to my background (“stupid @#$%ing Hollywood Jew). I’ve been threatened (“I’d love to watch you getting gang-raped”). But my saying “bimbo” is “hateful conduct”?? Yeah, Twitter. Bite me.

So, when my time in Twitter Jail was up, I put on my prison-stripe panties, brought out the trusty digital camera again, and took this, which I posted the day I came back:

I hash-tagged it #FuckCensorship. 🙂 Interestingly, I did not get reported and penalized for it. Imagine that.

(whew) Anyway. Work continues to be busy, for which I am grateful, not only for the bill paying but for the distraction. Crazy times, y’all.

Final thought — I wish I could hug every single firefighter in California right now. ♥ ♥ ♥

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.” 😛

Stress relief, and a runaway bus

OK, kids — no matter what side you’re on, I think we can all agree that this godawful Presidential election, fraught with anger and ugliness, could send anyone in this country to the loony bin. I know that if I’m going to survive, I need stress release, and I need to laugh. Fortunately, I’ve had opportunities for both this week.

First, for the past three days, I’ve been engaging in a war of bratty tweets on Twitter. It started out with Ulf Sayer, Kajira Bound and me, and then it expanded to include Alex Reynolds, Paul Kennedy and Nuna Starks. Ulf had claimed that, because of me, the hashtag #SpankOnSight has become an international necessity. And sometime yesterday, I’ve lost track of who started it, but the hashtag #BlameEricaScott became a thing.

So, I tweeted a photo of myself with a very innocent face, and said, “Who, meeee?” And late last night, Alex tweeted, “YES YOU!!!”

Humph! I then replied to all, “Did anyone get the license plate of that bus I just got thrown under?”

And Miss Alex came back with, “I did! Here you go!” Accompanied by this:

Well, I never! I am flabbergasted! I am verklempt! Or, to employ my beloved boyfriend’s goyishe interpretation, I am kermufft!

Today, Kajira posted a picture of herself about to be spanked by Ulf, and tweeted that this is what happens every time she talks with or quotes me. To which I said, “You’re welcome.” 😀

But back to stress relief. Steve and I were able to get together for a couple of hours yesterday, and we made good use of it. And finally got some new pictures. For this one, he called out, “Give me your best ‘WTF are you doing??’ face!” Which translated into my signature “righteous indignation” face:

And then, of course, there’s my “Is that all you’ve got?” face:

Apparently, it wasn’t all he had.

Notice that my thighs got a bit of attention too.

All good. I certainly felt a lot more relaxed afterward. And the laughter certainly felt wonderful.

Friends are good things. ♥ Bus tracks on my ass notwithstanding.

Oh no, he didn’t

Hi kids. I’ve been quiet this week, very busy with work. Also, although Steve and I had our four-year anniversary of being play partners and friends this week, we did not get to see each other. He had a job interview on Tuesday, and the rest of the week, I was just so damn busy and stressed, I couldn’t carve out any decent time, or any decent head space, for that matter. So we are shooting for next Tuesday.

However, something happened this week that I think is worth a mention on here.

I am really trying to stay out of the political stuff, y’all. But it’s hard. It’s all over Twitter and Facebook, and we’ve had two conventions in two weeks. I confess, I didn’t watch a single minute of either one. Nor have I watched the evening news. I haven’t even been watching the late-night talk shows — no Jimmy (either one), no Conan, nothing. I’m just so damn tired of hearing about the election.

Still, I tweet and comment about it elsewhere. I can’t live in a bubble, much as I’d like to. The other night, I tweeted about how I’m not watching the convention, that I’ve been watching old TV shows and vintage game shows every night instead, because I need a break. And then I got a tweet back:

“You deserve a severe spanking if you watch the DNC!”

My insides seized up. I couldn’t believe someone went there.

I thought about replying to him, but first, I went to check out his profile. He followed me, I noticed. Why? Then I looked at some of his tweets. OK, he’s a spanko, that’s why. But then I looked at some of the other things he said — horrible, ugly, misogynistic things, rife with the c-word. Ugh. I don’t want this creep following me anyway, so I blocked him without saying anything to him.

However, I then tweeted a general message to anyone who might be watching, just in case:

“To the cretin who said I ‘deserve a severe spanking’ if I watch the DNC: I’ll watch what I damn well please, and get spanked when it suits me.”

I ran out of characters, so I tweeted again:

“Oh, and because I ran out of characters, I must add this: Please go fuck yourself. :-)”

My sexual proclivities and my politics are two separate entities, just like church and state are (or as they should be). Do. Not. Use my spanking fetish as a threat because you don’t like my politics. That is over the line. That is so far over the line that I can’t even see the line anymore.

You don’t like my political leanings/choices? That’s your right and your prerogative. But you do not get to drag spanking into it. That makes me sick. Don’t take what’s fun and sexy and delicious to me and turn it into something icky because you disagree with another core part of my being that’s none of your goddamn business in the first place. If you don’t like me, don’t follow me. Don’t friend me. It’s as simple as that.

A reminder before I post the following: This blog is not about who you’re going to vote for. This post is not about who is better than whom. I have my opinions about that, of course I do, but I’m not talking about that. Please don’t take it in that direction in the comments.

OK, so speaking of combining spanking and politics, I found this today: What do you guys think of it?

I’m sure everyone recognizes this as the old Chase & Sanborn coffee ad, from back in the day when sexist ads like this were common. Part of me giggled… and then another part of me cringed. This is making fun of what we do. This is taking our fetish and making it look like something creepy, something that bullies and chauvinists and misogynists do to keep their “little women” in line.

Am I taking this too seriously? Or as spankos, does it squick you, too? I’m like, “EW! Leave spanking out of this!” Thoughts?

All right, enough of this. I have to get back to work.

Have a great weekend, y’all. To my friends at the Crimson Moon party in Chicago, have a blast! I can’t wait until I can party with you over Labor Day weekend.