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.

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Quiet…

…and probably will be for a while. Dealing with Stuff.

But the Shadow Lane party is at the end of the month. I am hoping to get back on track with that.

In the meantime, have a good weekend, y’all.

Things that make me see red, in a bad way

This jackass.

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Who might this jackass be, you ask? He is Dwayne A. Stamper, Sr., of Muncie, Indiana. And according to this article (please read; it will infuriate you), he offers up his “services” to parents of misbehaving children. But, he’s quick to add, none over the age of 13, because “they might whoop him.”

I see a Band-Aid on his forehead. I’m fantasizing that one of those older kids snatched that paddle away from him and clobbered him.

I don’t know what horrifies me more: that this is absolutely real, that this cretin is the father of five, or that a lot of people find this funny. It’s bad enough that people spank children. But this guy seems to gleefully revel in it, publicly admitting he does it and actually offering to do it to other people’s kids as well. Who the hell does he think he is??

Seriously, fuck this guy sideways with a 2 x 4.

Apparently, Mr. Stamper believes that “kids should fear their parents a little.” Oh, sure. That’s the way to parent successfully — don’t manage your kids reasonably, just terrorize them with the fear of pain. They’ll be good little children, they’ll toe the line… until they grow up, leave your house of horrors, and act out with all the suppressed rage they’ve accumulated over the years.

Adults engage in spanking consensually. If one grown person hits and hurts another grown person without consent, it’s called assault. And yet a grown person can hit a little person and it’s called “discipline” and “parenting.” Screw that. Stop. Hitting. Children. End of subject. There are ways to avoid raising spoiled monsters without resorting to physical pain.

Yeah, I hear the parents out there. “You don’t have kids! You don’t know!” True, I do not. But I was a child. I know the fear and rage and utter helplessness a child feels when an adult hits them. I know the feelings of betrayal.

Hey, Mr. Stamper? I’d like to stamp on your tiny little man parts. And then take the non-business end of that ginormous paddle you’re wielding and shove it where your Indiana sun don’t shine. Right out there on your street, in front of everyone. See how you like being hurt and humiliated.

Arggggh. Deep breaths. Thank goodness for blogging. I can blow off steam here without finding this POS’s Facebook page and starting World War III with him there, which would change absolutely nothing and just raise my blood pressure to explosive highs.

*rant over* Have a great weekend, y’all.

You’ve heard of PDA…

…which stands for Public Displays of Affection. In that vein, there should be something known as PDS as well. Three guesses what the S stands for??

As open as I am about my spanking fetish, I’ve always felt a little skeevy about public displays of it in vanilla settings. At a spanking party? Bring it. But on the street, in a store, etc.? I get embarrassed, I admit it. Which delights John to no end. I can’t tell you how many times he’s given me a smack or two in a public place, to which I hiss, “Don’t! There are PEOPLE!” He doesn’t seem to care about that. We’ve gotten snickers, whistles, and even “I saw that!” a couple of times.

This past weekend, we went to the grocery store to pick up a few items; three, to be exact. Because of that, John gleefully exclaimed, “Hey, self checkout!” And I groaned. I hate using the self checkout. Not because I’m lazy, but because it’s temperamental and glitchy. If you don’t do everything exactly right, very carefully, it freezes up and you get a “Checker has been notified” message. Well, crap, if you have to notify a checker, why use the damn thing in the first place? I can usually manage okay on my own, but John tends to rush in impatiently.

So we managed to get all three items scanned. I had put our grocery bag on the floor (if you put the bag in the “bagging area” before you scan any items, it screws up the system, because it thinks the bag is a grocery item you haven’t scanned yet), so I bent over to pick it up so I could put our stuff in it. And of course, you guessed it, John let fly with a loud smack to my butt. I jerked up to standing… just in time to hear the checker standing off to the side (watching for people who screw up the system, of course) call out, “Do it again!”

Oh, my freaking God. I sputtered and spluttered at John, while he stood there laughing his fool face off. Finally we got the transaction done and I started to hustle him out of there, but we had to walk by the oh-so-amused checker, who then grinned at us and asked, “Are you two newlyweds?”

!!!!!

“No!” I blurted, making a wry face and walking by… and then John fist-bumped him. He actually fist-bumped the guy.

I swear, I can’t take that man anywhere.

Well, look who’s back

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It’s true. I have been toying with the idea of restarting this for a while now. And I’d keep deciding not to, because I felt a little silly after making such a grand exit over a year ago. So why am I back?

Because I still have things to say. I don’t know who will want to read them, but I need to express them. I need a place to call mine. Facebook? Forget it. That’s mostly for playing Scrabble/Words With Friends and a few other vanilla odds and ends. Twitter is fun and I’m very active there, but one can only say so much with 260 characters. FetLife? Meh. FetLife is a mixed bag these days. There are, quite literally, millions of people on there, the attention spans are short, and you never know how your writing is going to be received. Sometimes, it strikes a chord and you get lots of loves and comments. Other times, no one notices. And then there are the times when, if you say something controversial, you swat at a hornet’s nest and bring a fuck-ton of sting down on yourself. FetLife can be a fun, playful place to connect with kinky friends… and it can be a minefield. Here, I have a bit more control. Here, I can fully be myself and know that (hopefully) the people reading like me and want to see what I have to say.

So what’s happened in the past year and two months? Everything and nothing, I suppose. Life. John and I will be together twenty-two years next month. He is still navigating the Nine Circles of Hell with his job, and that’s a long story unto itself, but I’ll shorten it by saying that he’s doing the best he can, and is determined to stick it out there and take their money and his pension. Health-wise, the news is good; he is the strongest he’s been in years. His heart is doing well; it’s been three years since his surgery. He walks a lot and keeps fit. He got a device for his sleep apnea, so he is now getting the rest he needs. I still worry about him all the time, and it’s still stressful hearing about the daily BS he has to endure at work, but overall, I’m breathing a little easier.

Scene-wise, we still do our two parties a year. I wish we could do more, but my distaste over traveling hasn’t changed and we are being very careful about spending money, because who knows what the future will bring. I had pretty much retired from doing videos at the end of 2016, but a couple of months ago, Alex Reynolds got a special request from one of her clients for a custom video with me in it. Couldn’t say no to that! It was a joy to shoot again, with her man Paul Kennedy, one of my favorite tops.

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This will be released on the Northern Spanking site, but I don’t know when. And speaking of Northern, around the time we shot this, they released a video I’d shot with them in 2016. Paul plays my husband, a filmmaker… and I just happen to be a film critic. Who trashes his latest production. Small wonder the clip is called Critical Erica. 😉 Here is a fun shot of the pullover — note Paul’s grim determination and my “righteous indignation” face.

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What else… I still get stupid correspondence. Today on Twitter, some weird guy kept insinuating himself into my conversations with stupid irrelevant comments, and then liking and retweeting his own comments! #BLOCKED  People still ask me scene questions, and I thought perhaps restarting this blog would make me more accessible. And let’s face it, I’m still a grumpy pain in the ass and like to rant about stuff, so this will be my outlet once again.

I didn’t order this coffee cup for no reason.

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One thing I am not going to discuss here? Politics. I made that mistake before and I will not do it again. That is what Twitter and Facebook are for. I want to keep this space on point, especially since I’m entering a different stage of life now and writing here will help me process things.

It is not easy being an older female bottom in this scene. I am well past the age where I can pull off being a Little or a Middle. Not that I ever felt comfortable in that head space anyway. When I was in my late 30s, I let friends dress me up as a schoolgirl and I went to a party like that. But instead of feeling cute or sexy, I just felt… foolish. It’s simply not me.

I get the appeal of Littles and Middles, I truly do. What’s not to like? They’re cute. They’re adorable. They’re playful and fun. They wear cute clothes. And they get a lot of attention and care-taking. I am a Responsible Adult. I am fiercely independent and don’t like asking for anything. I have never wanted a Daddy; I’ve always been attracted to younger men, so hardly a Daddy image. (Those of you who have read my book might remember the story of 32-year-old me and my rather torrid infatuation with my 22-year-old coworker.) I am not comfortable with appearing needy.

And yet, I am. Sometimes, dammit, I just want to be taken care of. I want to be spanked, cuddled, kissed, pampered. I want attention. And I don’t want to have to ask for it; I want it to happen organically. But what comes more easily to a Little or a Middle is not so easy for a Very Much Grown But Still Vulnerable Person. (What the hell would be a name for that, anyway?)

When I was gathering my thoughts for what I was going to write, random memories of past scenes and tops were floating through my mind. I remembered a time about ten to twelve years ago, when my then play partner and dear friend and I were talking, for whatever reason, about childhood books, and he was shocked and appalled that I had never read The Little Prince. I don’t know why I didn’t, since I was a voracious reader as a kid and had read everything else that was popular, but I guess it slipped through my awareness. Anyway, the next time he came over, he brought me a copy. I was having a hard time that night, emotionally, as I recall; I don’t remember why. After we played and I had had a tearful release, he stuck around until I’d gotten undressed and he got me settled into bed. And then… he got on the bed with me, and read to me, from The Little Prince. I didn’t ask him to do that. I never would have thought of asking him to do that. But in that moment, it felt so soothing, so loving. I felt like someone else was taking over my cares for a while. I could fall, and he’d catch me. Because he wanted to, not because I asked him to. He just knew. What a sweet moment that was.

Because sometimes, adulting blows. Sometimes, life is fucking hard. And this is my escape. This is how I feel cared for, protected, loved. This is where I get to be that oh so bizarre and twisted and delicious combination of sexy adult woman and vulnerable, childlike person. I’m still kicking ass. I’m still working out. I’m still assing hands. 🙂 I’m tough. But inside is another story.

So… as I carry on, trying to figure out my New Normal and how to get my needs met, how to deal with insecurities and all the bullshit that comes with ageing, I hope you guys will stick around. Relate. Comment if you want. I don’t know how often I’ll post; when the spirit moves me and the muse bites, I guess.

It’s good to be back.

Heil to the Cheeto…

…and willkommen, Adolf Twitler. Or should I say пожаловать?

Don’t bother looking it up; it’s “welcome” in Russian. Hey, we might as well start learning it. Our new POS — er, POTUS has been, so he can understand his new owner when Putin says, “Suck my d$&k, my little orange pet.”

trumphombre

In light of the recent revelations, I wonder just what’s in that bottle…

Stay healthy, friends. And try to freeze your ageing process for a while. Because you won’t be able to afford getting sick or growing old once your health insurance, Medicare and Social Security are gutted. Oh, and ladies, stockpile your birth control, because Planned Parenthood is on the chopping block too.

To those who are sneering, laughing, gloating, and saying things like “Your tears taste delicious,” I’d say the last laugh will be mine, but sadly, I’ll be screwed along with the rest of you. And to the poor ignorant fools who are now screaming, “Wait… what?? The Affordable Care Act and Obamacare are one and the same? Nooooo! My health insurance!” I’d feel sorry for you, but… Nahhh. I don’t.

Think I’m making this up? It’s already happening. Behold one of the many examples from http://www.areyousorryyet.com. Two real tweets, one month apart, same person.

schadenfreude

Schadenfreude? You bet your ass. This is what happens when you don’t believe what’s right in front of your face. We tried — and tried, and tried — to tell you.

Sleep well, democracy. Hope we can revive you before too much damage is done and we become even more of a laughing stock than we are already.

Taking a break

I was simply going to stop posting for a while, withdraw and disappear as is my typical MO, but then I got two comments on here this morning, within minutes of each other, that changed my mind. I owe my readers some sort of explanation.

The first comment was from a lovely woman, pleading for me to come back. The second was, of course, completely anonymous. It read, in part, as follows:

I’m so sick and tired of the ignorant, misinformed, uneducated, biased, spoiled brat liberals who like little children overdosed on sugar, cry, whine and go into tantrums when they don’t get their way. Too bad.
This country will never unify until they grow up and become adults.

I’ve seen a lot of this lately.

First, my reply:

Anonymous — 1. Thanks for showing, yet again, what’s wrong with this country. No, it’s not people like me, it’s people like you — hostile, nasty, taking anonymous shots at others. 2. If you think this way of me, then stop wasting your time (and mine) and don’t read my blog anymore. 3. This country will never unify, period. Not as long as we have a broken two-party system that ensures that every 4-8 years, half the country is happy and half is miserable.

And I am serious about my second point. If this is how you feel about me, then please stop reading my blog. I don’t need contemptuous readers, and you don’t need to read the words of yet another “crybaby liberal.”

I am backing off from this blog, and greatly cutting back my participation on social media. Why the blog? Simple. I have nothing on-topic to post, and I don’t think I will in the foreseeable future. And no one wants to see it turn into a political venue. There’s way too much of that shit already.

Why social media? Because it’s an ugly and sad place to be right now. Members of both sides are behaving badly — some sneering and gloating with contempt, others fighting and angry and refusing to accept. People have told me we need to fight. Fight for what? It’s done. All the denial, all the use of the “#NotMyPresident” hashtag won’t make a bit of difference. And inundating myself with the minute by minute, 24/7 misery helps nothing and no one. I seek voices of reason, of moderation, but they seem few and far between. So, I am still on Twitter, but on an extremely limited capacity. On Facebook, I play Scrabble and Words With Friends, and occasionally comment on posts of others, but little else. And I haven’t touched FetLife.

On top of all this… John called me early Monday morning from work. His colleague, and his closest friend of ten years, passed away suddenly this past weekend, in his sleep. Heart failure. He was a lovely man, only 59 years old, married, three kids, grandkids. Everyone loved him. John is broken, and my heart is broken for him. Our friend’s memorial is on Friday, and over 100 people are expected to show up.

So… yeah. My depression has kicked in full bore. I function. I get up, I get dressed. I do my work. Fortunately, as timing would have it, I have a lot of it. My friends, all dealing with their own stresses and pain, feel very far removed. I have not seen Steve for two weeks. He wanted to come over yesterday. I told him not to. I have zero desire to play; it feels like that part of me has died. Or at least is hibernating so deeply, I don’t know where to find it. I told him he might want to consider finding an interim play partner as backup. He insists he’s not just my top, he’s my friend and my protector, and he wants to be there for me. But if I see him, I’ll just bawl the whole time. And I really should be working anyway. As I should now, so I’ll wrap this up.

This isn’t meant to be a big melodramatic goodbye post. It’s simply to inform those who care about what’s going on, and to let y’all know that I will be back when I have something fun, sassy and kinky to post again. When I’m no longer feeling like one of the walking dead.

Meanwhile, speaking of voices of reason, a compassionate friend sent me an article yesterday, written by the wise and wonderful George Takei. It felt like a soothing balm, so I’d like to share it with you, here.

Be kind to each other.

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