New Year Musings

Been a while. I have much on my mind, so hunker down. Get a beverage.

First, my thoughts on the past year:

Yeah. It sucked. And looking back at the beginning of last year, I’m amazed that I was so consumed with what I called my “existential bleccchhhh.” I wrote this post last January. What a difference a year makes. Now, how I fit into the spanking scene is no longer a priority. Or on my mind at all, really.

I’m not really part of the scene anymore. I will always love spanking, and I will always enjoy the 20+ years of memories. But honestly, I don’t feel like I fit in with it anymore. Why? To put it simply, it changed, as things do, and I didn’t. No one’s fault; it’s just the way it is. And now, with some time past, I feel like I can talk about at least some of it.

I’ve always been a niche player. I am a 100% bottom; I never switch. And I bottom to men only. This didn’t used to be an issue. Now things are different. The party scene is more fluid. Roles are not clearly defined any longer. And it seems everyone plays with pretty much everyone — orientations as well as genders are fluid. I am not — repeat, NOT — saying this is wrong. It’s far more inclusive, and good for many more people. But for someone like me, it creates a feeling of awkwardness.

It used to be at parties, you basically put people together in some rooms and left them to their own devices as to how to play. Now, it seems the trend is to organize things a lot more, with games, themes, roleplays, etc. And when everyone is playing with everyone, and you’re not, you feel like the oddball.

Case in point? The party John and I went to last year over New Year’s. It was a lovely party, with good people. The hosts were awesome, the venue was comfortable, and we were thrilled to be included. However, I quickly realized how different parties had become from the first night of three.

There were a lot of spanking games, with different themes. But they all had one thing in common: bowls of slips with names on them. Everyone who identified as a bottom put their names in one bowl, and everyone who identified as tops put their names in another. If they identified as both, they put a slip in each bowl. And then one slip from each bowl was drawn and the two people were paired to engage in some sort of roleplay, with spanking.

As it happened, there were a lot more women at this gathering than men. Nearly all the men were switches. And pretty much all the women were too. Therefore, there were lots of women in the top bowl. And damned if nearly every time my name was drawn, I got paired with a woman.

Granted, I could have opted out and just watched. John had chosen not to put his name in anything, and I could have just sat with him and watched, laughed. But I wanted to belong. I wanted to be a part of it. So I decided to be a sport and be topped by whoever. And so, over and over, I bottomed to women.

Most of them were very respectful to me, knowing that this wasn’t my preference. The play was more on the light side, over clothes, etc. But it was excruciating for me. I felt uncomfortable and ridiculous. Again, no one’s fault but my own. If I wanted to play, this was how I had to play. I just didn’t like it.

I did say “most of them.” But of course, there always has to be one…

Before I get into this part, I am going to segue, and say something I haven’t had the guts to say before. But I do now. Because fuck it, it’s on my mind, and I feel like it needs to be said. I was thinking about making it a separate post, but I’ll keep it brief.

The #MeToo movement hit the BDSM and spanking scene hard. A lot of predatory men were exposed, stories of past assaults and consent violations were revealed. Things got pretty ugly and the scene was a dumpster fire for a while. But safety is important, and these truths needed to come out and be discussed.

But there’s one thing that, still, no one ever talks about. We hear all about the men who are handsy, rape-y, who push past known limits, who go too far, etc., etc. However, no one talks about the women who do the same thing. Ever. Not that I’ve ever seen, anyway.

Mind you, I am not dissing femme dommes as a whole, so spare me that accusation. I am friends with several femme dommes, they know who they are, and they know I have mad respect for them. But there are also the ones out there who hate men, and use their fetish in order to act out that hate. Who think the world revolves around them and what they want. Who think they are all-powerful and can do whatever they damn well please, demand whatever they damn well please. And they get away with it because people keep allowing them to.

How do I know so much about femme dommes, when I’ve never played with them? Easy. John did. Oh, mercy. Do I have stories. Years and years of stories. But I won’t go into them here. I will simply end this segue with something for everyone to consider and keep in mind, especially newbies. It is a reality that some tops are to be avoided (which, of course, makes us all appreciate the good ones even more). When you think of the worst kinds of tops — arrogant, egotistical, uncaring, cruel, in it for themselves alone — remember this: Not all of them have a Y chromosome. Predators and abusers are not limited to males.

So, back to the party. At midnight on New Year’s Eve, there was another game with the bowls of names. There was a table loaded up with implements. And this time, after people were paired, the top would give the bottom 23 strokes with an implement of the bottom’s choosing.

Again, I got paired with several women who were nice and respectful and kept things light. And then there was the one I didn’t know, had never met before.

When I went to choose my implement, I picked up the belt on the table. She said, “Uh-uh… my belt.” Okay, fine. She took her own belt off, and I started to bend over a stool. Then she said, “No. Those jeans need to come down.”

Say what now?

See, this is where I should have stood back up and said, “No, they don’t.” I should have honored my own boundaries. But again… I didn’t want to rock the boat. I didn’t want to be a poor sport. I didn’t want to not fit in.

So instead, I simply shrugged and said, “Okay,” and started to unbutton my jeans. And then she doubled down and said, “Hmmm… that didn’t sound anything like ‘yes, ma’am’ to me.”

Are you kidding me, lady? Who do you think you’re talking to?

Still, I didn’t say a word. I unzipped my jeans and shoved them down (leaving my underwear up, thank you very much) and bent back over. She gave me the 23 strokes, and they weren’t light, either. I grit my teeth through the whole thing. Then it was time to stand back up and finish with a hug.

I couldn’t resist. As I hugged her, I said in my snarkiest tone, “Happy New Year… maaaaaa’am.”

She laughed humorlessly. And then she said, in a voice dripping with condescension: “Oh, dear. I’m afraid you’re not going to have a Happy New Year with that attitude.”

I’ll be damned. I don’t believe in this sort of thing, but I’d swear that woman put a curse on me. Because 2023 turned out to be the worst year of my life.

Anyway… the experience left me feeling icky. And I realized this party wasn’t an anomaly. These games and icebreakers are now being played at the national parties too. And nearly every scheduled event involves some sort of roleplay, oftentimes ones I’m not comfortable with. I’m too damned old for the school themes, and I don’t like the whole family oriented themes either. And I don’t do any sort of age play. Again, more power to everyone who enjoys these things. The fact that I don’t is my problem. And I had to come to accept that maybe I’ve had my run and it’s time to bow out. Especially now that I don’t have John with me anymore.

I miss spanking. I still hope to find a local play partner. But my party days are definitely behind me.

So… a new year. 2023 was brutal, start to finish. Even in the early months, bad things happened. John had four different infections in rapid succession, which was stressful for both of us. My car was sideswiped on the freeway, on the driver’s side, when I was at the wheel. Then in June, the love of my life died.

The remaining half of the year was a blur of sheer hell, dealing with two problematic properties, bills, probate, a million forms to fill out, endless phone calls, handymen, roofers, painters, exterminators, you name it. It became ludicrous, so many things went wrong. After we finally sold John’s house, we went to work on the condo. New appliances, a new patio door, new lights and fixtures, new toilet, new mantel over the fireplace, the list went on and on. And when it was all done and the condo was sparkling and perfect, my realtor listed it. On the first day of the listing, it was 98 degrees, and she went to turn on the A/C. And then called me, telling me it was completely dead. My reaction was “Of course it is.”

I just had to roll with it all. I remember when the AC guy called and was trying to carefully and tactfully explain to me that the unit was fully shot, that the condo was built in the 80s and this was the original AC system, and they didn’t make them like this anymore, and he was going to have to cut things to make more room, and so on and so on and so on… and then I heard my realtor pipe up in the background: “In other words, we’re fucked!” And I laughed. What else could I do, really? I replaced the AC. And we sold the condo too.

And finally, after all that was done, this past month my favorite cousin passed away.

So yeah. Here’s my final thought on 2023.

Screw achievements. My achievement was I survived. I’m sad, I feel like I’ve aged ten years, I still cry every damn day, but I survived.

This year, I hope I can do more than just survive. I hope I can find some happiness again. I will never find love like I had with John again, I know this. But I need to decide what I’m going to do with the rest of my life, without him. More will be revealed, as they say.

I hope everyone had nice holidays, and that 2024 is good to you. ♥

Epic rants — yes, plural

You lucky people. I have two things that are pissing me off right now. No, it’s not anything about the holidays, and it’s not stupid gross food. One issue is on topic, and the other is not. But both have gotten under my skin lately and it’s time to release a bit. Warning: controversy ahead. If you’d just as soon skip it, I understand.

Last Friday, I saw two pictures that had just been put up on FetLife. The first was an extreme closeup of one butt cheek, with the skin broken and bleeding. The caption read: “Results of a proper caning.” Really? And then the next photo was the same butt, mercifully a little farther back but still pretty damn close up, so you could see both cheeks, which were not just red, but had white spots, the beginnings of bruises, and two spots that were bleeding. And that caption read: “A proper bare-bottom belting.”

Proper? According to whom, pray tell? And of course, we viewers are left to infer that anything less than a spanking/strapping/caning resulting in blood is somehow less than “proper.”

I know, I know, I’ve talked about this before. I’m sick of death of the comments, the implication that bottoms who don’t get trashed beyond recognition are wimps. “That’s not red enough.” “I could have done a better job.” “Looks like a decent warm-up, now bring on the spanking.” Fuck these people! When did it become not enough to simply have a nice red backside? Why is it that with some folks, bottoms that look like they’d been plunked on a George Foreman grill, turned up high, are the holy grail??

Hmm. I’ve been caned dozens of times over the years, by many tops. But I’ve never had a cane break my skin. What a shame that I’ve never had it done properly, huh? (massive eye roll)

This follows along with the issue that John Osborne and I felt compelled to shoot a harsher, more intense video, because viewers were bitching and snarking about our last two being “too light.” What is with this freaking blood-lust going on with spanking video watchers? So OK, we shot a video where John was punitive, and I shed tears. It was well done and I trust John, and I felt comfortable going there with him. Still, it’s irksome that we had to go there, to cave in and cater to the damn barbarians out there. I get it, though. If you’re in the business of selling video, you need to do what sells. But for God’s sake, stop criticizing people’s work. If you don’t like a video because it’s lighter than you care for, then go watch something else. But don’t try to shame and ridicule people’s efforts just because they fall short of your desires for rear carnage.

Here’s my gripe, in a nutshell. You want to play hard? Have at it. You want to bleed? Knock yourself out. If that floats your boat, then you can deal with the aftermath, and more power to you. But goddammit, don’t try to make others feel like what they’re doing isn’t good enough, or “proper” enough, because their flesh isn’t ravaged to your liking. What happens when newbies see these photos, claiming this sort of extreme is “proper”? I can see it now: inexperienced tops thinking they’re pussies, and they need to up their game in order to create these torn-up asses. And naive bottoms thinking they are “less than” because they don’t take this degree of punishment, and therefore should feel some sort of scene shame. Ridiculous.

Can’t we just play like we want to play, and leave words like “proper” and “real” and “true” out of it?

Ugh.

OK, that’s one. The next one is bound to piss some people off, and I’m sorry but not sorry. I don’t go out of my way to offend, but sometimes, you know, I just can’t avoid it.

Found this little gem on Facebook, of all places:

It’s true. The NRA and the 2nd Amendment advocates fight to the death (literally) against gun controls/stricter gun laws, but when it comes to women and what they do with their own bodies, oh, that’s everyone’s effing business.

I am not anti-gun. I don’t think guns should be eliminated. But clearly, with so many psychos out there shooting people, with terrorists killing groups of innocent folks, things are out of control. There needs to be something, and I don’t know what it is, but we can’t keep going on like this. But for everyone who says something needs to be done about guns and the fact that far too many nuts can get their hands on them, there’s another who says gun control is not the answer, and we just need more guns. That the people in Paris should have had guns. That the Jews in the Holocaust should have had guns, for Christ’s sake. That we should have guns in school classrooms.

This kind of killing goes on and on and on, and somehow, it’s left unregulated. Men, women, children. Fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, spouses, all manner of loved ones. Meanwhile, women are vilified and shamed and criminalized because they choose to expel a tiny splotch of ectoplasm that is undeveloped and completely unviable. This is a sin. This is murder. This must be eliminated. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.

Recently, our country’s Senate did two things: they refused to pass a bill that would prevent people on the no-fly list from getting guns. At the same time, they passed a bill that would defund Planned Parenthood. Yeah, that makes sense too. Let’s not control the crazies with guns that destroy lives, but by all means disallow women from choosing whether or not they give birth.

You know, I don’t even have a dog in this fight. I am way past the child-bearing age. And when I was that age, I made damn sure that I wouldn’t have any, because I knew I didn’t want them and I didn’t want to deal with birth control. But it still pisses me off that younger women out there might lose their freedoms, and if not those freedoms per se, then all the funds available to make their choices. Look…it’s not that I’m a big advocate of abortion. I’m much more of an advocate of people being responsible and smart with their bodies, and not getting pregnant unless they want to. But I have always felt strongly about the right to choose. And I also happen to think it’s a sin in itself to bring a child into the world when you’re neither financially nor emotionally equipped to raise it properly. When I was in eighth grade (a long-ass time ago), I wrote a school paper titled: “Abortion: Better No Life Than Unwanted Life.” I got an A. And I still believe that. How come it’s OK to go ahead and have the kid, just to abuse and neglect it, or not give it the opportunities it deserves because it has a passel of siblings that were also unplanned?

So here’s my solution for the gun-loving anti-abortionists: Every time you see a woman about to have an abortion, shoot her! That way, you 1. get to use your precious guns; 2. prevent an abortion; and 3. eliminate a killer. Win-win-win! Of course, you’re also killing an unborn baby along with its murderous mom, but hey, collateral damage, right?

Yes, that was written with tongue firmly crammed in cheek, and a series of swallows against vomiting in disgust.

Yeah, I’m pissed off. You know why I rant? You know why I blog and vent? Because I can. Because I choose to blow off steam this way, instead of going out and taking my frustrations out on innocent victims. Because I know how to channel my anger like a sentient and sane adult. I’m just so damn sick of people who kill and hurt and maim and do stupid shit to other people. And I’m sick of the people who cheer those fuckers on, one way or another.

(sigh) I know this writing isn’t going to change a thing. But sometimes, I need to do it anyway. Because if I keep it all inside, I just get depressed, and that really sucks. I am trying to keep my sanity during times where there is insanity all around me.

Rants over, for now. I will try to be entertaining next time.