BAD doll!

(My fellow Twilight Zone fans will recognize the evil Talky Tina from the "Living Doll" episode.)

On FetLife the other night, a friend commented about how she'd love to get an Erica Scott doll for Christmas, so she could pull her string and anticipate the smart-ass comments that would come out of her. Now there's an idea, i thought. We have Chatty Cathy; why not Bratty Erica?

Picture it -- a doll in my likeness, programmed with some of my signature phrases. She'd have to be brunette, of course (why are so damn many dolls blondes?), and no pigtails or ruffly baby-doll dress, thankyouverymuch. Maybe a short skirt and a tank top with some pithy saying on it. She could have my smirky face. And when you pull her string, you hear a selection from a large repertoire. For example:

1. "I have TWO cheeks, dammit!"
2. "You want me to say I'm sorry? OK. I'm sorry you're such an ass."
3. "Masters are for genies, and I don't live in a bottle."

And so on. First 100 orders get a bonus: a selection of miniature broken implements!

If you had your own signature doll, what would he/she say?

Uh oh! What happened??

Well, let's see. I'm either:
1. Dead
2. Asleep, or
3. Spanked into oblivion

You guys figure it out. :-)

It took a lot to get me there tonight. I was definitely in feisty mode, but ST was in fine form himself. Would you believe he accused me of being a Drama Queen? Humph! Just because I was talking about the latest drama on FetLife, and he said I liked that drama, that I enjoyed joining in the fray a bit.

"I do NOT!" "Yes, you do!"

"No, I don't! I only commented once on that thread and otherwise, I stayed out of it."

"Maybe so, but you got all wound up with it in that little mind of yours."

"ExCUSE me," I huffed. "I do not have a little mind. I have a fine, big mind."

"Yes, you do," he admitted. "It matches your mouth."

WELL!

Oh, and some warm-up! He started with the freaking Spanking Buddy! What's that about? I protested that he was going full-bore from the outset, and he said it was my mouth going full-bore, not him. "I guess I should go full-bore now, shouldn't I?"

I thought of a reply, but stifled it. Still, I couldn't help giggling over it, and he whaled on me. "I didn't SAY anything!" I screeched.

"Yeah, but you were thinking something bad!"

Well, screw it. If I'm going to get in trouble just for thinking something, I might as well say it and get some fun out of it, right? So I snapped, "I was just going to say that I think you're a full bore already!"

That did not go over too well. Did I learn from it? Hell, no.

"You must have done something wrong," he insisted, and I kept insisting that I hadn't. "Then why are you over my knee getting spanked?"

"I dunno... because you're an ass?"

Wrong answer. After a few persuasive minutes, he asked, "Would you like to rephrase that?"

"Ass you're an!" Hey, that's "you're an ass" rephrased, isn't it?

On and on and on we went. And sure enough, after a while, I stopped giggling. I stopped sassing. I just sort stopped everything except making guttural sounds. Which he loved. Things switched from playful to primal when he grabbed my hair, and really laid into me. And I wanted it. More, more, more. Yes.

And when it was all over, could I lie there in boneless oblivion? Nope. I had to get up on my wobbly legs and go stand in the corner.

But not for too long, don't worry. :-)  After that, I got to relax and enjoy lotion and some snuggle time. We chatted for over an hour. I love when he stays for a while, love winding down with him.

Now if I could just figure out how to make this peaceful mood last a full week. I've been noticing that by about Thursday, I'm back in cranky, uppity, go-ahead-try-screwing-with-me mode again. (sigh) It's a damn good thing that this addiction is so much fun, because it needs frequent satisfaction!

Friday's fun finds

I wanted to thank everyone who stopped by to add their comments/thoughts on Wednesday's blog. It is possible to discuss a potentially volatile topic civilly, agree to disagree and share different viewpoints without devolving into schoolyard tactics, and y'all proved it this week. ♥

Nothing of import today, so I thought I'd end the week on a lighter note and share some finds.

Zelle sent this to me (yes, she's still alive, just extremely busy! Damn, I miss that woman); for those of you who are sick to death of that book, this is for you:

Gotta love Maxine!

I saw this on Facebook, and it made me laugh out loud. One doesn't expect to see this sort of thing there!

So I'm listening to an oldies station on iTunes radio, and a song comes on that I don't recognize, but I liked it. Then I listened to the lyrics and thought, "Whoa! Are they singing about what I think they're singing about?" I Googled the song, "Sweet Cream Ladies" by the Box Tops, from 1968, and sure enough. It's a song singing the praises of prostitutes! Pretty damned risqué for 1968, no?

My favorite verse:

Tell the socialites to look the other way
It's instinctive stimulation you convey
It's a necessary function
Made for those without compunction
Who are tired of vanilla every day

Damn! People said "vanilla" back then, too? Here's the song, for those who'd like to listen:



And finally, for a few more laughs, check out Hermione's Friday FAIL photos. The tunnel one is especially outrageous! :-D

Have a great weekend, y'all.

"I'd rather fight than switch"

I am so dating myself with that title. Anyone remember those Tareyton cigarette ads/commercials from the 1960s? The premise was that Tareyton smokers would rather get in a fight than switch to another brand, and each ad was accompanied by a man or woman with an extremely fake black eye.

For those who never saw these ads, here's a slice of the past:

And by the way, Madison Avenue -- that should have been "We," not "Us." @#$%&*!!!!!

But I digress. This is going to be a blog about the always controversial topic of switching. A couple of notes before I start:

1. I'm opening it up for healthy, respectful debate. This is NOT going to devolve into an attack-fest. People can agree to disagree civilly.

2. There are no rights or wrongs in this discussion, only opinions. My opinions are just that -- opinions. I don't state them as facts.

3. The two comments I'm going to cite came from people I like. A lot. So this is not about pointing fingers and saying, "Look what that idiot said." It is about a difference of opinion. Period.

In recent weeks, through my various readings, I encountered a couple of statements. The first one was about bottoms, and suggested that in order to be the best bottom one could be, one should try topping a few times. And the second one was about male tops, stating that a man who tops, but won't try bottoming, is a... well, a kitty-cat. (OK, I don't like the word. Figure it out.)

AGAIN -- I like both these people, very much. It's just those sentiments that got my brain percolating and I knew I was going to have to blog about it.

One of the never-ending debates in the world of spankdom is about switches -- do they make better tops/bottoms, or don't they? If a bottom has never topped, or a top has never bottomed, how can they possibly know what they're doing and what it feels like? Should (and I hate "shoulds") a spanko experience both sides, at some point? Or is that a myth?

In this (admittedly pure bottom) woman's opinion, what makes a good top (or bottom) has a lot less to do with what they've experienced, and a lot more to do with (here it is again) common sense, sensitivity, and empathy. A good top reads the bottom, and while he doesn't feel her pain, he knows it's there and is vigilant. A good bottom appreciates the top and, despite teasing/bratting, respects him and gifts him with her trust.

(Yes, I know the above was M/F oriented. Sorry... it's just easier than all the him/her, his/her stuff.)

Here's my deal. Some bottoms are switch-averse; I am not one of them. I mean, come on. The two men dearest and closest to me are switches. I have had countless wonderful scenes with switches. However, I've also had countless wonderful scenes with pure tops (Keith Jones, Steve Fuller, Danny Chrighton, to name a few). AND... I've had wretched, godawful scenes with both switches and pure tops.

Bottom line? It seems to me that good men/women tend to make the effort to be good at whatever they do, scenewise. And assholes often remain assholes, despite whether or not they've experienced both sides. Clueless people remain clueless.

Case in point: Most of you know about the uber-traumatic scene I had several years ago with a friend's boyfriend. His way of giving me a half-assed apology was to say, "Well, when I bottom, I like having that done to me." I wanted to scream, "I'm not YOU, stupid!!" Actually, I did say "I'm not you," but I said it quietly and left off the "stupid." But come on. That's cookie-cutter thinking. This guy could be beaten until he takes his last breath, and he still wouldn't learn a thing about how to be a good top.

On Twitter recently, a friend tweeted that saying a top has to experience bottoming (and vice versa) is like saying a surgeon needs to undergo several surgeries himself before he can be a really good one. I like that. Granted, like most analogies, it can be picked apart. But at face value, it works for me.

If a man or woman wants to try switching, more power to them! I'm all for that. But the key word is WANT. It should be their choice, their urge, their curiosity. It shouldn't be because someone told them they should. That switching is the Only True Way to be a good bottom or top.

My biggest issue? Newbies. I'm an oldie (in more ways than one!). If someone were to say to me, "You know, you could be a better bottom if you tried topping a few times," I would simply smile and say, "No, I couldn't." (Or, depending on who said it, I could say, "You know, you could try minding your own @#$%ing business.") Because I've been around long enough to know what works for me and what doesn't, and I have the courage of my own convictions, based on my experiences. I can't top. Can. Not. But I think I'm a damn good bottom, regardless.

But what if I were new? I think back to my early, nervous days, when I was a brand-new clean sponge, ready to absorb, with so very much to learn, and so many trepidations about how to get this right. The thought of bottoming was scary enough. If someone I considered a mentor had said to me, "Eventually, you'll need to consider topping, at least a few times, just to see the other side," I would have run screaming into the night and never looked back.

So here's my plea, people. Many of you are revered in this scene of ours. Your words carry importance; newbies look up to you. Please please PLEASE... state your opinions (about switching, or any other important issues) as your opinions only, not as gospel. I know, I know... it should go without saying that it's your opinion, not fact, and people ought to presume that. But new, impressionable people believe what they hear. They are like newborns, soaking up what's told to them. They get all sorts of ideas of what's wrong and what's right, before they have a chance to develop their own individual footprint in the scene.

One of the many paradoxes in kink is that we are, both at once, all the same and yet all different. We are drawn by the same basic need, but the similarity ends there. The variations branch out from the core seed and what is perfect for one is horrifying for another. Switching, like everything else, is a choice. I really don't believe it's a necessity, nor should it be touted as such.

Your thoughts?

Someday, I'll learn to simply ask for more

Someday. But tonight wasn't it.

Just last week, I wrote about bratting. Once again, kids, the following is not something I'd suggest if you don't know your top. ;-)

Most of the time, I like to play hard. It's my only spanking of the week and it has to tide me over. And ST is usually up for delivering it. However, I think he was a bit tired tonight. He was quiet when he arrived, and he told me that he'd strained his back a bit and it was sore. I asked if he was OK, if he wanted some Advil, but he said he was fine.

We commenced with our scene and he perked up a bit, getting into it and engaging in banter with me. He referred to himself as my "doctor," and I said, "What does PhD stand for -- phony doctor?" "No... Pretty Hard Discipline." I groaned aloud.

"Some of us need to behave," he teased. "Don't we?"

"What's this 'we' stuff? Who are you, the Queen of England?"

"Are you calling me a queen, now??" He'd give me a few harder swats after I cracked wise.

But I needed him to ramp it up. I waited for it to get edgy, to feel the challenge, to wonder if I could take it. The strap and slapper stung, but I was absorbing them fairly easily. And then, ST actually got onto the bed, lay next to me and started swatting me playfully from his lying position. Oh, please!

I bent my elbow, propped up my chin on my hand and turned to look at him. "You know, if you're not up for this, we can just end it and call it a night!"

He laughed. "What kind of night shall we call it?"

"Oh, I don't know," I snapped. "How about Lame-Ass Top Night?"

That did it.

Of course I don't think he's lame. Of course I didn't mean it. But oh, it just seemed so right to say that moment. :-D

"I guess we'd better get down to business, huh?" He didn't wait for me to answer that, just laid it on hard with the strap and slapper.

Uh oh... he caught my eye roll.

I think that was around the time he decided to get my two canes and lexan paddle. Oh, dear. Yes, I was about to be challenged. Especially when it came down to the final 10 with all three. That was when I finally screamed inside my head, "Oh noooooo, I can't take it!" But I knew I could. I hunkered down, breathed deep and took it. Because I wanted to. I needed to.

It hurt, of course.

Not complaining, however. :-)

Afterward, I was spent and quiet, so we stayed on the bed for another hour or so in companionable silence. I do believe the activity might have fixed ST's back as well as my attitude.

Not sure why I was so edgy tonight. Maybe it was all the tension lately. Maybe it was all the asshattery last week. I didn't feel angry, just edgy. Whatever. For now, it's vanquished.

Nap time.

Father's Day

Oftentimes on Father's Day, I have some sort of anecdote about my dad. Today, nothing is coming to mind, but I'm thinking about him just the same. Doubly, because tomorrow would have been his birthday.

So I'll keep this short and uncharacteristically sweet. To all my friends out there who are fathers (Craig, Wolfie, SecretSpanko, just to name a few), I hope you've gotten the proper attention and appreciation today. For those who have fathers and are lucky enough to have good relationships with them, tell them you love them.

Miss you today, Dad. Love you always.

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 6/15

(Yes, I know I've used Mr. Kitty's image before. But this week deserves an encore appearance.)

In the past couple of weeks, I've seen both polarities of the online spectrum. After my mother's passing, I saw just how lovely and supportive our online community can be. But this past week, I've witnessed the flip side, rearing its various ugly heads like a cyber-Medusa -- hence yesterday's mini-rant. So what better way to close out this week than with a CHoS?

Haven't seen one of these for a while -- the form letter. Mind you, I received this one not once, but three times. Don't these guys at least keep track of whom they've spammed?

hello my dear

i saw your profile and i love also the picture is wonderful. what i am looking for in my all-in-one-girl is a lover, best friend, my ..... you must be sexy, hot dressed in heels/boots, skirts, communicativ, tender,lovely, understanding, inteligent, faithful, ... and a sort of submissive and obdient. i am a good man/dom and it could be your and my dream to go forward and make fantasies come true..

i really will admire her for the devotion and will take good care, protect and support her. be sure, i don't care any distance, because when we got the connection, we will see where the way goes and leads us. i am single and i am open to relocate you or myself when it is necessary, when i have found the right sub. i am not a player or a time waster - i met to many on this site.

Don't go updating your passport just yet, dear. And what do you mean, you're not a time waster? You just wasted mine.

Oh, and lest you think that these form letters only occur on the kink sites, think again. I received this next gem on... wait for it... Facebook!

Good day and how are you doing? Am [deleted] from England, am a single, honest, kind, caring, loyal and God fearing.I came across your profile on facebook and am interested in getting acquainted with you deeply.It will be wonderful experience to have a personality like you.Am single and have been longing for a responsible woman to make my life more complete.

How i wish i live to appreciate you.hope to have an interesting moment to share with you.From the dept of my heart i say to you....you are wonderful.kindly get back to me soon.

Hmmm. Isn't "getting acquainted deeply" an oxymoron? Nice to know his heart has its own department. Talk about compartmentalizing.

(sigh) I am not a Domme. I am not a Domme. I am not a Domme. Have I made that perfectly clear? Apparently not.

am ready to be all yours, your bitch boy, your sissy maid , your whore and more,

am ready to worship you at your feet, ask you for mercy while am licking your shoes, i`ll be your pet and i`ll live in a cage if u want me to

amd ready to be owned, humiliated, am ready to follow your commands and be punished dor not to,

please make me your loyal slave Mistress

You want commands? OK. Go away.

Instinctively i liked your profile. You seem like a soft and mature woman at it's most greedy for everything that is good and yummy.

1. I'm not an it, I am a she. 2. Who are you calling "soft," fool? 3. Yes, I'm greedy for yummy good writing. At the moment, I'm starving.

And finally, a first -- my first CHoS entry received via tweet!

I am taking my good stinging straps from my freezer and I wil meat u on my lap in 6.9 minites

I could post several pithy comments here. But honestly, my gut reaction to this was simply, "Ewwww."

And by the way, how the hell do you measure 6.9 minutes?? I suppose it could be done with a sophisticated chronometer, but I doubt this dumbass would know how to read one.

Can't do a CHoS without including a couple of those bizarro keyword search phrases people have used to find me, right?

gyno explained

Simple, really. A gyno is a doc who examines those lady parts that the government is trying to control.

contrition blow job

HAHAHAHAHAHA! Dream on, Skippy.

Have a great weekend, y'all. For my friends at TASSP, have fun. And to the fathers (or those of you who have them), happy Father's Day.

We interrupt this program...

... to bring you this special public service message.

To all of you out there who have the inexplicable need to:

1. Post nasty, personal, anonymous comments on people's blogs;
2. Criticize people's videos to pieces, even though you've never shot one in your life;
3. Steal other people's photos and claim them as your own;
4. Create fake profiles/personalities for the sole purpose of harassing others;
5. Perpetrate any and all other forms of online douchebaggery, asshattery, fuckwaddery and just plain meanness --

Please feel free to go fuck yourselves. Because, apparently, no one else will.

Message concluded. Please return to your regularly scheduled perving.

Uncommon sense, Part 2

Told you I was going to get back to this, didn't I? I hadn't forgotten.

Today, I'm going to take on the neverending controversy about bratting. I certainly don't think I'll resolve the issue, but I'm exploring one specific angle of it. So many of the whens, wheres and hows of bratting come down to common sense, or at least it would seem so. And yet... well, you know. Hence the blog title.

I don't even like the word "bratting" all that much, because it has a negative connotation and it gets a bad reputation from those who take it too far. It conjures images of childish, obnoxious bottoms rather than clever ones. But because it's such a universal term, I'm using it anyway.

Because there are so many levels and types of bratting, and so many opinions about them, it's impossible to quantify what "too much bratting" is. After all, for example, to an Almighty Uber-Dom, a sub who dares to make eye contact is bratting. It's highly subjective. And it's also not for everyone. My prolific blogpal Lea has used the simple phrase, "Know your audience." Wouldn't you think that's obvious? Apparently not.

I'm not going to attempt to define "bratting" here, either. I think the best way to approach the subject is by providing stories and examples, of what I think is common-sense, measured bratting vs. the over-the-top variety.

Yes, it's no secret that I enjoy the practice of smartassery. But as with all humor, there are boundaries. In a perfect spanking world, a sassy, feisty bottom knows how to provoke a top without seriously angering him. (I'm going to use the M/F orientation in this blog, simply because it's easier than writing him/her and he/she over and over.) So how does one do that?

Obvious common sense rule #1: Don't follow what you see on spanking videos and read in spanking stories. These are fantasies, kids. The stunts that bottoms pull in these fantasies would, in reality, not get them a spanking. They'd get them anything from a punch in the mouth to a lawsuit.

For example, take Keith Jones. In Spanking Epics' Schoolmaster's Revenge, I slapped him in the face. In Trouble in Carson's Gap, I broke a liquor bottle over his head. In Shadow Lane's classic Blue Denim, Chelsea Pfeiffer shoved him over the side of a hill, sending him tumbling to the bottom. And in Spoiled Rotten, Tanya Foxx not only slapped him in the face, but she threw a glass filled with water in his face too. Why? Because it was Perrier instead of Evian. On video, these actions serve a purpose. They make the audience root for the top, so that when he finally loses it and lets her have it, he doesn't look like a brute. But in reality? Come on. It's just not cool to do things like that.

In the very first spanking story I ever wrote, I had an obnoxious brat provoke a fellow shopper to the point where he spanked her in a parking lot in front of several others, including some cops. Reality? She probably would have been reported to those cops. Or she'd come back to her car and find it keyed. Or worse.

That face-slapping thing? Yeah, women have been slapping men in the face on screen since film began. My advice? Unless it's scripted, don't do it. I remember one bottom who posted about how she slapped her boyfriend in the face, and was shocked at how forcefully he responded; he tied her down and walloped her until she blistered. OK, that was a bit much. But so was slapping him in the face.

In other words, know the difference between fantasy scenarios and the real world. "Don't try this at home."

Obvious common sense rule #2: Tread very cautiously when it comes to pranks. Again, this is a "know your audience" thing. Some bottoms like to play tricks on their tops, as a way to earn their spankings. Personally? I'm not into pranks. I don't like to play them, and I don't like them played on me. But I can see how they would be funny under the right circumstances.

However, was it cool when a particularly moronic woman, several years ago, brought cans of Silly String to a Shadow Lane party and relentlessly sprayed everyone who came within a few feet of her? No. She didn't choose her audience; she just indiscriminately pranked everyone. Tony Elka said she sprayed so much of that crap on him that his shirt was ruined. This is not appropriate.

And yet, after the fact, a major flame war erupted on the SL bulletin board. Why? Because this woman couldn't understand for the life of her why people didn't like what she did, and her comments got nastier and nastier as more people called her on it. Repeat after me, boys and girls -- CLUELESS.

Here's another story from a Shadow Lane party, which I think illustrates both good bratting and bad. Several years ago, a woman brought a squirt gun to the party, and was squirting various tops in the face in the ballroom and in the suites. Finally, a mutual friend of ours got so fed up, he took the gun away from her and would not give it back. Enough was enough already.

He then went off to play with someone privately, and left the water gun with someone else, asking her to watch over it. Well, she didn't. I came back to the table and found her gone, with the water gun sitting on her chair. I then slipped it into my purse.

When this top (we'll call him D, and no, it wasn't Danny) came back, he noticed the woman he'd asked to guard his gun was gone, and wondered aloud where the water gun could have gone. I said nothing, and he mused that it really didn't matter, as long as it wasn't back in the hands of the original owner.

Cut to a couple of hours later -- D and I were playing in his suite. I was over his lap on the bed, and he was absolutely whaling on me. Slowly, carefully, I pulled the squirt gun out of my purse, put my finger on the trigger, then looked up over my shoulder at him. He caught my eye, paused what he was doing and looked at me.

And I shot him full in the face with the water gun. :-)

He sputtered, laughed and hollered, "So THAT'S where it went!" Oh yes, I paid for that stunt. But it was classic. And I knew it would be OK with him. Would I have done that to just anyone? Hell, no! I'd be too worried about seriously upsetting/angering someone.

Obvious common sense rule #3: When in doubt, be subtle. Actually, subtlety is a good practice overall. Hammering a top over the head with relentless bratting may very well not get a bottom much more than a hearty dislike or the cold shoulder. I had to learn this one too, folks.

It's hard for many bottoms (myself included) to ask a top directly to play. I'm not sure why, but it is what it is. So, some of us employ bratting as an indirect way of letting the top know we want to play. That can work, and often does. But it must be done carefully, and yet again, with full awareness of one's audience. Because some tops simply will not respond to bratting. They avoid it like the plague.

Once at a private party, I had my sights set on a man I really wanted to play with. He seemed interested in me; he smiled at me a lot, watched me as I interacted with others, laughed at my smart-ass remarks. But he absolutely did not nibble at any of the bait I was so obviously dangling. I grew frustrated and escalated my efforts, pushing, pushing. He kept smiling, but remained where he was.

Finally, I got so flummoxed, I snapped, "OK, look. I've done everything I can think of except stick my ass in your face. Are we going to play, or what??"

He just grinned at me, and took my hand. "Come with me," he said. He was thoroughly enjoying how hard I was trying to brat him into playing. OK, lesson learned. The next time I saw this man, it was at a BDSM party where I wasn't feeling very comfortable, especially when one guy had his wife take off her shirt so he could show off the scars on her breasts and back -- which he had inflicted. So I simply walked up to my friend and whispered, "Please, take me away from this and spank me!" And he did.

At the last Shadow Lane party, I asked four different men to play with me. Oh, don't worry. I haven't given up bratting. But again, common (or uncommon) sense should dictate when the direct approach is preferable.

I know I've used these descriptions before, but for the sake of wrapping up this blog, I'll use them again. Clever bratting (or teasing, or banter, if you like) should make a top want to spank you, not wring your neck. And subtle, provocative bratting is more of a tickle from a feather, not an anvil slamming down on a top's foot. Really, is it even necessary to make these statements? Doesn't it all go without saying?

Apparently not. Because common sense is still too damned uncommon. (my readers excepted, of course!)

Erica vs. the paddles

I think I lost. But I put up a good fight.

I was more than ready for ST this evening. It had been a heavy couple of weeks and I felt like I wanted to lighten up a bit, laugh and play. ST was a bit tentative when he first arrived, but once he sensed that I was up for it, he certainly was as well.

Not sure how this revolting development, er, developed, but he decided that tonight, aside from a warmup with his hand and the Spanking Buddy, our entire scene would be with three wooden paddles. WTF? An all-wood night? What did I do to deserve this??

Nothing, at first. But I guess bombarding him with smartassery might have had something to do with it. It all started when he teasingly asked me if I thought he was being fresh, and I snapped, "No, I think you're rotten."

Several swats later, he asked, "Would you care to rephrase that?"

"Uh... you're day-old?"

"Are you saying I'm stale?"

"Well, that's better than rotten! Isn't it?"

Apparently not.

He paused in the paddling, going back to the Spanking Buddy for a bit. I took that opportunity to shove all the paddles off the bed onto the floor. This did not please him.

"You really think that's a good idea, throwing the toys on the floor?"

"I didn't throw them, I pushed them."

Tomato, tomahto.

He had this bizarre notion that the paddles were insulted and that I should apologize to them. Uh... no. Forget it.

Surprise, surprise, he didn't forget it, and did his damndest to convince me that I should apologize to the paddles, one by one.

"I'm not going to talk to a piece of wood!" I snapped. "I'm not a ventriloquist!"

"These paddles probably have cousins that are ventriloquist's dummies -- you just insulted them too!"

I told him that made absolutely no sense and the only person who would think it did was another top, because tops live on their own planet and have their own special logic. Then I added, "I think you're a ventriloquist's dummy."

Sometimes, I really am stupid. He whaled on me with one of those fuckers lovely paddles until I screeched, "OKOKOKI'MSORRY!" But I wasn't apologizing to the paddle, I was apologizing to ST for calling him a dummy.

"Are you ready to apologize to the paddle for throwing it on the floor?"

"I didn't throw it, I pushed it."

Yes, folks, this went on for quite some time. As you can see from the evidence:

And yet I kept my mouth running. Guess that's just where I needed to be, tonight. Laughing and being a wise-ass. Of course, I can't do that with just anyone. But with ST? He knows I love him. :-)

He never did get me to apologize to the paddles, you know. I flat-out refused. I did, however, apologize to him, and told him he could relay whatever message he chose to his little wooden friends.

But it's OK. I made peace with the paddles after all. Particularly the one he'd made for me. I am rather fond of that one. (But ssshhhhh, don't tell him.)

And all was well in my world once again...

Soothing me with lotion, he teased, "How long do I have to paddle you before you learn to behave yourself?"

"You won't live long enough," I murmured into the bedspread.

But I hope he never stops trying. :-)

When Worlds Collide

The vanilla and spanko worlds, that is.

My buddy Secret Spanko, as coincidence would have it, wrote a blog this week about the perils of being a spanko on Facebook. He said the two don't mix, and I believe I agree with him. In retrospect, I don't think I would have chosen to join. But that rebellious part of me decided to do so anyway, quite a while ago.

There are many spankos on Facebook; however, they tend to choose one of two paths. 1) They use their real names and have completely vanilla profiles, with family and friends, or 2) They use their scene names and make their pages all about spanking. (And by the way, a lot of them get deleted because of that. I've known spankos who have rebuilt their profiles 3-4 times. Why they bother, I don't know.)

Ever the contrarian, I chose neither. I built a profile with my scene name, but did not make it about spanking. I don't post any spanking photos, no links to my videos, etc. But I hint at it. Some of the photos I have posted are provocative, such as the shot of my standing in my bedroom wearing the corset ST gave me. I make comments that hint at my proclivities, but never state them directly. If other members post blatant spanking pictures or statements on my timeline, I often delete them (not always, though). And, on my profile under websites, I post my blog link. No one reads profiles anyway, right? Well, hardly anyone.

Why? I dunno. Maybe to mess with people. Maybe to mess with Facebook, which I think is basically a big fat vanilla racket and an incredible time-waster. So what do I do on there? Two things, mostly -- I play Scrabble and I post in a group for Dark Shadows fans (a niche group whose members all hated the film).

I mentioned this briefly in Wednesday's blog, but here's the more complete story. Last week, I posted a photo of Mom and me on my timeline. The next day, I got a Facebook message from a cousin I've seen only twice in my entire life, a beautiful young woman, my mother's grand-niece, I guess you'd call her. She expressed her condolences, said she'd read my blog and it made her cry. She'd been very fond of my mother.

Well, here it is, I thought. You took a risk, posting your blog link on a vanilla site. Now what?

She mentioned nothing of my blog's content, asked no questions. But of course, the elephant was in the room. So I wrote back and told her that while I had no shame over my alter ego, I also had chosen not to broadcast it to family members, and she was the first relative (that I knew of, anyway) to find out.

Below, I have pasted excerpts of her reply to me.

Uh oh. I sent my mom and my uncle the link to your blog so they could read your tribute to your mom. My mom actually didn't say anything, she just commented on your mom and talked about growing up, etc. She doesn't care. Actually, she said she didn't know you changed your name...that was it.

However, [her uncle] asked me if you were a porn star! Then he said he hasn't seen you in like 30 years. He doesn't care either. If you blogged about something that made you a bad person, or racism, killing people, abuse, etc, they may have something to say, but fetish?....no one cares.

....Regardless, I'm sorry I sent them your site. I didn't even think twice about it because it was so not a big deal and we're pretty open people and I knew they wouldn't care.

Wow.

Can you imagine my mixed reactions to this? On the one hand was "Oh, Christ. So now three relatives know about me?? Ugh!" And on the other was, "They don't care. It's not a big deal. I'm the only one making it a big deal." I am not afraid; what have I to fear, really? But I feel a little creeped out. That is confusing, since I'm not sure why I feel that way. But I guess it's a confusing situation.

She and I have had a couple of more exchanges since the one from above. Her last message to me, a long one, was all about family dynamics, relationships and memories -- kink was not mentioned at all. She now lives back East with her fiancé, and if I ever want to visit, they'd love to have me. She ended by saying, "Families are crazy... but we'd love to connect/re-connect with you!"

Life sure is weird sometimes. I honestly don't know what to make of this.

I don't kid myself. I've lived all these years being cynical and dismissive of marriage and family, and I know I'm not going to do a 180 and morph into a family person. My experiences growing up were not positive and I have an innate mistrust for most blood relatives, which is kind of a shame, but I can't help it. However... this lovely young woman seems like someone I'd like to know. I will do my best to remain open. I still don't like that she, her mother and her uncle know my not-so-secret secret, but it is what it is. Not everyone who learns secrets uses them for malice. We hear of those ugly stories, but, like the evening news, the negative gets too much focus and therefore looms much larger in proportion than it really is.

Anyway... I am feeling a bit more like myself. I am eager to get back into some fun, and definitely some play. And speaking of fun kinky stuff, the beautiful Dana Kane has put up a website for her video productions, here. It is brand-new and a work in progress, so she is eager for feedback and suggestions. Have a look!

Have a great weekend, y'all.

So, where was I?

Figured I should post something, given the volume of correspondence I've received in the past couple of days. I'm sorry I didn't reply to each individual blog comment as I usually do, but I know you understand. Please also know that I appreciate every one of them.

It's been amazing, the comments and messages. People I know and love, and others whom I don't know, but they wanted to reach out to me anyway. I guess this business of mourning lost loved ones is all too universal. And as Mija and Indy so eloquently stated in their respective blogs, today's virtual communities offer new versions of succor. Instead of casseroles, we get emails. In lieu of flowers, we get tweets. We post pictures of our loved ones and share them with the world -- I posted a photo of my mother on FetLife and got over 80 comments on it. The personal bubble of mourning expands to include our cyber friends and supporters.

I may not be able to feel real hugs, but I sense them. That means just as much.

ST came over Monday. No playing; he just sat and talked with me for nearly four hours. Such a dear friend he is.

I went to visit my cousin yesterday; I have not seen him in many years. You know, the one who grew up with my mother, and partnered with my dad in early TV writing. He will be 90 next month. It was an interesting couple of hours, as we talked. He shared a lot of detailed memories of both my parents, funny stories, etc. What a fascinating life he's had. His age is beginning to take its toll; while he could remember so much, other things eluded him. For example, he recalled absolutely nothing of arranging my father's memorial 14 years ago. And when he poured us both a glass of water from a pitcher, his hand shook badly and he spilled water all over the counter.

I hope he will stick around for a while. He is a distant figure in my life, but a prominent one at the same time. He is the one living soul who knew both my parents from way back when.

Side note: in the past few days, several friends have looked at my mother's pictures and said, "You look like her." I'm deeply flattered by this, but baffled. I was always under the impression that I looked just like my father. I don't have my mother's coloring, build or features. So yesterday, I asked my cousin, "Who do I look like, Mom or Dad?"

He didn't even take a beat. With no hesitation, he looked into my face and said, "You look like your father." Interesting. My mother was lovely. I'm still happy people think I resemble her somewhat.

Today, I got a message on Facebook, from another distant cousin on my mother's side. It was a lovely note, saying she read my blog and wept. That she never had a grandmother (her grandmother was my mother's sister, the one who offed herself in 1981), and my mom was the closest thing to a grandmother that she had. She recalled how Mom used to tell her to sit up straight, don't eat so many potatoes, stay out of the sun, etc. Had to laugh at that. Mom told everyone what to do, not just me, bless her heart!

Then it hit me. Oy. She read my blog. She mentioned nothing of the elephant stampeding through the room. I took a deep breath and wrote back to her. I said she now knew of my alter ego, my not-so-secret secret life. That she was the first family member to know of it, and while I am not ashamed of who I am, I chose not to tell people whom I didn't think would understand. I hope she will be discreet. If she is, she is. If not... oh well. People will think what they think. I know the truth and what the Erica Scott persona means to me.

I am eager to get back to feeling like myself. I want to catch up with blogs and FetLife posts. I want to snark and write pithy blogs again. And I need to get back on the job hunt.

Incidentally, just for the hell of it, I wrote to the company whose test I took, asking for an explanation of exactly how I failed their test. I didn't expect to hear back, but lo and behold, I did! A very nice, detailed message, in fact. In the transcription portion of the test (in which I had to listen to a tape of several people talking in thick UK accents and write down every word), they allowed five errors. I made seven. Not in spelling, but I misheard things. A few words here and there, I couldn't make out at all, no matter how many times I listened to them. They said that their work is UK-intensive and I need to be able to decipher that accent better. But that I did a good job overall and they had no doubt I could work with more American transcription.

What they didn't know was, I'd never done a transcription job in my life. I just jumped in and tried it. So, that considered, I guess I did pretty well. :-)

Life goes on. My computer is acting up and probably needs servicing. Always something, no? I'm going to head for the gym now. My mind may still be in a fog, but my body needs care and exercise, food and rest. Basics.

Thank you all, once again. I can't fully express how much all your communication has meant to me. ♥  You've kept me from withdrawing into myself.

'Bye, Mom

Yesterday (Saturday) morning, I was still sleeping when the phone woke me up. Somehow, even in my sleepy haze, I knew. Sure enough, within seconds, John opened the bedroom door, holding the phone.

Mom had passed away about 2:00 in the morning. M wanted to know if we still wanted to come over, or if we wanted to postpone it. No, I said. We'd like to see you.

John crept into bed with me as I spoke to M, curling around me, pressing his face to mine. My tears ran over his forehead and into his hair, but he did not move away.

I told him I couldn't face lunch with his mother, but he should go anyway. He understood. He got me out of bed, showered and dressed, and then took off to see his mother.

Feeling stunned, I went online, reaching for distraction. There I found a no-reply, form email from the Way With Words Group, stating, "Thank you for your interest and for submitting your application and test. Unfortunately..."

I didn't have to read the rest. Perfect, I thought. Nice touch. Let's get all the possible kicks in the gut out of the way, shall we? They offered no explanation, no clarity as to how I failed their test. It sucked.

We drove to my stepdad's. I asked where my mother was, and he told me the hospital had already come to retrieve her. She had donated her body to medical research, as he will do also. There would be no services.

So I figured, I will say my final goodbye here. Even though I've known this was coming for a long time, the finality of it is still a shock. Wow, I thought. I have no parents. That is a creepy feeling.

I am grateful that my mother is finally at peace, but I am disgusted and furious that she had to come to the end of her life in such a miserable and undignified fashion. That she had to die in degrees; first her mind, and then, slowly, year by year, her body. She did not deserve this.

I'd rather not think about the past six years or so. But neither do I wish to canonize her. Those of you who read my book, who have been reading my blogs over the years, know how tempestuous and difficult my relationship was with my mother. It was not easy being her child. However, I know she did the best she could. She was raised in an effed-up family and shown very poor examples of parenting. And of course, she made the mistake that many of her era made -- "I'll have kids myself and do a better job." She didn't. But she tried. She meant well.

Wasn't she beautiful?

I don't know the date of the above photo, but I'm guessing she was in her early 20s there. It was a different time, a different era; I've never looked that glamorous in all my life.

Here she is with my brother and baby me (having a bad hair day):

This is a candid shot from my college graduation. Not the greatest shot of me, but I love it because it's one of the extremely rare photos of my mother smiling with her whole face. Mom did not like her smile (she claimed she looked like a chipmunk), and, long before the advent of Botox, she trained herself to smile with her mouth only. After all, scrunching up one's face and eyes caused wrinkles. (sigh)

Mom's 70th birthday -- still gorgeous:

And finally, this was from her 37th wedding anniversary party, seven years ago:

(Yes, I was a bit taller than she; I took after my dad that way. I got his coloring, too)

She was 83 here. And this was her last good year. Shortly thereafter, she had hip replacement surgery, a risk at her age, but she was in a lot of pain and it was necessary. During the surgery, she had several small strokes that affected her brain. After that, the slow downhill slide began.

According to family legend, the night I was born, one of the nurses jumped the gun. I was a big baby, 8 1/2 pounds, and I had broad shoulders. When I was halfway out, the assisting nurse exclaimed, "Oh, look at the big beautiful boy!" My mother, in her stupor of pain and whatever drugs they gave you in 1957, moaned, "No, NO! I don't want another boy! Put it back!"

Damn. Good thing I turned out to be a girl, huh? But... I know I wasn't the daughter my mother wanted. Somehow, I doubt that I could have been. She hungered for so much, wanted me to have everything she didn't have, wanted me to be everything she couldn't be. I took after my father in many ways and she couldn't stand that.

This weekend, I said to John, "I wonder if Mom was ever proud of me." Ever pragmatic, he replied, "Does it matter, really?" Probably not. She loved me. And her criticism, deeply personal as it was, still wasn't personal. She was hard on everyone; herself, most of all.

Mom, there were so many things I admired about you. I admired your adventurous spirit, your lust for life and different experiences, your love of travel and other cultures. I loved how you could welcome people in your home, numbering anywhere from two to a hundred, cook for them, make them feel at ease, entertain them -- all the while keeping your cool and grace, looking spectacular and making it seem so easy. I loved your cooking and how you could make even the simplest of dishes, such as meatloaf, taste like something special. I will always miss your homemade soups. And ohhhh, your stuffing. A year in the making; you'd save every heel of bread, every leftover roll, the last few tortilla chips in a large plastic bag in the freezer, and every Thanksgiving, you'd take all these odds and ends of bread, combine them with onions and celery and chicken broth and seasonings, and make stuffing that I'd eat right out of the casserole dish, it was so good.

You were an open book, an open door -- you had no filters and no protective armor. Everything affected you so deeply and brought out your passion, your anger, your rebellion. I still remember something you said years ago, when I was a teenager. We were discussing about how Orthodox Jews disown their children if they marry outside of the faith. In essence, they pretend these children are dead. This made you furious, and you said, "That makes me sick. If I could have my son back, whole and alive, I wouldn't care if he married a giraffe."

I'm sorry you had so many hardships in life: a family of lunatics you couldn't wait to escape, so you went into a bad marriage. The loss of your child. The regrets, the disappointments, the restlessness, always feeling like a better life was just beyond your fingertips. But you had good times, too. You won the lottery with your second marriage. You saw the world. You had so many amazing experiences, met so many incredible people. And oh, my God, you were so beautiful. And smart.

I wish I could have made you happier, but I hope you knew that I loved you. Even when I disappeared for a year, I thought of you every day. I have no excuses; that was my weakness, my fear. But I never stopped caring.

Rest well, Mom.

Phoning it in

I feel like I need to write something today, but my brain is not engaged. My body is going through the motions of the day, while my mind protectively shrouds itself in numbness. But for the purposes of continuity, I will wind myself up and attempt to corral some thoughts.

For those who have been so supportive about the recruitment test: I took and submitted Part 2 on Wednesday, and have not heard back as of yet. I don't have a good feeling about this, but perhaps I'm just impatient. I dropped them an email today, politely expressing curiosity about my test. Now I wait, and hope.

I spent nearly $1600 on my car yesterday. My mechanic said he'd work with me, take it in installments, whatever I needed. What's the point of that? Postponing payment doesn't lessen it. He kept asking what he could do for me, and I had to resist the urge to say, "Oh, I dunno... don't charge so damn much?" So I wrote a check for the entire bill from an emergency account that isn't going to last through too many more emergencies. But for the time being, I have it.

John and I are going down to see my mother and stepfather tomorrow. My mother is now fully unresponsive, doesn't even open her eyes. They have put her on oxygen because she can barely breathe, and she's under 24-hour surveillance. Aside from an occasional squirt of water between her lips with a syringe, she is taking no food or liquid. It will be very soon now. I will say my final goodbye, even though I feel like I've already done so. I'm going more as support for my stepdad, honestly. He's been there every single day, sitting with her for hours. He is a good man, and I want to see him while I can. I have a feeling he has been staying alive for my mother's sake.

I got Chrossed today. I have to laugh at how much that cheers me. Just a simple acknowledgment of a fun night that now feels like it was weeks ago.

I am not alone. John will be with me. ST will come see me Monday. I have friends. I feel great comfort in that. I will keep moving forward and doing what needs doing. I always do.

When I am able, I plan to blog about bratting, and about the insistence by many that all spankos need to switch at some point. These should be fun, controversial, outspoken and will no doubt piss some people off. Can't wait. :-)

Have a great weekend, y'all. Thanks for being here.