54 Things

Borrowing this meme from Hermione, I challenged myself to come up with a list of 54 random things that make me feel happy. I liked reading her list and could see how compiling it would be a pleasant exercise in appreciation. So, here goes:

1. Silly, couple-y things between John and me, like our pet names and nonsense words.
2. Reading comments on my blog.
3. Cloudy, rainy days, especially when I am indoors and don't have to go anywhere.
4. Freshly pedicured toenails.
5. Petting random dogs on the street (after getting an OK from the owners, of course)
6. Burrowing under piles of blankets.
7. Giving and receiving massages.
8. Tuesdays with Steve.
9. Watching (and rewatching, and rewatching) Dark Shadows.
10. Getting compliments on my writing.
11. The occasional deer sighting up in the canyons where John lives.
12. Purring cats.
13. Beatles songs.
14. Bewitched episodes with Dick York (the original Darrin).
15. Snuggling, cuddling, spooning. Love body contact.
16. When a man cups my face in his hand.
17. Beethoven's 7th symphony.
18. Finding the name of a song I've heard and liked, just by typing a lyric into Google.
19. Finding and downloading said song on iTunes. Gone are the days where I had to buy an entire album for one song, and hope I liked the rest of it.
20. Opening a new box of See's candy and getting the first choice.
21. Quiet neighbors.
22. Good hair days.
23. Vine-ripened tomatoes.
24. Friends who accept and accommodate my various food oddities without making me feel, well, odd.
25. Waitstaff who get special orders and substitutions right.
26. Drivers who hang back and let me into a crowded lane.
27. Giving a random compliment to a stranger and watching their face light up.
28. Gatherings of spanko friends.
29. Classic movie musicals (e.g., Singin' in the Rain).
30. People who know the difference between i.e. and e.g.
31. Big bouquets of colorful flowers.
32. Wearing red.
33. Wearing my stepmother's beautiful necklace. I guess it's mine now, but I'll always think of it as hers.

34. The joy of hanging out with girlfriends, laughing and chatting and sharing.
35. The post-spanking bubble of bliss.
36. Burying my face in John's sweet-smelling hair.
37. Seeing a picture of myself that I actually like.
38. Playing Scrabble.
39. Working crossword puzzles.
40. Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker ballet.
41. That moment during a workout when the endorphins kick in.
42. German chocolate cake at Aroma Café.
43. Starchy comfort food -- bread, potatoes, pasta, pancakes.
44. Books that are so well written and captivating, I hate to put them down and can't wait to pick them up again.
45. Being Chrossed.
46. Watching The Big Bang Theory.
47. Marx Brothers movies.
48. Warm, thick socks when my feet are cold.
49. Kisses, all kinds.
50. Random acts of kindness, just because.
51. Putting my body and psyche into my top's hands and knowing I am safe.
52. The I Love Lucy "Vitameatavegemin" episode.
53. Weird Al Yankovic parodies.
54. Feeling like I belong, and that I matter. :-)

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Repercussions of sass

You know that snarky little bit I threw in at the end of yesterday's blog? Apparently, His Royal Lateness didn't appreciate my airing his penchant for tardiness "all over the cyberwaves."

Oh, dear. What's a top to do?

Yeah, that.

We had quite the spirited "discussion" about it. He tried bringing up that "Top is always right" business again, but I wouldn't have any of it. "The top is always..." he said, trying to coax me into finishing it. "The top is always late," I snapped.

"No," he said, punctuating his point with vigorous slaps. "I'll give you a hint; the word starts with an 'r' and ends with a 't.'"

"The top is always a rat!" I crowed triumphantly. Wrong answer. 

But speaking of r---t words, I told him that if he wanted to be treated with respect, he'd have to earn it. He claimed that he already had, and I needed to learn how to respect him. I could start by kissing his hand.

Say what?

He then smugly stuck his hand in front of my mouth. And I promptly bit it.

I think that might have been the proverbial last straw. The heavy artillery came out, including that godawful "boot camp" paddle, the one with the boot sole that leaves wicked tread marks. Much lecturing ensued. Oh, the fuss he made! "Do you know that you hurt my finger?" he hollered. "Do you know that you're hurting my ass?" I threw back. 

"You leave teeth marks on my finger, I leave tread marks on your bottom," he growled. OK, he was keeping up with me.

(In case you're wondering, that shiny thing on my right cheek is a clear Tegaderm protective bandage. I'm trying to give that weakened spot a bit of a break, and it seems to be helping. No fresh "butt measles" yesterday, despite the intense play.)

He gave me a second chance to kiss his hand. And guess what I did a second time?

As you can imagine, that didn't go over too well either, and he made sure I knew it. After the next flurry, he started asking me questions about whether or not that had been a good idea, and what I was going to do next time. I didn't answer, and he said, "Let me ask again." But instead of asking, he gave me another flurry. "Ask already!" I screeched. "I just did," he replied calmly, giving me yet another round. "You don't recognize that language?"

Oh, brother.

"OK, I'll ask in English," he said cheerfully. "Is biting your top something you will refrain from, from now on?" When I didn't answer right away, he added, "Did you understand that question?"

"Yes," I grumbled, "now that I've put it through my Asshole to English dictionary."

Everything after that is a blur. :-)

Until, of course, the third time he put his hand to my mouth. And I tenderly kissed his palm, cupping it to my face, after thanking him. While he told me that I was the best bottom ever, he could never want for another, and he disciplined me because he cared about me. 

Alllll better. So much yum.

Yesterday was one of those days where I didn't want to return to the real world. I wanted to stay in the bliss bubble and simply be with my top. But alas, he had to go be a dad, and I had my own things to do. And yet, after he left, I was still in that soft, wistful, fragile state, and wanted to capture it. So I experimented with my camera's timer and some arty effects, and got this:

Some who don't know me, might look at a photo like this and think, "She's been broken." On the contrary. I was put back together.

♥

Validation for spankos!

So, kids. Every day, it seems they (whoever they are) discover something new that's going to kill us. One day it's coffee. Then it's eggs. Then it's fats. Then it's carbs. Then it's...

Sitting???

That's right. According to the Washington Post, too much sitting can cause all sorts of ailments and organ damage, and even kill you. Read all about it here.

I swear, someday they're going to say that breathing is bad for you. (Oh, wait. It already is, if you're around smokers.) But I digress.

My point is -- spankos, we have never been more pertinent! If sitting is such an evil, then it should be avoided at all costs, no? And what better way to avoid it than to make it impossible to sit?

We've always known that spanking is good for our psyches. But now it's good for our health, too. Spanked so hard that it hurts to sit down? Excellent! Don't just grab a pillow for your sorry butt; get off of it! Do you want to die? Of course not!

So, spankers, rejoice in the fact that you're helping your bottoms maintain their good health. And spankees, never again complain that you can't sit comfortably! You're not supposed to be sitting -- it will kill you!

How ironic that I'm writing this while sitting around waiting for Steve, who is late as usual. :-Þ

I Meme What I Say

Slow news day. Slow news weekend, too. Because I'm bored, I thought I'd tackle the latest meme that's been floating around. 

The phone rings. Who do you want it to be?
Wrong number. I hate the phone. OK, OK, John or Steve.

When shopping at the grocery store, do you return your cart?
I do indeed, every time. 

In a social setting, are you more of a talker or a listener?
I'm both; depends on who I'm with and how comfortable I am. 

Do you take compliments well?
Better than I used to.
 
Are you an active person?
As in physically? Yeah, I do the gym thing. As long as I don't have to actually go outside.

If abandoned alone in the wilderness, do you survive?
Not for five seconds. I am a complete wimp. First I'd plop down in the middle of the wilderness and cry. Then I'd probably eat something poisonous and croak.

Did you ever go to camp as a kid?
My mother used to make me go to get me out of the house. I hated it. Passionately.

What was your favorite game/s as a kid?
I loved all kinds of board games. And my Etch-a-Sketch.

A sexy person is pursuing you, but you know that he/she is married, would you?
Would I what?

Are you judgmental?
Would love to say no, but yeah, I am sometimes.

Do you like to pursue or be pursued?
Be pursued (as long as it's fun pursuit and not some stalker-y pursuit).

Use three words to describe yourself.
Cranky without attention.

If you had to choose, would you rather be deaf or blind?
I can't choose. Yeah, I know, it says if I had to. Well, I can't, dammit. They both suck too badly.

Are you continuing your education?
No.

Do you know how to shoot a gun?
I do not. I'd probably drop it and shoot myself in the foot.
 
How often do you read books?
Every day.
 
Do you think more about the past, present or future?
Used to be past, but now it's more future. I have to remind myself to stay in the present.
 
What is your favorite children's book?
The Phantom Tollbooth.  

Where is your ideal house located?
Anywhere there are no barking dogs, kids, party throwers or TV/music blasters. Yes, I like things quiet.
 
Boxers, briefs, thongs, panties or grannies?
Boyshorts and cheekies, and the occasional thong. I would not be caught dead in granny panties.
 
Last person you talked to?
John.

Have you ever taken pictures in a photo booth?
Long ago, yes.
 
What are your keys on your key chain for?
Apartment, outside door in apt. building, mailbox, laundry room locker, John's house.

Where was the furthest place you traveled today?
From here to the gym.

Where is your current pain?
In my nose. The air has been so damn dry here for so long, the insides of my nostrils are cracked. I know, TMI!

Do you like mustard?
Love it. But not the spicy stuff.

Do you prefer to sleep or eat?
Sleep. I can go longer without food than I can without sleep.

Do you look like your mom or dad?
My dad.

How long does it take you in the shower?
Five minutes for a shower; about 15 for a hair wash/leg shave.
 
What movie do you want to see right now?
Philomena. 

What did you do for New Year's?
We got take-out from Whole Foods, watched a movie, and then had champagne and kisses at midnight. 

What was the cause of your last accident?
Wouldn't call it an accident; I have a bruise on my shin from where I clunked it on Steve's Harley. 

Exciting stuff, I know. Should have something a lot more fun next post!

Tramp stamps, anyone?

Of all the tattoos out there, the "tramp stamp" seems to be one of the most popular. For those who aren't tattoo-savvy, that's a rather unflattering nickname for an inking on the small of the back, just above the tailbone. These tats are very popular with spankos, and in the fetish world in general.

I don't have any tattoos myself, and I don't have the desire to get any, but I think some of them can be very cool. John is always teasing me about getting a tramp stamp, for whatever reason. Every weekend, whenever we're cuddling in bed, he'll poke at my lower back using his fingernail as if it were a needle, asking what I want back there. I'll say something like, "John, stop it," and he'll start stabbing out John, stop it on my back. "You really want that there? That's kind of weird." Argh.

I don't know why he does this; it's not like he actually wants me to get a tattoo. In fact, several years ago when I was toying with the idea of a small one, he said, "Do you really want that on you when you're 70? The only thing I want on you when you're 70 is me." :-) So much for that idea.

Tramp stamps, like any tat, can be anything you want. Many are simple and elegant, like this:

Some are amazingly intricate and detailed:

Aaaaand then we have stuff like this:

Trust me, that's not the worst one I saw in my searches.

So, readers, do tell. Do you have a tramp stamp, and if so, what is it? And if you don't, let's pretend you're getting one -- what would it be?

Me? shrugging  I dunno. How about this: A small, bright red arrow, pointing downward -- kind of like the one in the preceding photo, but farther down. And above it? Exit Only. ;-)

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Hey, y'all, check this out!

Look who became a Harley girl yesterday!

No, of course it's not mine; it's Steve's. He took me on my very first Harley ride yesterday. This is the second time in my life that I've been on a motorcycle, and the first time was just a little putt-putt with a narrow seat and no back rest, with me clinging to my friend for dear life. I was amazed at how comfortable this ride was, how steady and stable and safe I felt. And of course, it didn't hurt that Steve is an experienced rider who knew I'd be nervous and did everything possible to put me at ease. (And don't worry; I wore a helmet!)

So off we went up Topanga Canyon and stopped at a look-out point high up in the hills. It was a gorgeous day; not super hot as it's been, with blue skies and streaks of clouds. Unfortunately, other people kept coming and going, so we couldn't sneak in any outdoor play. But we did duck behind a clump of bushes and take this:

The ride was so exhilarating, I couldn't wait to get back home to play. According to Steve, there is a name for women who accompany Harley bikers...

"Riding bitch."

"I am not a riding bitch!" I snapped. "I don't like that term."

"You don't have to," he smiled. "I like it. I'm the top."

"How about if I make you my riding bitch?" I grumbled. Apparently he didn't care for the idea, since he smacked my thigh. Meanie.

On top of all the rest of the spanking, I had an extra 30 coming as a bonus for smartassery. Not that big a deal, until he added that I had to count them down... from 10,000. WTF? Yes, just to make it complicated, I had to count down out loud from 10,000 to 9,970. It was harder than it sounds, as you'll see in this video snippet.



That's a brand-new riding crop, BTW. Stings like crazy, but I like it. It has a bite to it, a lot of snap, but perfect for someone like me who loves smack over thud.

But of course, when I was well worn out and ready for it to be over, he just had to pick up that @#$%ing Licking Stick to finish me off. Boooooooo!

Afterward, he massaged my bottom and legs with lotion, which was so soothing, I nearly fell asleep. What a perfect day. :-)

Of course, John gave me a ration of noise about it later. You see, he loves to tease me about how he's going to get a Ducati. My standard answer is over my dead body, because I don't want to have to deal with his dead body. That man is not getting a motorcycle, period. I have been through eight -- count them, eight -- different cycling accidents with him, and if he can't keep from getting maimed on a bicycle (granted, he was using it to commute to work and was on the road a lot, but still), I don't want to think about what he could do to himself on a motorcycle. So when he heard that I'd ridden on Steve's Harley, he made a big fuss.

"What?? You get to ride and I don't?"

"You can ride one. You don't get to buy one."

"How come Steve gets to have a bike and I don't?" Oh dear, we're in grade school again, are we? :-)  "Because Steve is Steve and you are you. And you've reached your accident quota with me."

"I'm very disappointed," he grumbled. "Tell Steve how disappointed I am, and how it's all your fault."

Uh huh.

Oh, and in case anyone was wondering, no. When we were idling at stoplights and I felt the cycle engine vibrating between my legs, I did not get aroused. Another myth dispelled. Oh well...

What's an introverted spanko to do?

So, for the first time in quite a while, I saw my therapist last week. We go back a long way (I met her in 1991) and she knows me better than anyone, I think. Maybe even better than John, although that's a toss-up. 

Anyway, she suggested that I need to broaden my support systems and develop some more local friends. Are there any groups I could join, perhaps a writer's group? I told her that at this stage of my life, I'm really not interested in any sort of vanilla gatherings. I need to be around people with whom I can be myself, not keeping a huge portion of my life and psyche under wraps. So of course, it seems the answer is to find more local spankos, and a local spanking group, right?

Yeah. Easier said than done.

I'm working on it, kids. Really. But when you're a natural introvert and reaching out isn't your forte, it's a lot easier to sit back, watch others, and wish things would happen, rather than making them happen.

Everything thinks that L.A. is one of the kink capitals of the country. Sure, there's lots of kink. Lots of BDSM, several dungeons. But spanking groups? Notsomuch.

Oh, there is one that calls itself a spanking group. They have parties once a month, and munches. Perfect, right? Where are those parties? At a freaking BDSM dungeon! I have checked out the group many times on FetLife, and the people who go to the parties. Sir this, Master that, subs and slaves. Some spankos go, but more and more, they seem to be the minority. And I cannot stand the venue; too many icky memories of grotesque scenes and people I saw when we used to play there. And way too much Uber-Dom attitude. Plus, even if more spanking friends went and I was inclined to give it a try, for reasons I don't care to go into here, I don't think I'd be welcome among the inner circle. So that's out.

This will sound bizarre, but I find myself wishing that we lived closer to Indiana. Why? Because Joe (DrLectr) and his lovely Ten live there, and run the Hammond House of Hedonism. They have frequent spanking parties in their home, with not only a nice tight local group, but other friends coming from all over. I read about their gatherings and yearn to be there. So easy, so comfortable -- just go, kick back, laugh, have fun. No stress. No drama. No expenses, except maybe contributing food/drink. And real spanking enthusiasts, people I adore -- not heavy BDSMers dabbling in spanking, all the while yearning to tie up and suspend the bottom, stick a ball gag in her mouth or a hook up her ass, or drip wax all over her. Not saying there's anything wrong with that; to each their own. But it's not what I'm into, and it's not what I see at Shadow Lane or any of the other spanko gatherings. And I need to keep it that way, for my own comfort zone.

Fortunately, we get to see Joe, Ten and a bunch of our other friends next month, when we attend a private gathering in Vegas. But that, and Shadow Lane, is the extent of our connection with spanking friends en masse. Twice a year doesn't cut it. It leaves me in a constant state of yearning and FOMO.

I love what I have with Steve, my wonderful top. But I miss the companionship and camaraderie sometimes. I miss the sisterhood. I miss the ease of having friends where we can drop in and play. Where seeing like-minded people doesn't involve major effort, expense, planning, and John having to ask for time off.

So... my assignment is to suss out the hidden spankos in So. CA. The ones who get me, with whom I can connect and relate. And who will understand that I don't do well with initiating plans and so forth, but will gently nudge me and coax me out of my walls. 

Sure, in a perfect world, I could fly to every gathering out there, but we know that's not happening. And the damned 21st century still stubbornly refuses to invent teleportation. Therefore, I need to make my own local connections, somehow. 

Just not sure how, at this point. But it's a goal.

Sometimes, I question my sanity

Nothing new there. More on that later.

Funny how tops have different approaches to starting a spanking. Danny used to bluster and threaten for a while, and I'd continue to push and provoke until he said, "That's IT!" ST would spring it on me quickly and unceremoniously, and I never knew when it would be. Steve and I talk for a while, like old friends catching up, and then his tone changes. That's when he'll lean over to me and say, "Ready to go over my knee, baby?"

I've resisted a couple of times. One time, I even went across the room and made him come and get me. But most of the time, I simply smile and answer, "Yes." Then I go close the windows, and come to him.

We'd had to postpone our Tuesday to Wednesday, then our Wednesday morning to Wednesday afternoon, because of his work. So we were both antsy and impatient. "I can't wait to feel your bottom in the palm of my hand," he said over the phone. Hot, hot, hot. The waiting can be fun... up to a point. By 2:30 yesterday, I was so over it, and was all about, "Will you just GET here already!"

His warm-up starts with the mildest of slaps, and gradually builds and builds. If he were to begin at the strength and speed at which he ends up, I would be in agony. But my body adjusts and warms to him, craves more, absorbs the flurries. His polo shirt and his face were damp at the end. Sometimes we banter, sometimes we don't. Yesterday, I educated him on the difference between "farther" and "further." He thought they were interchangeable. Tsk.

He's been in quite the benevolent mood lately; once again, he told me I could choose the implements. Last week, I recall I chose one nasty one (the lexan paddle), just because I know I need the challenge. Yesterday was the same. This is where the sanity part comes in (or lack thereof). I retrieved the short OTK leather strap, my favorite. And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I also got the Delrin cane.

!!!!! (Are you crazy, Erica?) Like I said, there's a part of me that relishes that challenge, that push. Not too much, just enough. A very fine line.

Bring it, honey.

Haven't been caned for a while. And I was shocked at first; I'd forgotten just how much it hurts, that unique biting hurt. My mind wouldn't calm down and absorb; my body fought. I struggled and squirmed, pleaded, moaned. I wanted him to stop. I didn't want him to stop. 

He talked to me, reminded me how much I needed this. Told me to breathe. Firmly but kindly told me to keep still. Ican'tIcan'tIcan't. After two particularly hard strokes, I felt a sort of despair, and blurted, "What's happening to me? I'm being such a wimp!"

Ugh. According to whom? Harder players? The benchmark for cast-iron ass? The Spanko Judges? Like it's a freaking contest? Stupid.

"You are not a wimp," he said, kneading the soreness. "Those were hard. You are taking this very well. You're amazing."

And then, I felt my mind switch over, and my body shift into a calmer state. I took in a deep breath, and I lay still. No more kicking, no more writhing. From that point on, I was able to absorb. I flowed with the strokes and the pain instead of struggling against them.

Mind over matter.

Yipes! Stripes! (Yes, I know I'm dating myself with that reference.)

He wasn't able to linger much afterward, but it was OK. I was spent, particularly after the thundering orgasm I'd given myself while he watched. "Go," I smiled. "Go be a dad." It was time to return to real life. In my post-spanking blissful stupor, I leaned into my doorway and said goodbye.

If that isn't "spank face," I don't know what is. :-D

And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to try to corral my mushy and scattered brain, and do some work. 

Thank you. ♥

The semantics of spanking

Granted, I'm a woman of many pet peeves, so no one really takes me seriously when I mention one. Especially since they're usually so trivial. The following is no different, but perhaps a fellow spanko/linguist out there will relate.

It annoys me when people call a slap or two on the bum a "spanking." A single whack is not a "spanking." It's a slap. Or a smack. Or a whack. Or whatever the hell term you want to use. I guess you could even say it's a "spank." But it is not a "spanking." Spankings are in multiples.

John and I went to see The Wolf of Wall Street on Saturday. The day before, someone had written on FetLife: "Go see Wolf of Wall Street! It's great, and it even has a spanking in it!" Do tell, I thought. Since we were already planning to see it, I kept my eyes eagerly peeled for that particular scene.

For those of you who haven't seen the movie, I won't give any plot spoilers, don't worry. But suffice it to say that it's one of the most depraved movies out there lately. It's based on the true story of fallen stockbroker Jordan Belfort, and his lifestyle of tons of money, drugs, hookers and sex. You see a lot of nudity, and a whole lot of cocaine. You hear the f-word over 500 times (yes, really) in three hours. You see all kinds of sex. You see Leonardo DiCaprio with a lit candle stuck where the sun don't shine.

But there's no spanking in it.

What there is, is this. A scene with DiCaprio snorting a line of coke off a hooker's behind. She's crouched on the bed with her butt up high in his face, and after he snorts, he gives her one slap, then when she wiggles, he gives her one more. The End.

That's not a spanking, dammit! Really, how disappointing.

Honestly, I'd enjoy a scene with Leo giving a spanking. I think he's pretty damn cute. Go ahead, laugh at me.

It kind of reminds me of people who do a little "slap-and-tickle" during sex and call that spanking. I just want to yank them out of bed, plop them down in front of the TV and show them a proper spanking video. "Now that's a spanking," I'd smirk, as their eyes glaze over. 

Oh, how this movie could have used a real spanking. There's one scene where Leo's character and his wife are having a huge screaming fight in the bedroom, and she keeps throwing water on him. All he does is sputter and scream and swear. In our world, he'd grab her, they'd sprawl onto the bed, and he'd throw her across his lap and wallop her with drops of water flying everywhere. Hey, if he could snort coke off her boobs (yes, he did), he could certainly spank her, couldn't he?

Besides, she needed a spanking, big time. She wasn't very nice to him. (Of course, he wasn't about to win any Husband of the Year prizes either.)

But I digress. Call things what they are, people. Don't get me all excited about a possible spanking scene and then show me a slap. A slap does not a spanking make. A slap is a mere tease. If someone told you that they were going to give you a slice of cake, wouldn't you be ticked off if they then gave you just one tiny bite?

Speaking of which, I'm not getting my weekly session of sustained slapping until Wednesday. Oh well. Better late than not at all, I guess.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

OT Rant: Stop the food madness!!

It's been a while since I've written one of these "gross food" treatises. For those who are relatively new to my blog, you can see two of my past food rants here and here.

So what propels me to the vomitorium today? Two things, actually: 1. what the humble pizza has devolved into, and 2. the continuing insanity of sweet/savory combinations.

I am no expert on pizza, and I know nothing of its origins or how or where it came to be so popular. But when I was growing up, pizza was a very simple thing: A crust, thin or slightly thicker, in a circular shape, topped with some tomato sauce, cheese (usually mozzarella) and Italian seasonings. If you liked, you could add some standard toppings -- pepperoni, mushrooms, peppers, sausage. It was baked until the cheese was melted and stringy, and then you tried to eat it without burning the roof of your mouth.

Period.

Then I don't know what the hell happened. I suspect it dates back to the restaurant California Pizza Kitchen, which I think first popularized putting weird shit on pizza, like barbecued chicken, or ham and pineapple. Fast forward to today, and pizza is virtually unrecognizable. The foodie establishments seem to think you can put any freaking thing on a crust and call it a pizza. And I mean anything.

I don't know what the @#$% the above is, but it is not a pizza. Yes, it's on a pizza crust. The resemblance stops there. Artichoke hearts? Fried onions? And what the hell is that -- jam??

Recently, a new pizza restaurant opened in Altadena -- they tout themselves as "Pizza with a point of view." Yeah, right into my churning stomach.

Here are some of the menu choices.

1. Sashimi pizza. Yes, pizza with raw fish on it. That huge *clunk* you just heard was a collection of sushi chefs all over the world keeling over in a dead faint.

2. Crab boil pizza. Oh, for Christ's sake. Don't dump crabmeat stew/soup/whatever it is on a crust and call it a pizza. That is disgusting. And messy. Serve the crab boil in a bowl where it belongs, and serve some nice crusty bread with it. 

3. Braised lamb with tabbouleh and tzatziki. OK, I don't even know what tzatziki is. I'm sure it's delicious. But this is not a pizza. 

4. Brussels sprouts and brie. I'm speechless, so I'll let Jimmy Fallon take over:

When did the pizza become a culinary garbage disposal?? An "anything goes" food item? Folks, we already have a dish where you throw anything and everything on/into it. It's called hash.

Next, Part Two of my rant on sweet/savory combos. Don't worry, I'm not going to talk about bacon in everything from ice cream to cookies; I already did that. But this craze continues, and it's getting crazier by the minute.

Admittedly, I don't care for the combination of sweet and salty/savory. I never liked Payday bars. I don't like kettle corn or salted caramel. When I ate bacon and pancakes as a kid, the pancakes had to be on a separate plate so the syrup didn't run into the bacon. But I realize people enjoy these tastes and I accept them -- in moderation.

People love cheeseburgers. People love Krispy Kreme doughnuts. I don't eat either one of those, but I am willing to acknowledge that both can be very tasty and enjoyable.

However, a cheeseburger with a Krispy Kreme doughnut as a bun is disgusting.

I think somewhere along the line, I've already mentioned how I feel about taking wonderful fresh, sweet, juicy fruit, nature's candy, and putting hot chili powder on it. John's sister once served a big bowl of that. I didn't think it was possible to dislike her more, but there it was.

And WTF is up with the continuing trend of enrobing all things savory with chocolate? We have the aforementioned bacon covered with chocolate, and chocolate-dipped potato chips. I'm sure there's someone, somewhere, dipping their French fries in Hershey's syrup. But recently at Whole Foods market, I saw something so unbelievably grotesque, I damn near had a stroke:

That's right -- chocolate-covered beef jerky. I had to leave the vicinity immediately, or else they would have needed a Clean-up on Aisle 9.

Who conceives of this grossness?? Foods are like colors and patterns, in a way; if you combine certain ones, they clash. What's next -- chocolate sauce on lobster? Don't forget the bittersweet cocoa powder to sprinkle on your side of mashed potatoes! And for dessert, ice cream with Hollandaise sauce?

BLECCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

Please, stop the madness, foodies. One of these days, your taste buds are going to get so overloaded that they explode. And from that point on, everything you eat will taste like the canned low-sodium soup they serve in the old folks' home.

Ah. I feel cleansed now. I just need to unsee these pictures.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

First scene of 2014!

Hey, I rhymed.

You know how I love to sass and fuss and pretend I don't want to be spanked, and I play up the power struggle aspect?

Screw it. I couldn't be bothered with that today. I wanted it too damn much. Yes, I love the pretense of non-consent. But sometimes, I just have to admit that I love spanking, I need spanking, and I want spanking. Now. And I was more than ready to start the new year of scenes off right.

Steve said he didn't have any ideas for scenarios or what-have-you today; could we skip that? I was happy to agree; I just wanted to play. And play, and play. As did he.

So we got down to it, with the usual OTK warm-up. Today, I didn't kick or squirm away. Today, I arched my back and raised my bottom up higher to meet his hand, in all its various modes. Fast flurries, slow and deliberate, all over each cheek, on the sweet spots, and just slightly below them for good measure. There was no banter this time, just sounds. He spoke to me, but I couldn't hear him over my own groans and the smacks. I felt like a greedily sucking mechanism, eagerly absorbing every sensation, impact and sting, and wanting more. 

Then warm-up was over. "You pick the toys, whatever you want," he whispered. "It's your day." "No wood," I decided, and then I chose the leather Spanking Buddy, a small paddle, my short leather strap and the lexan paddle for some extra intensity. When we moved into the bedroom, I didn't pile up pillows just so and then arrange myself over them. Today, it was about urgency. Today, I simply bent over the side of the bed and put my head on my arms, offering myself to him.

It wasn't always easy to hold that position, especially when he was going at it fast and hard. I know at one point I was gasping his name over and over, but other than that, I spoke little. And I didn't shed a single tear this time. It was less about catharsis, and more about the sheer wonder of the feeling. And about how connected we were.

"Wow," he marveled afterward, "you were really in your groove today, weren't you? What was going on?"

My reply was simple. "I missed you."

Not red enough? Is this better?

There's those damned butt measles again. I guess I'm stuck with them.

Aftercare was sweet and comforting and I felt our bond so strongly. He kept thanking me. I never quite understand why he thanks me; I don't feel like I do anything. But he says my pleasure and delight is his as well.

(What a far cry from the asshats out there who say, "So if I spank you, what's in it for me?")

"I'm the second luckiest man on the planet," he likes to say. According to him, John is the luckiest. I beg to differ, but he adds, "Don't argue with me."

I've been struggling a lot in recent months, over various issues. But on days like this, I feel like I must be doing something right.

Happy New Year, again. ♥

OT: latest with my stepdad

We went to visit M this weekend. He moved into an assisted-living facility, since he couldn't be on his own anymore. He can no longer drive, so he couldn't get anything for himself. His mind is still pretty sharp, but his body is extremely frail and he needs a cane or a walker to keep his balance. He'll be 96 in March.

His new place is actually kind of nice; he has his own little apartment, all his meals, plenty of activities (although he hasn't availed himself of any of them). There's a beautiful front room with a fireplace, and a game room with a big-screen TV, coffee and snacks available 24/7. Very quiet and spotlessly clean. At least I know he's being taken care of.

He still jokes a lot ("Everyone here is so OLD!"). He misses my mother. Mercifully, he seems to have forgotten what a nightmare her last six or so years were, and his memories are fond. I'm glad for him, and a little envious. I know my mother and I had our good times, but whenever I think of her, it's in a negative mode. In my memories, she's always at her worst -- screaming at me, criticizing me, embarrassing me, hurting my feelings. I hope that fades in time. Maybe it's because we never had any sort of closure... she just sort of spiraled into dementia and I distanced myself.

My stepdad never had an easy time of it with this family, poor guy. I'd written in my book about how much I resented him when he started seeing my mother, but I was just a little kid. Turns out my brother Ken wasn't too nice to him either! M was telling us about the first time he had dinner at our house; I guess I wasn't there for this. He put a little ketchup on his steak, and Ken made a face and said, "How gauche." How rude! But you know, we were both such a mess, really. M thinks Ken would have outgrown it, had he lived. I wonder.

We went for dinner, and then M and John watched football. I didn't really mind, as that spared me from having to make further conversation. Instead, I buried myself in a photo album, discovering pictures I'd never seen before. I have very few shots of Ken and me together -- mostly ones where I was very small. So it was amazing to find the following. I have vague memories of the two of us playing duets on the piano, but I often wondered if I'd imagined it, because there were no pictures of it. Until now.

The ride home was the usual. John fell asleep, and I drove along, steeped in memories, and feeling that old heavy sadness wrap itself around me like a winter shawl. John knew. He was extra sweet to me, very attentive, doing everything he knew would make me laugh.

It is what it is, as they say. But I can't help wishing sometimes that it wasn't.

I need to get back into gear. I need to play again. There's that word again: balance. I need it. There must be more fun and silliness. 

Today: back to the gym. Tomorrow: FUN and PLAY, dammit! And back on topic!

That banging thing

On FetLife, there's currently a thread going about spanking noise and who hears what. The original poster posited that perhaps all the worry about people being able to hear what we're doing is unnecessary; that it's really not as big an issue as it's claimed to be.

Yeah, it is.

Y'all know the stories of how John and I have had the cops called on us three times, so I won't bore you with that. But that thread reminded me of his old apartment, where we played a lot. Our relationship was new and spanking was a constant. 

And yes, his neighbors heard.

On the other side of his bedroom wall was a two-bedroom apartment. Crammed into it was a family of five -- a woman, her deadbeat third husband who did nothing but sit around the house and smoke pot, her two sons from her previous marriages, and their baby. The woman (her name is escaping me at the moment) seemed to have a thing for John; she was always flirting with him (and believe me, he did not return the sentiment). One time, she saw him in the courtyard, sidled up to him and purred, "You know, we can hear what you're doing in your bedroom." Before John could reply to that, she added, "Oh, don't worry. No judgment here. I just thought you might want to know. But the next time you do that, invite me!"

EWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW.

Then there was John's upstairs neighbor, Loretta. What a busybody and a loudmouth. She talked so loudly, we could hear her phone conversations down in John's apartment. When she was dealing with a breakup, she played Aretha Franklin's "A Natural Woman" over and over and over. At top volume. All afternoon. I still can't stand to hear that song.

She and John were buddies; he used to take care of her cats when she was away. So she was very comfortable with dropping in on him (which I found annoying, but hey, it wasn't my neighbor). One night, we were playing, and there was a knock on the door. John threw on a pair of shorts and went to answer the door, while I hid naked in the bedroom.

"Hi John!!" I heard her voice boom in its heavy Nu Yawk accent. "I wanted to return this to you." (She'd borrowed something or another; I forget what.) Then she said, "I knew you were home, because I heard that banging thing you do."

That banging thing??? I had to clap both hands over my mouth so I wouldn't howl with laughter.

I must say, I don't miss that apartment building one bit.

Any of you have stories of being overheard?