OK, the @#$%ing TP commercials have gone too far

Some of my long-time readers might remember a rant I posted in 2009, about how much I freaking hate the Charmin toilet paper commercials with those damn stupid bears. Well, consider this Part 2. Or Number 2, if you like.

First, the bears are still around, and their ads have gotten even more disgusting. Now we have Mama Bear, going through the laundry and horrified because she discovered a little extra something on Junior Bear's tighty-whities. EWWW! Gross! Of course, the answer to this problem is not teaching the little @#$% to have better hygiene, but to use Charmin toilet paper. And they even have a new slogan: "We all go -- why not enjoy the go?" Oh, please. It's a bowel movement, not a vacation on the Riviera.

But wait. It wasn't bad enough to have animated bears advertising the joys of absorbent toilet tissue. Now we have a perky blond Brit named Cherry Healey, running around annoying people everywhere, talking about Cottonelle wipes. Her slogan? "Let's talk about your bum."

She appears in various places, such as an outdoor marathon, chatting up strangers about the state of their bums, and bluntly suggesting that they could be cleaner. It's... disconcerting, to say the least.

But last night was the kicker. John and I were watching TV and one of those Cottonelle ads came on. This time, our Cherry was in a bowling alley, of all places, chatting with a bunch of good ol' boys in bowling shirts about how squeaky clean their bums could be with Cottonelle wet wipes. And then -- wait for it -- she stood at an empty lane and uttered the line:

"I insist on a clean alley every time!"

We turned to each other, wide-eyed. No. She did NOT just say that on national television.

For Christ's sake. I understand that some people do seem to have a hygiene problem. I've heard a lot (on Fetlife, and other kink venues), about some pretty gross stuff that tops encounter when they unclothe their bottoms. Really?? We don't live in a third world country, folks. We have more than enough access to water and soap. There is no excuse for that. Have some compassion for those with bottom fetishes and present a clean one.

But do I need to hear about this while I'm trying to enjoy The Big Bang Theory? Must it invade my living room? I happen to observe proper hygiene, thank you very much. I don't need blue bears and chipper Brits lecturing me about it. 

I never thought I'd say this, but sometimes I wish ads would return to the good old days when they used euphemisms like "bathroom tissue" and no one talked about the state of your back alley.

Oh, but wait. It gets worse.

Flipping through a magazine the other day, I encountered this woman's idiotic face, maniacally grinning at God's knows what.

What is the Butterfly, you might wonder. I Googled it, and nearly croaked.

It's a new, um, personal liner. But, unlike other sanitary liners, this one goes between your butt cheeks. It's the discreet new product for ABL.

OK, WTF is ABL?

Accidental Bowel Leakage.

I read further. Apparently, this is a thing. One out of every five women over 40 suffers from it, for various reasons. And I guaran-damn-tee that not one of them is happily beaming like Renee, above, no matter what kind of damn pad they've discovered.

You know what, kids? Do me a favor. I've talked many times about how getting old blows, but this is the last straw. If I ever develop anything like this, don't bring me a box of Butterfly pads. Bring me a bottle of sleeping pills. And after I've gone to sleep, just to make sure, take a gun and shoot me in the head.

I don't want to read about this stuff. I don't want to see it on TV. I don't care how cute you make it look. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.

Me, cranky? Maybe a little. My bum needs a different type of attention.

One of my favorite actresses (and her one-smacker)

I've been watching a lot of AntennaTV and MeTV lately; two cable stations that rerun classic television shows. Because I have older tube TVs, I can't stream Netflix, and I don't get premium cable channels, so when the networks are running repeats, I fall back on the oldies, some of which I never get tired of watching.

To most, the name "Elizabeth Montgomery" conjures up the 60s sitcom Bewitched, for which she was best known. But Ms. Montgomery was far more than Samantha Stephens, even though that character was indelible. She was also a brilliant dramatic actress.

Oh, and I thought she was absolutely stunning:

Her career began in the mid 1950s, and in the late 50s and early 60s, she appeared on many dramas, including Twilight Zone, Alfred Hitchcock Presents, Wagon Train, and One Step Beyond. The other night, I caught her on an episode of The Untouchables, for which she'd been nominated for an Emmy. She played Southern spitfire Rusty Heller, a prostitute who got mixed up with some very bad men. I loved how sassy she was ("Now don't you go trying to appeal to my sense of decency, sugar, 'cause I ain't got one"), and it was quite surreal watching her make out with co-star David White, who later played Larry Tate (Samantha's husband's boss) on Bewitched.

He ended up shooting and killing her, the big meanie. Of course, that was after she ratted him out to the mob and watched one of the bigwigs cut out his tongue. (No, they didn't show it. In 1960s TV, things were strongly implied, but left to your imagination.) And as she died in Eliot Ness's arms, the last thing she asked was "Is my lipstick still on?"

It was an interesting twist for her, moving into a sitcom, but Bewitched ran from 1964-72 and became an iconic show. There were two Darrins, two Louise Tates, two Frank Stephenses, two Gladys Kravitzes, but only one Samantha, brilliantly played and much beloved.

So, since this was pre-PC TV and Samantha often got into mischief (as did her identical cousin, Serena, also played by Ms. Montgomery), was there any spanking? Sadly, no, not really. However, there were two shows with a single smack.

In the more popular of the two, from 1967, Serena pretends to be Samantha and torments Darrin all afternoon. He finally catches on and plots revenge, but doesn't realize that the real Samantha has come home. When she bends forward to pick up something she dropped, he gives her one good smack on her behind. I don't like this scene, because right after that, he hits her in the face with the pie she brought home, and it all devolves into a big pie fight. And since messy humor grosses me out, that wrecks the scene for me.

But a lesser-known scene is the one I find far more charming and sexy. It's from 1964, and (I think? not sure) it's the first appearance of the Serena character. She tries to fool Darrin into giving her a kiss, and his reaction is deliciously appropriate. I don't seem to be able to embed this, so you can watch the clip here (sorry about the German commercials!)

After Bewitched ended, Elizabeth went back to her roots, starring in dramas such as A Case of Rape and Lizzie Borden. She was nominated for Emmys and Golden Globes throughout her career, but never won. In 1995, she passed away from cancer at age 62.

In case you may be wondering -- no, I never met her, and as far as I know, my father never worked with her. Although I'm sure their paths crossed at some point, since she was married to TV writer/producer William Asher for 10 years.

Many of her dramatic appearances are available on YouTube. I love finding TV treasures on YouTube -- full uncut versions, no commercials! For example, her appearance on The Untouchables is here.

No stress release for me this week. :-( Hoping to get some work I can bury myself in.

"7-Eleven Mouth"

What does that mean, you're wondering.

I ran across a couple of new photos -- one from Triple A, and one from Sarah Gregory -- from the shoots I did over the 50 Freaks weekend. In both, I'm being spanked by John Osborne. Here I am as his wife who faked being sick to avoid seeing his business colleague:

And here I am after I gambled all our money away:

What do these two photos have in common, besides the obvious?

Yup. My mouth is open.

As I look back on my library of videos, it cracks me up how many of my pictures show me with this open-mouthed, righteous indignation face. It seems to be one of my two signature expressions (the other being a smirk).

Here's the big mouth again in Northern Spankings' "Nutless"...

And my yap is once again in the open position here, in a Spanking Court photo:

Still open here, for Sarah Gregory spanking:

For Shadow Lane:

And for Lily Starr:

Even when I'm not being spanked, my mouth is open! Like here...

Or here...

Hence, the name 7-Eleven Mouth: Open 24 Hours!!

Oh well. Every spankee needs a go-to expression. And I am way too fucking old to pull off pouting. Come on, don't argue. Pouting is for cute little young faces. A girl's gotta work with what she's got. :-D

Hope everyone had a nice weekend!

OT: Music nostalgia

Last night as I worked out while listening to my iPod (which has about 750 songs on it, mostly oldies), I heard one of the songs I first bought on a 45, back in the dark ages of 1969.

What's a 45? cries the chorus of younger readers. (sigh)

Who knows what this is?

It's called a 45 adapter. Before MP3s, before CDs, there was vinyl. Long-playing (LP) records were played at 33 1/3 RPM. But if you wanted to buy just one song, you bought a smaller, cheaper record that played at 45 RPM.

The record players had a spindle on which the LPs spun. But 45s had a larger hole in the middle, so you had to insert the plastic adapter.

When I was a kid, my mom and dad (and later, my stepdad) had a ginormous hi-fi stereo. I had a few records that had been given to me (mostly Beatles), but playing records on my mom's system wasn't usually an option. She hated rock and roll and would put the kibosh on my record-playing whenever she was around. Which really wasn't fair -- after all, her @#$%ing opera gave me a headache with all the howling, but I couldn't tell her to stop playing it. But I digress.

So imagine my delight when I was 12, my mother gave me a tiny record player I could keep in my bedroom. Off I went with my allowance to the nearest record store, where I bought my first 45s, three of them. What did I get?

1. A huge "bubble-gum" hit, "Sugar, Sugar" by the Archies. (Yes, the same Archie as in the comics. The group didn't really exist; it was a studio band.)

2. "Little Woman," by a major heart-throb at the time, Bobby Sherman. He came slightly before David Cassidy and Donny Osmond.

3. And finally, an obscure little one-hit wonder, an instrumental called "Keem-O-Sabe" by The Electric Indian. It was one of those bits of music that comes along and then disappears into the rock ether, never to be heard again... until many years later when it turns up on some nostalgic compilation CD.

It was actually pretty cool, I think. Anyone remember this?



It turned out I had an affinity for instrumentals. I was crazy about surf guitar (Dick Dale, anyone? Or how about "Pipeline"?), and everything from David Rose's "The Stripper" to Hugo Montenegro's "Theme from The Good, The Bad and the Ugly." 

A lot of instrumentals became classics, but many more were one-hit wonders that disappeared. Here's another one I had on 45, which I think still sounds good, but my ear may be skewed by age. It was called "Cool Aid."



In the corner of my bedroom, I still have my old wire record rack, a lot of LPs, and a carton filled with 45s. I can't bring myself to get rid of them, even though I haven't played them in forever. Everything I had on records, I replaced with either CDs, or downloads from iTunes. 

Do you guys remember the first piece of music you ever purchased, regardless of the format? Please share!

On Monday I was wearing green...

... and yesterday I was wearing red.

Damn pictures never do the color justice, it seems. But this was just the beginning, anyway.

I needed yesterday so badly. In fact, when Steve called early in the morning, I freaked out, wondering if he had to cancel for some reason. Turns out he had a work thing and had to push us back a couple of hours, but he was coming. I felt silly, but it was then I realized just how much I needed release.

The ongoing issues with John wear on me. Nothing dire is happening at the moment, it's all under a control of sorts, but it's still hard. If I allow myself to think too much, all the possible worst-case scenarios jump into my head and I waste precious time worrying about something that hasn't happened yet. Ergo, I'm tense.

Steve was there to take it all away for a little while. To knock down that wall of tension and let the floodgates open. The pain broke through, allowing all the poison to come out.

When we moved to the implement phase, he asked me if I had any requests. But I didn't want to make any decisions; didn't want to think about anything. So he took over, choosing several. It turns out he didn't have to use any of them for very long, because I broke down almost immediately. One minute I was bantering with him, and the next I was crying.

He talked me through it, encouraging me to let it all out, release that stress, bring it all to him. I wept on and on, losing awareness of what he was doing and simply feeling the waves of release. Kind of an emotional orgasm.

Not to worry, though. I was OK. Better than I'd been in a few weeks.

See? Happy.

Afterward, I felt as if a heavy brick had been taken off my chest. I love this kind of escape -- it doesn't leave me hungover, or with weight gain, or with drug withdrawal. Just a purity of soul, feeling clean from the inside out.

I wish that feeling would last longer. But I guess that's what the regular visits are for. Such a wonderful connection, with such a dear top.

Thank you. ♥

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to work. I'm in the middle of proofing a script for a medical course on pressure ulcers, complete with pictures. Please wish me a strong stomach.

The latest with John

Happy St. Patrick's Day. Yes, I am wearing green, so no pinching.

Well, we got an answer on John's right leg swelling. That started about a month ago, and he dealt with it at the 50 Freaks party by mostly remaining seated in the room parties, because standing around made it worse. He also brought ice-packs, and we traded off with them (sometimes on his leg, sometimes on my butt). He went to the doctor about it, but was told it was simply a circulation complication due to his heart problems. They gave him a diuretic and told him to keep it elevated as often as possible. Not very convenient.

It didn't get better, and he thought it was a little weird that it was just one leg, not both. So on Friday, he went to the doctor again. First, the doc (a different one this time) tried to pass it off as the circulation thing, but when John kept insisting he thought it was something else, they did a sonogram.

John has a blood clot in his right leg, just above the knee.

UGH.

They put him on Coumadin (a blood thinner). This week he has to go in three times, and after that, once a week, to monitor his blood and make sure the drug levels are correct. He can no longer take Advil or aspirin for his arthritis pain, just Tylenol. The blood clot will self-resolve, but it takes time. It's a fairly common thing, but it can be dangerous, even lethal, if it detaches and travels to the heart.

So now, along with a malfunctioning heart valve and as-yet untreated sleep apnea (he's still in the process of being tested for the oral device; he goes to yet another sleep study in two weeks), he has a blood clot. The trifecta. 

This man used to be the picture of health and strength. The same man who used to cycle for miles now puffs and pants when he goes up one flight of stairs. It makes me sad. And there is little that's more frustrating than the snail's pace and balking of the medical system.

Bottom line: Don't get sick, people. Never get sick.

John is in good spirits, considering. He's happy to have answers, to know that there are cures and relief ahead at some point. This past weekend, he was tired, but chipper, making jokes and being his usual silly self. We laughed a lot and had fun, visiting a good friend in West Hollywood, taking her to dinner for a belated birthday gift and then sitting out in her yard, in front of a fire pit, talking and watching her cat's antics.

I am doing my best to stay positive, to not let my mind wander into worst-case scenarios. For the moment, things are under control with John. Far from ideal, but we're hoping for the best. 

Meanwhile, I am dying to see Steve. Tomorrow morning cannot come too soon. It's been two weeks, and I'm definitely in need.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend. 

What timing

So I'm at the gym, struggling through the last of a difficult class (abs -- my favorite!!), and trying to find some incentive in the relentless pounding of the techno-beat mixed MP3 that's playing. And then what comes on the rotation?

Yup. Rihanna's "S&M."

Really, who among us couldn't get into exercising to lyrics like "I may be bad, but I'm perfectly good at it," and "Sticks and stones may break my bones, but chains and whips excite me"? :-)

If you've never heard this song, have a listen. It's catchy. But I would advise simply listening to it, and not watching the video. Keep your sound on, but go to another screen. This video will give you a headache. And sadly, there's no spanking in it. It's all show.



Poor Rihanna. I think she's a little confused between what we do (consensual), and what Chris Brown did to her (non-consensual). :-(

Hope everyone has had a good week. Here in So. CA, Mother Nature seems to have forgotten that it's March, and we're going to be in the high 80's-low 90's this weekend, with high winds and elevated fire danger. FFS, Mom -- will you knock it off?

(Yeah, I know. Shut up, Erica. The rest of the country is freezing.) What can I say; I hate the freaking heat in summertime -- I don't want it in winter!

On my mind

I will not be seeing Steve today. This past Sunday, after rigorously training for months, he participated in the L.A. Marathon, along with roughly 21,500 others. It was a bucket list thing for him.

He finished. He had been afraid he wouldn't be able to, but he did. And now he's dealing with, believe it or not, DOMS.

That is a real acronym; it stands for Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness. Which is a nice way of saying his body is broken. Poor guy. He said his legs hurt so badly, he couldn't even stand to have me lie across them. :-( Now that's pain.

So, while he soaks in a hot bath with Epsom salts and I sit here feeling out of sorts, I figured it was a good time to discuss a couple of things that have me cranked.

Recently, my friend Secret Spanko posted about childhood spankings. In his blog, he mentioned about how a well-known spanking video producer interviews all his new models, and specifically, asks if they were spanked as children. If they say yes, he asks for details.

Something about this set off a trigger in me, and I was really pissed off. I had to think about it for a while and determine what was bothering me, but now I think I have it.

Please don't misunderstand me. I understand that it's a fairly normal course of conversation among spankos, especially in the getting-to-know-you phase, to ask about childhood spanking experiences -- were you or weren't you, was it often or just occasionally, etc. I don't have a problem with that.

However, I've noticed that some don't stop there. Over the years, I have had many men ask me (yes, it's always men, in my case) for extreme details. How old was I? Was it my mother or my father? Was it OTK? Was it bare bottom or over my panties? How long did it last? Did I cry? (No, I laughed, stupid.) And I became aware of what these questions meant: The person posing them was eroticizing the spanking of a child. They were getting off on my details.

And that, y'all, is what creeps me out.

I'm sorry. I know we're supposed to be tolerant and accepting and open-minded and all that crap. Fuck that. Adult consensual spanking is one thing. But making wank fodder out of the non-consensual, non-sexual spanking of a child is GROSS!!!

I realize that for people of my generation, all we had growing up, regarding spanking, was the tales of our peers and the spankings in children's books/comics. But nowadays, with all kinds of information at our fingertips, there is no need for the over-fascination on the spanking of children. It's icky.

I have shot for many spanking video companies. If any of the producers had tried to query me at length about what did or didn't happen to me as a child, I would have said, "I am into adult consensual spanking. Any spanking I received as a child was non-consensual; therefore, they are two different subjects, and the latter isn't open for discussion." I'm sure the new young models are far too intimidated to speak up and say this, even if the subject makes them uncomfortable. Which is what pisses me off even more.

SS issued a challenge to this producer, requesting that he stop asking this question to his new models. I second it. Keep kid stuff out of adult spanking.

And while I'm on a tear...

Recently I wrote my opinion that the L.A. spanking scene is lacking, and that I don't think a BDSM dungeon is a good place for a spanking party. I stand by that; I don't believe the energy is right. Like it or not, there are big differences in the atmosphere of a spanking party vs. a BDSM party. But I digress -- I'm not going to argue this point yet again. Anyway, it seems someone took exception to my expressed opinion, and in a roundabout way, not naming me (but it was quite obvious who was being discussed), implied that I was "disingenuous."

According to Merriam Webster, "disingenuous" means, "insincere; lacking in candor or frankness."

Interesting. I can be many things, it's true. Snarky, opinionated, sarcastic, prickly. Moody, cranky, sharp-tongued. But insincere is not one of them. I don't say things I don't mean, and I have been told I often have the candor to voice the things that others are thinking. I'm not perfect by any means, and I know I rub some people the wrong way. But at least I am honest. What you see is what you get, with me. Some love it, some hate it. But it's real.

So, really. If you're going to insult someone, at least use the proper terminology. :-)

And now, I'm going to attempt to focus on my work; thank goodness I have some. Goddammit, I need a spanking.

Well, guys?

Did you?  :-)

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 3/7

Happy Friday, everyone. A few tidbits for your amusement, plus an interactive feature today.

Received this one on FetLife last week:

in addition to your regular spankings, I think you should be given enemas on a regular basis.

Tell you what. If I ever plunge to such depths that I care about what the likes of you think, please shoot me. In the meantime, fuck off.

I like your body and I like to spank you and make you to please me.

I like to make you to go away.

I am new to this life and playing with my hole
Would like to talk to you and guidance on Skype as I do it 

I hope that wasn’t to forward

Wait... what??

Nah, not forward at all. You just want me to Skype and watch you do God-knows-what with your hole. And I don't think you're talking about a pit you've dug in your yard.

And honestly, if you want guidance for how to play with that orifice, sorry, I'm not your girl. But I could recommend a couple for you.

Here is this edition's head-splitter:

Hi sweety you look as great as you did in Gregory films even better you never age u beauty great ass lil lady happy new year daddy/xxx from last year---i go to "PADDLES" i N.Y. + saw you at Hell fire spankathons mmmm take care lil lady bring pillow with you incase we meet hee he your how do you do it you look 28 yrs old sweety your pal xxx/daddy

I do appreciate the compliments, but your way of delivering them is making my eyes bleed. Um... No, I've never been to Hellfire, whatever that is. You have me confused with someone else. Please find her and leave me alone.

And finally, here's where I need your help, kids. Are you familiar with the term "malaprop"? Basically, it means when you use one word incorrectly, when you clearly meant to use another. I see it all the time in proofreading. It's not a typo; it's a brain blip, and pretty much everyone does it at some point.

Examples: "He entered rehab of his own fruition." (Should have been volition.) "She plummeted his chest with her fists." (Should have been "pummeled.") Or, a personal favorite at an old job -- everyone hated the bosses there, and when they went to lunch one day, my co-worker burst out of his cubicle and dramatically announced, "There's distension among the troops!" I looked up at him. "Why, do they have gas?" (He meant dissension.)

Anyway. In the ongoing drama-fest that is FetLife, there's yet another flame war carrying on. No, I'm not giving any details or taking any sides... I'm staying the hell out of it. However, something was said in one of the posts and it is driving me crazy, because I know the writer meant something else.

Look this is turning into a mud slinging camisole

WTF??? What could this person possibly have meant instead of camisole? Any ideas? Unless there's a line of violent lingerie out there that I don't know about. Perhaps one can also buy a pie-throwing petticoat?

Writer friends? HELLLLLPPP!

Have a great weekend, y'all. Don't forget to set your clocks ahead. 

My AAA debut

That's Triple A Spanking, not the Auto Club, just to be clear.

The clip I shot with John Osborne (I call him AAA-John to differentiate him from my John) at Shadow Lane has just been released! AAA-John has written a blog about it, and you can read about it (and see lots of pictures) here. He talks about clip piracy first, which is a very important subject, and then I'm at the end. For those who are on FetLife and can watch videos, he also put up a quick teaser on his page.

The plot was simple: we went to a posh party and I spent most of the night flirting outrageously with a hunky young bartender (hence the video name, the Bartender Incident). AAA-John refers to me in the description as a "cougar" -- I told him he's lucky I like him so damn much! :-D 

Oh, and I am so mortified about that "flake" thing -- I will never live it down! For those who don't remember from my SL party report, AAA-John and I had a bit of a snafu hooking up for the shoot, because John and I went to his room at the appointed time and he wasn't there. I had just met AAA-John and didn't have contact info for him, so we waited in the hall for 20 minutes. I was disappointed, thinking the shoot had fallen through, and I sighed to John, "Why are people so flaky?"

Well, of course, we found each other and all was well. Except when Mr. Big Mouth John blurted that I'd called AAA-John a flake! AUUUUUUUGGGGGGGGH! Why does that man do these things to me?? Aaaaand of course, I will never, ever be allowed to forget that. (heavy sigh)

So basically that night, I was both thrown under a bus and over a lap. And just what's going on with my expression here?

Oh, speaking of expressions, I simply must post this one. Tell me... could AAA-John look any more pervy here? :-D

A good time was had by all!

Speaking of good times, had another wonderful lunch with Alex and SpankCake. Always a fun time with those two! Time slips away while we laugh and dish and share. Thank you, ladies! ♥ I did have a bit of a weird lunch, though. I ordered something that was called the "Go Green Frittata" on the menu, which is sort of like an omelet, but it's flat instead of folded over. It was described as having eggs, spinach puree, broccoli, zucchini, garlic, quinoa (a type of grain), and it sounded marvelously healthy and tasty. But when it arrived, I was a little taken aback -- what I had on my plate looked like, I kid you not, an over-sized green hockey puck. It tasted OK (a little bland), but the whole thing looked so disconcertingly green and unappetizing; I'm ordering something else next time!

(I really need to learn how to take pictures on the spot. I wish I'd snapped a photo of that thing.)

Anyway, go give Triple A some love, y'all!

Most of the time...

... my session posts are a lot of fun to write. They go well. They're intense and funny and passionate and Steve and I have a wonderful top/bottom connection.

However, as in any relationship, sometimes there are off days. Today was one of ours. I have his full permission to write about it. Not because I want to complain or focus on what went wrong. I want to stress how we dealt with it, and moved through it. Because shit happens.

I think we were both a little off our game today; I know I was for sure. I was still feeling a bit droppish (I know that's not a word, but tough), tired, a little snarky and sick of the mild side effects from the antibiotics I've been taking. He had things on his mind as well, and so we spent a long time talking and decompressing a little, as is often our pattern. Then it was time to play.

I love our OTK warm-ups. His hand only, intensity growing slowly, slowwwwwly, from the first pats to full-on flurries of slaps, alternating, covering my cheeks and sweet spots, occasionally dipping down to upper thigh, just to get my attention. And usually, when he's done with his hand, he'll pull me up to hold me for a few minutes, and then we will move on. Either to the ottoman or to my bed, for Round Two with implements.

But today, he wanted to use a couple of implements OTK. That's perfectly fine; I love staying in that position. However, the "boot" paddle wasn't a good choice.

It's too big and unwieldy, and the angle is wrong. A paddle of that type is better for other positions. It felt awkward, but I was already kind of spacey and figured it wouldn't be for too much longer. No big deal. 

He had been alternating cheeks, but then he turned the paddle so it would go across both, and it came down. Unfortunately, he misjudged the size of the paddle (or maybe the size of me) and the angle was awkward, so a portion of it hit my tailbone.

It was hard, but not super hard. Once when I went to get my mail, I was wearing socks and I slipped backward, landing sitting hard on the stone steps; that hurt far worse than this. But it was a jarring, painful shock, and I reacted.

Overreacted.

I don't know why I was so upset, but I was. I started crying. He knew it was a bad shot and stopped immediately. I can usually absorb a "stray shot," as John calls them, take a few breaths and then continue. Not today. I was done.

He took me in his arms and tried to calm me down, but I was breathing so hard, I almost hyperventilated. "Deep breaths," he said. "Slow down. You're OK. I'm so sorry. Breathe..." But I was inconsolable. I wept and trembled and wouldn't look at him. The mis-strike had scared me, and all I could think was, "That shouldn't happen! Why did that happen?!" At some point, he said something about his being in a frenzy, and I blurted, "You're not supposed to be in a frenzy! You're the top; you're supposed to be in control and focused!" I knew that hurt his feelings, and I at least the presence of mind to think to myself, "Stop talking. You're being irrational and anything you say right now will come out sounding horrible. Just stop talking." He remained calm and quiet, going to the freezer to get some ice while I hunkered down into the couch, my arms curled up under me and my face buried. 

Gently, he iced me, and massaged my feet while the ice soothed. If he asked me questions, I nodded, but didn't speak. He brought me tissues. He stroked my hair, did everything he could to make me feel safe and OK again. 

I could go into all kinds of reasoning about why I was this upset, but really, it doesn't matter. I knew somewhere inside that he was suffering way more than I was, but I couldn't seem to break out of the emotional maelstrom I was experiencing. It's hard to explain the emotional state of a bottom, sometimes.

He waited. He didn't push, he didn't prod. He didn't get defensive or angry ("come on, it wasn't that bad, snap out of it"). He stayed with me, quietly, never leaving me except to get the ice and the tissues, letting me go through my process.

"Let's go lie down," he said, holding his hand out to me. I took it and stood, but then I took two steps and my legs, rubbery, sort of folded and I sat back down. So he lifted me into his arms and carried me into the bedroom, placing me gently on the bed and wrapping the comforter around me. Then he held me. I very slowly stopped shaking, stopped crying, my breathing regulated. The discomfort in my tailbone had faded.

"Are you back with me?" he asked. "Yes," I answered.

Now what? 

I wanted to talk about it, but I didn't want to hurt his feelings any further or make him feel defensive. If I complained or criticized too much, perhaps he'd feel like it was too difficult to please me, that I was too hard on him for what was just an unfortunate accident. 

He wanted me to talk, though. "Please, tell me what you're thinking," he said. "I want to hear. I want to know and learn. That scared me. Hurting you scared me."

I took a deep breath. "I want to reach a place with you," I began. "I know we can get to it, but I'm not quite there yet." I paused, then continued. "When I was at the party last weekend, I bottomed to some very experienced players. They used implements. But no matter what they were using, I knew I could sink into the scene, lose all awareness. Because I knew that no matter what they were using, or how many times, each strike would be spot on and perfect. Their aim and skill were that good.

"You and I aren't there yet. I love your hand spankings, and I love our heavier play. But sometimes, with certain implements, there's a part of me that tenses up a little. A part that makes me hold my breath, wondering where the blow will land. And I want to move past that. A little more practice, a little more focus, and I think we can get there."

He was totally OK with that, not at all defensive. He may be a top, but he doesn't have a toppy ego. He can accept, and he can listen. He cares. We will be just fine, and he will keep getting better and better.

And to be fair, I cannot expect him to have the prowess of a Joe or a Strict Dave. Joe lives with Ten, a spanking superstar, and two other spanko women. He gets practice probably every single day. Fineous has been working on perfecting his double flogging technique for years, no doubt. Dave also is one who has gotten regular and constant practice over the years, and a lot of feedback from many bottoms.

Steve said, "You took on a rookie with me, you know." No... he really wasn't. He knew kink. He knew spanking. But I am his first regular spanko play partner. He has come a long way for me, and I love him for that.

So today, there are no videos, and no new pictures. But I want to put up a photo from a couple of months ago, because this is how we left things today. Whole. Reconnected. And I owe a great deal of that to Steve's calm and kind reaction to my reaction/overreaction. He handled me the best any man, any top could have, and I'm grateful.

One of his favorite phrases is "We're good, huh?"

Oh yes. We're good, huh. Really.

The Drop

It's inevitable. Well, for me, at least. Some people on FetLife said they don't feel post-party drop -- they just enjoy the memories and good feelings. How I envy them.

I thought I'd escaped it this time, but it seems that it was delayed. I came back to distractions such as work and a nasal infection, plus all the usual catching up (blogging, posting, etc.) that comes after a party. But now that that's all settled, work had quieted once again and my nose is healing, now I've crashed. 

FetLife has moved on... they're already abuzz about BBW in April. But John and I won't go to another party or see our friends until next Labor Day. So I need to steel myself and not let that make me sad. Easier said than done, of course. I will basically have a case of FOMO from now until August.

John and I were both lucky. I didn't come down with this stupid, painful infection until we came home, and he managed to have one of his good weekends for the party. Poor guy was back to being under the weather this weekend -- tired, coughing, sleeping poorly. His next sleep study appointment isn't until the end of this month. The health system drags on at the speed of snails.

In other words, getting back to reality blows. These party weekends are such extreme escapism.

I will get a couple of transfusions of friendship and love and play this week -- Steve tomorrow, and on Thursday I get to have another girlie lunch with Alex and SpankCake. I love that Alex lives here in L.A. again! And SC, although she hasn't been blogging, is very much alive and well and I so enjoy her company.

And look out, Southern CA... Princess Kelley May is moving here! She is a party coordinator extraordinaire -- maybe between having her here, and what with Alex and Paul and some others, we can finally resurrect the limping, straggling Los Angeles spanking scene? One can only hope. And I'll bet if Kelley found us a venue for a spanking party, it wouldn't be a freaking BDSM dungeon. :-)

So, onward. Drag my sorry ass to the gym once again. (It feels like sandpaper now. My ass, not the gym.) 

Who watched the Oscars last night? I don't know why I keep watching them; maybe it's a cultural literacy thing. Maybe I just like looking at the dresses. Or I wait for the little delights, like having the incomparable Sidney Poitier, bless his 87-year-old heart, as one of the presenters. But overall, they aren't the way they used to be.

Then again, what is?