Yeah, yeah, I know...

We're supposed to be tolerant. We're supposed to be accepting of all things kink, even if they're not our thing. We're supposed to be PC, even when we're engaging in non-PC activity. 

I try, kids. I really, really do. But every now and then, something so profoundly upsets me, I just have to get it off my chest.

This week on FetLife, I reposted an old piece of writing from about five years ago, a tongue-in-cheek PSA about "proper behavior during a spanking." When I'd originally posted it, FetLife was fairly new, and I had a lot of friends who hadn't seen it, so I bumped it back up into the feed.

Wow. I didn't expect to see such an explosion of appreciation. To date, it has 1,171 "Loves," hundreds of comments, and it made the top tier of the Kinky & Popular page. Very gratifying.

As is often the case when one posts something well-liked on Fet, one gets a flurry of new friend requests. And as always, if I don't recognize the name, I go look at the profile.

Yesterday, I got one such request. The user name, which I won't repeat here, raised red flags immediately, but I went to look anyway. And then I read the profile of a man that was filled with misogynistic, hateful, degrading rhetoric. It went way beyond male dominant/female submissive descriptions -- basically, it was a treatise on how women are worthless scum, here solely for his entertainment.

Want an example? Here you go.

When a pet pushes herself to earn my favor, I can get to care and see after her... but that won't stop me from treating her like dirt I scrape from my shoe, or make her lick said filth from my boot if the mood strikes me, so don't ever hold your breath for me to show my "appreciation" towards you.

It'll probably come in the shape of a slap and harsh hair pulling, maybe even spit on your face and smear it with my hand to ruin your makeup you put very carefully to look so sexy mmmh… just for me to make you end up looking like a cheap disgraceful whore, with tears and cum running down your cheeks along with your expensive mascara {evil smile}.

His photos weren't much better. One had a naked woman crawling next to a dog cage, wearing a butt plug attached to a length of chain, which he had in his hand, and he was ordering her back in the cage. The caption: "Who let the sluts out?"

Yeah, I know. Some women like this. Some people get off on this.  My question is: Why the hell did this guy send me a friend request? Did he not read my profile? Was there anything in there that even hinted that I like to play this way? 

I hit "reject." And then I wished I could reject it again, and again and again and again. 

Oh, and regarding the comments on my writing -- 99% of them were positive, and recognized the piece for what it was: humor. But the occasional Uber-Dom had to drop by and spew testosterone, talking about what should be done with me. One guy said I sounded like a PITA brat. (That's Pain In The Ass, y'all.) Oh yeah? Well, you sound like a PITA top, pal. Fuck off.

And then there was this guy:

Mmm... good way to find yourself bound, imobilised and gagged.

By all means scream and kick and fight - Im bigger, meaner and a sadist - go right ahead, you`ll wear yourself out before Im even out of breath.

Um... no. I won't. Because I would never bother engaging with the likes of you. Not just because you're too full of yourself, but you're too stupid to know that "Im" is not a word.

Argh. I guess this entry turned into a sort of CHoS, huh? So much for post-scene tranquility. I think I'm ready for Steve again.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Ahhhhhhhh...

Two weeks is too damn long.

Yesterday was delicious. I was feeling antsy and full of sass, and Steve encouraged it, daring me to be a smart-ass and returning my challenges with his own. As it happened, I was even dressed like a delinquent of sorts -- both my shirt and my panties had black-and-white stripes.

Fortunately, he has a good sense of humor. I constantly give him digs about how he tends to repeat phrases. After he'd said, "Only because you need this," three times, I said, "Has anyone ever told you that you repeat things? Not only that, but you repeat things. Oh, and you're repetitive. And redundant."

"You repeat things too," he replied calmly. "You say 'ow' over and over."

Touché. So, in an effort to change things up, instead of saying "ow" in the next flurry, I dropped the F-bomb repeatedly.

"That was three times; that's still redundant." ARRGGHH!

I felt my transition happening after he picked up the Delrin cane. The urge to talk back and sass slipped away as I absorbed the pain and sensed the tension easing out of me. He sensed it too, knowing when I'd reached the point of acquiescence and slowly dialing it back, then stopping. 

As the expression goes,"Stick a fork in me; I'm done." (Be clean, people. I can hear your wheels turning.)

And why the hell does he insist that he can feel the blows as well? Like I'm supposed to buy that? "I can," he insisted. "It starts at your bottom, then goes up the handle, into my hand, up my arm and into my body."

"Yeah," I grumbled. "I've got a better way for it to go into your body." 

He took a selfie of us during aftercare -- nice shot, but the color was dreadful. I did some adjusting, but it still looks a bit like I have jaundice. Never mind... still a sweet moment. :-)

Refreshed and calmed, I am now digging into a new pile of work. I had just cleared all my decks on Monday, and between yesterday and today, three clients gave me new jobs (including one whom I hadn't heard from in about a year). All good stuff, yes! But I'm a little overwhelmed. I'm currently taking a break from reading about tuberculosis testing for adult and pediatrics; my eyes were glazing over.

An off-topic note: We just lost prolific author and poet Maya Angelou. I'm reminded of a real-time moment, several years ago, when John and I were at my cousin's Bar Mitzvah. This cousin was the son of that famous TV producer I've mentioned a gazillion times, but have never named. During the ceremony, the father pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and read a poem that had been written specifically for the Bar Mitzvah boy by his godmother.

I don't remember the content of the poem, but it was signed "Auntie Maya." Yup, Maya Angelou.

I swear, rich people have very different lives.

Back to work with me.

Memories

On this date (Memorial Day), anyone who knows me, knows that the day has a dual significance. First, of course, is for remembering our veterans and their sacrifices for all of us. And second, today is the 18th anniversary of my first spanking.

In a recent blog, I talked about technique and aim, and was asked if I was willing to play with an inexperienced top. The answer is yes; if I didn't, I'd never have played with my very first top. Because he'd never spanked before.

So funny to think back on that now. I mean, these days with a lot of experience behind me (no pun intended), I probably would be hesitant about bottoming to a virgin top. Thank goodness I didn't feel that way back then, right? I simply didn't know any different. I went by instinct alone -- I found him attractive, I liked the way he talked, I liked his air of confidence. I somehow knew this was going to be right.

I learned something that first time, and it continues to be true -- some people are naturals at topping. They have an instinctive feel for it, a sense of what to do and say, even if they've never done it before. This man, Paul, spoke to me like a veteran spanko would. His voice was smooth and cool and deliberate, and he said all the right things. He knew to hook his legs over mine when I thrashed. He paced it properly. How did he know? He loved control and dominance, and he had done bondage and pinning and take-downs, but never spanking. Oh... and his aim was spot on. He covered both cheeks thoroughly. Some tops spank for years and never master that.

Was it perfect? Of course not. He gave no aftercare. And he left it to me to end the scene; told me he'd keep going until I decided I'd had enough and used the safeword we chose. I ended it not because I couldn't take more -- I would have gone on and on -- but I was concerned about going too far my first time. And oh, what beautiful marks I had. How I miss those days of perfect hand prints, of red and purple streaks that last for days. But I have my memories.

I still think about him. Wonder where he is, how he is, if he found his perfect mate. I wish we could have kept in touch. I wish he could have seen what he started. But life goes on, and people come and go in it. Paul was not meant to be a permanent fixture. Spanking wasn't even his thing, and that would have shown itself. But for this one day, for a unique moment in time, he was the most special of spankers to me.

Today, I am off to the gym, then back here to do some work. Tomorrow, I see Steve and play. It's overdue.

A heartfelt thank-you -- to our veterans, and to my very special spanking veteran from way back when.

Stopping to feel

It has been a whirlwind week, nonstop activity. At the beginning of the week, my client sent me four books to work on. So I've been busy with work, and that's been interspersed with having my car serviced, a dermatology appointment, various chores and errands, workouts. Yesterday I spent all afternoon with Alex and SpankCake, having some girly time, which was much needed. I'm appreciating in-person friends so much more lately. Then back home and right back onto the computer, after stopping off to get my bangs trimmed, since they were hanging in my eyes and going all flippy at the sides, and my hairdresser is there only on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

On Tuesday, Steve couldn't make it; the poor man had been up most of the night with a migraine and was still feeling it. John gets those as well and I know how debilitating they are. And this week, it seemed like good timing. I used the opened-up Tuesday to work all day and make a serious dent in my proofreading.

But today, I'm finally winding down. I'm nearly finished with the third book of the four, so I'm on schedule. The appointments and other things are done, and I'm ready to head out to be with John. He has an appointment with a cardiac specialist today, trying to determine if he qualifies for microsurgery on his heart. He's been feeling stable lately, has gotten back into walking and exercising, and his mood has improved. It's been a relief.

However... as my mind and schedule clear, I'm slowing down long enough for feelings to catch up with me. And I find myself missing my top. Fiercely and ferociously, hungrily. I crave his special attention. I crave his hands, his voice. I crave the release.

Holiday weekend be damned; I'm working on Monday anyway. I can't wait for next Tuesday.

Have a great weekend, y'all. Happy barbecues and so forth.

Go on, tell me you don't see it

Hey y'all -- this photo has been floating around the blogosphere for as long as I can remember. I have no idea who it is, or what it's from. Does anyone know? But actually, that's not what I wanted to ask you.

Am I the only one who looks at this guy and instantly thinks, "Hey, that looks like Weird Al Yankovic"?

Here's a photo of the real deal, for reference:

Maybe his next parody of "Beat It" should be "Spank It," huh? :-D

Retroactive spanking

I recently heard from a friend, who said she'd be shooting a video soon, with the subject being a sort of tongue-in-cheek penance for a past guilt -- in her case, failing to return a library book. While this seems like a rather mild crime to me (especially since I still, to this day, have two books in my shelves with the Beverly Hills High School Library timecard in them), I can see how it could be made into a rather funny video.

But this got me thinking. While a lot of people spank just for fun, others do use it to relieve stress and/or release guilt. Have any of you ever thought, just for the heck of it, about anything in your past that you probably should have been spanked for, but weren't? Would it make for a cathartic scene if you were to address it now? Or maybe even a fun role-play scene?

I know, without giving it more than a few seconds of thought, what my past crime would be. Or, at least, what you guys would consider a past spankable offense.

When I was in my early teens, I hitchhiked. Several times.

Oh, don't look so shocked. It was the early 70s. Back then, everyone did it. OK, not everyone, but a whole lot more people. I know, I know. It still was a stupid, unsafe thing to do. But consider my situation. I lived high up in a canyon area, far from the bus lines. I didn't ride a bike. My dad wouldn't let me ride in a car with older kids who had licenses. I hated being dependent on my dad or stepmother to drive me everywhere, and they weren't too thrilled about it either. My brother had done it for years, in his teens. And... well, I lived in Beverly Hills. It wasn't exactly a high crime area.

I didn't do it that much. Just here and there, with friends, to get from Point A to Point B if we didn't have rides, or didn't have bus fare (or just didn't want to spend it). Yeah, I know. It only takes one bad time (hanging head in shame). But I guess I was lucky. We never got picked up by anyone who was anything less than perfectly nice and friendly.

But I recall one time when I was extra stupid.

It was a Saturday; my folks were out doing something or another and I had plans to visit some friends in "the flats" (the part of BH below the canyons). My dad had left me cab fare to get there (yes, I took a lot of cabs in those days too), and they would pick me up later that evening. Since my friends lived just a couple of blocks from the main shopping area of BH, I decided to cab to the center of the city so I could shop for while, have some lunch, and then I'd walk to my friends.

I wore a skimpy crop top and tight jeans (of course, everything was tight on me, back then), and as I walked down Beverly Drive that afternoon, some fancy sports car (a Jaguar? I forget) pulled into a driveway in front of me. The top was down, and a very handsome man (maybe around 30?) called out to me. "Hey, gorgeous, can I drop you off anywhere?"

I smiled at him. "No, thanks -- I'm just walking for a couple of blocks."

"Honey," he replied, "with a body like that, I'd take you anywhere."

massive eye roll  Oh, brother. But at the very naive age of fourteen, my head was turned by lines like that. Besides, I wasn't used to getting compliments on my body, or much of anything else.

He pushed the passenger's side door open and I hopped in. "Where to?" he asked, and I told him. As we drove toward the residential area, he asked what I do. I told him I was still in school. "Oh, college?" 

"No, high school."

I thought I felt the car swerve, just slightly. "Senior?" he asked, his voice taking on a slight edge.

"No, freshman."

This time, the car definitely jerked. "Um... how old are you?" he stammered.

"Fourteen," I answered.

I couldn't understand why he had gone from being so friendly to so thoroughly uncomfortable. "Oh... oh, god," he stuttered. "I'm... sorry. I thought you were a lot older." He then took a deep breath and refocused on the road. "So, OK, where do you want me to drop you off?"

I directed him to the street and he pulled up to the curb, seeming very eager to get me the hell out of that car. As I opened the door, he laughed nervously and asked, "So where did you get a body like that at fourteen??"

(Um, I dunno... Kraft Macaroni & Cheese??) I didn't know how to answer that, so just shrugged and smiled at him, thanking him politely as I exited. And he tore off like he had a firecracker in his tailpipe.

I can't help but wonder how that little scenario would have played out, had I been legal. Or if he hadn't been so scrupulous about my being underage. Yeah, I know, things could have been very different that day. But what the hell. I turned out OK, right? :-D

Anyone else want to play along and share a past "indiscretion"? 

Something you don't see every day

So, in this day of rampant photo thievery, we video performers (I still hate the word "model") figure we're going to see our stuff floating around in the picture blogs and other places. One thing that's especially annoying is when we see that one (or sometimes several) of our pictures have been pinched on FetLife and posted on someone else's profile -- usually without credit. So we all act as each other's watchdogs and look out for these rip-offs. Granted, however, a lot of the time, the posters have no idea where the pictures are from, since they found them somewhere else where they'd been posted uncredited.

On Friday, I was scanning the feed on FetLife and my eye was drawn to a thumbnail of a photo, which I instantly recognized as mine. My first reaction was to sigh in annoyance and wonder who was posting it, and whether or not they were claiming it as their own (sadly, people do this). So I clicked on the thumbnail.

Much to my shock, my picture didn't come up. Instead, I saw a painting of my picture. Oil on canvas, 12 x 12, the caption read.

I know what you're thinking -- Photoshop. Some of those image changers are amazing, and can mimic just about any look and style. But upon closer observation, I could see it wasn't an exact duplicate of my photo. Some things were changed, altered slightly, and not in a Photoshoppy way. It looked authentic to me. 

Wow. Someone liked a photo of mine enough to render it in oil????

Many of you have seen this before. It's from 2004, from the first video shot by Spanking Epics, "The Schoolmaster's Revenge." It takes place in 1912, hence the bloomers, and yes, it was that video where I had a brief topping scene. (shudder) But it was well worth it, considering I got to bottom to the wonderful Keith Jones in the finale.

I made myself known to the artist on Fet -- turns out he had posted this picture over two years ago, but I never noticed it. He claimed that he'd found the photo somewhere, liked it, and decided to recreate it, having no idea who his inspiration was or where this came from. Considering how these photos end up all over the place, with no credits attached whatsoever, I believe him. When I asked him for the photo so that I could blog about it, he kindly supplied it.

So, kids... what do you think?

Original:

And painting:

I told the artist thank you, that I was very flattered, and that I hoped the painting went to a good home. He said it did. The artist name he uses is James Dean Taylor, and he has a Flickr gallery, if you'd like to look at it, here. You'll be asked to sign in, however, so you need to have a Flickr account. 

Like I said, this sort of thing doesn't happen every day. I'm still quite speechless. :-)

In other news, I have a follow-up question from Friday's blog. An anonymous commenter posted this:


A couple questions for Erica and other experienced bottoms. Since the new

top has to learn technique somewhere on a live person, beyond practicing on

pillows, do you ever play with such a newbie if they seem to have the right 

attitude and are capable of listening to you and adjusting accordingly? How 

would that apprentice top move on?


Very valid question, and I am happy to answer it. Yes, I do, I have, and I will. If a top and I have good chemistry, and I can sense he has a genuine eagerness to learn and make it fun for both of us, then I will work with his learning curve. I think any "apprentice" top can find willing play partners if he/she admits they're new at this, proceeds with caution, and listens carefully to feedback. Everyone has to start somewhere, after all. And more practice equals more confidence, and more opportunities for play with others. Maybe start out at some small parties/gatherings?

Anyone else want to chime in on that?

Dear Tops...

... will some of you please, please learn how to aim??

Before I get into this, I want to make a couple of things very clear. I am not talking about the occasional stray shot that can happen to anyone, especially tops who are new and don't have much experience with implements. Nor am I talking about strikes that go down the thighs -- I realize that some bottoms are into that and in those cases, it's not mis-aim, but deliberate and consensual.

No, I'm talking about the tops who purport themselves to be proficient, but who, in reality, can't hit the side of a barn. But they can hit the side of a hip, or the side of a thigh, or a tailbone, or anywhere else that's not part of the deal.

What brought this on? Recently I saw a photo; I will not say where. It was a fairly typical shot of a woman after a heavy strapping, which was a punishment requested by her. So it wasn't the severity of her marking that I objected to; again, it was consensual. It was the location. The whole of her bottom was red and mottled... but the side of her right hip looked like someone had worked it over with a circular saw.

This wasn't a case of a stray shot. This was wrapping, over and over and OVER. 

Having been wrapped before (once, to the point of bleeding), I know just how deeply painful this is.

Yeah, I know, I can hear some of you saying, "If it was that bad, she should have safe-worded." I'm not getting into that; that's a whole different subject. The top could what was happening. The top could see this uneven wrapping, this blunt force on the side of one hip, not where it's supposed to be. The top can always see when strokes are going astray. It is their responsibility to self-check and adjust.

I realize that, with long, floppy implements such as straps and canes, it takes some practice to get the proper technique down. So practice, dammit. You think that's beneath you, because you're a Domly Dom and you know everything? Newsflash -- the best tops I've known practice their techniques regularly, particularly when using something new. If they don't have a willing partner, then they use pillows/cushions. Wielding an implement is a skill, a learned skill like any other. You don't become a piano virtuoso without practicing your scales first.

Several years ago, I played with a man who claimed to be thoroughly experienced. He seemed to know what he was talking about, so I decided to give him a try. It was a nightmare. He swung at me so wildly and randomly with a wooden spoon, I wound up in tears and ending the scene. Couldn't he see what was happening, for God's sake? Here's how I looked afterward:

That big red circle? That is not my bottom; that is square in the middle of my hip. And those circles farther down on the side of my thigh? How did he even go there?

Worst part of it? He could not understand why I didn't want to play with him again. He thought it was a hot scene.

It's tops like this who make me appreciate the good, caring, careful ones even more. At the other end of the spectrum we have Joe (DrLectr on Fet), who is one of the few tops I would recommend to any woman, anytime. Granted, he lives with the incomparable Ten Amorette and two other spanko bottoms, so he has plenty of opportunity to practice. But none of that would matter if he didn't care enough to perfect his technique. At the 50 Freaks party, as you may recall, he double-strapped me -- using two heavy straps on me at the same time, one in each hand. Considering that I trust very few men with even one strap in their hand, this was huge. And every - single - strike was spot on. Not too high, not too low. No wraps. No tailbone strikes, even with two straps swinging. Make no mistake, the strapping was hard. But it was even, it was safe, and it was sublime. And having been double-strapped by less proficient tops, I can assure you that the experience is a nightmare in the wrong hands.

And while we're on the subject of aim, I still see a predominance of attention to the right cheek. Tops, please. As Ten likes to say, Make It Even. I swear, that needs to be an anthem for all bottoms. If you have your bottom OTK, then shift them forward slightly so you can also get the cheek nearest you. And if they're bent over something and you're standing at their side, then switch sides if at all possible, halfway through. Aim your implement so that the tip strikes the center, or just to the side of center, of the cheek. Line your cane up so that the tip doesn't extend past the hip. And, above all, watch what you're doing. Monitor your bottom's color and marking. If you see you're off, then adjust. If you have a misfire, move on, but don't keep making the same mistake over and over.

Oh, and if you're a top, and while you're reading anything like this, you automatically think or say, "Where does she get off, topping from the bottom like that?" Then I have just one simple request. Please. Stay. The. Fuck. Away. From. Me.

I will end this on a positive note, with a good example. This is Pandora Blake, having just received a caning from Paul Kennedy (another top I would highly recommend). Notice the perfect spacing, the evenness from cheek to cheek, and how the strokes do NOT extend into the hip. These cane marks are a benchmark.

It's an art, people. The bottom is a canvas. You can make a masterpiece of it, or you can make it a lopsided mess.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

Tie me up, tie me down

So yesterday, Steve tells me he's been practicing some new things with rope, and asked if I'd ever be up for experimenting with them. While bondage isn't my primary kink, it can be pretty hot in conjunction with spanking, so I said yes, I was game. 

I asked where he'd learned the techniques, and he answered, "You're gonna laugh at me -- YouTube." It's true; apparently, all you have to do is Google "bdsm" + "rope," click "Videos," and voila -- YouTube demos! He said he was particularly fascinated by one tie called the Dragonfly Sleeve, and I encouraged him to go for it.

So, after a nice long warm-up, he pulled a bundle of rope from his bag and started the process. "Hmm," he mumbled. "This is the first time I've tried this with an actual person -- it's harder than it looked." Finally, he sheepishly admitted that he needed to look at the YouTube video again. So there I stood, half-tied, while he looked up the video and refreshed his memory on the technique. Once I saw what he was doing, I could understand why he needed to look at it again. It's complicated.

But he figured it out well, as you can see.

He helped me into place for some different pictures. Do you know how hard it is to lower yourself down into certain positions without the use of your hands? 

Of course, there was plenty of spanking too. I squirmed and struggled, able to clench and unclench my fists, but little else. My hair went into my face and I couldn't push it away. My nose itched. But those minor discomforts were nothing compared to the major one he was causing.

"I'm getting good with this," he mused, swinging the russet strap. "Soon I'll be able to do it with my eyes closed."

"I thought that's how you were doing it now," I quipped. 

I kid, I kid. When all the bantering, baiting and beating is done, we have this:

When we are saying goodbye, I often don't bother getting fully dressed again just to see him off. He likes to tease me by looking around in the hallway, then pulling me out the door into the hall, where he hugs me and won't let me back in. Argggh! It's never more than a few seconds, but I'm always paranoid that someone will suddenly open their door, or come around the corner, and see us. "I have to live here, dammit!" I hiss. But he just laughs.

Recently, a new neighbor moved into the apartment across from me. She hung a small, but highly detailed crucifix on her front door. Yesterday, when Steve was pulling on my hand, I said, "Behave! Jesus is watching you," and I pointed to her door. He looked, then stepped over and put his one hand over the crucifix. "There, now he can't see," he said, yanking me into the hallway. I wearing nothing but panties.

I swear, that man is going to get me evicted one of these days.

To my fellow bloggers

(Yes, of course this is exactly how I look sitting in front of my computer. Heels and all. And I always type with one hand, while the other thoughtfully taps my chin. Really.)

The other day, when I ranted about readership and comments on blogs in general being down and how, many times, our attempts at initiating a discussion are largely ignored, Ronnie brought up a very important point in her comment: It's equally as discouraging and frustrating when readers do comment, and then the bloggers don't acknowledge them.

When I first started blogging years ago, I read the tips that our wonderful Bonnie had put out, and I clearly recall that one of them was along the lines of "Always comment back to your commenters, each and every one. People like to be acknowledged." I took that to heart, and I have done so. Not just to the comments I like best, not just when I feel like it, but every single comment, even if it's just a "thank you."

If you have a photoblog, then of course, comments aren't pertinent, just likes and reblogs. But if you invest the time in actually writing something, then you are writing to be read. And your readers want to know that you appreciate the time they took to read you.

Comments are not a given. People are busy. They have limited time to spend on blogs and other online stuff. So if someone purposefully signs in and shares their thoughts/opinions with you, and is then ignored, chances are they won't bother doing it again. Just like blogging without comments is like talking to yourself, commenting without acknowledgement is also like talking to yourself. Newbies and lurkers, in particular, take a risk in speaking up, and if their efforts seem to fall on blind eyes, they will most likely slip back into the shadows.

You don't have to write a book in return, for heaven's sake. A quick comment back is like a smile, an eye contact. It validates the poster. You don't even have to agree with them; just respect them and move on to the next.

(Of course, if the comment is insulting or inflammatory, then all bets are off. But I'm writing this with the assumption that the comments are polite and respectful.)

Also, for those who moderate comments: I get it. You don't want spam. You don't want flamers. You don't want your topic hijacked by cross-talkers. But with all due respect to people's time -- if you're going to use that function, then you have a responsibility to actually moderate the damn thing. Stay on top of your comments and approve them in a timely fashion. Don't let everyone's comments sit in moderation limbo for days, while the readers wonder whether or not they went through. It's like leaving your texts, voice messages and emails unchecked for days... which a lot of people do, I guess. But then why bother blogging?

To the bloggers who have been around a while and are already cognizant of all this, please know I'm not talking to you. And I know this tip has been stated before, many times. But in the onrush of so many newer blogs in recent times, I think some of the tips have fallen by the wayside. And it never hurts to restate them for the newbies, or newer-bies.

Love and acknowledge your commenters, kids. They'll love you back.

Have a great weekend, y'all. Happy Mother's Day.

Priorities, please!

I think by now, with all I've written about him, you all have gleaned that Steve is a bit of a caretaker and a giver. He's a lot like John that way, always the first to do things for others. Which is lovely, of course. But people like that often get taken advantage of.

He has a friend who recently went into a nursing home. Before she did, he was doing a lot to care for her, and somehow, even though she has her own family, responsibility for advocating for her in the home became his. (Somehow, she says. Right. It became his because he accepted it.) Long story short, he had to remove himself a bit and back off, and she has others handling her care, but she still calls him constantly. She wants him to visit. She wants him to bring her things. It's at that nursing home that he most likely picked up that freaking staph infection that nearly ate his face.

Anyway... so yesterday, while we were having pre-spanking talk, his phone rang. He looked at the caller ID -- guess who? "I'm not answering it," he said firmly, and we went back to talking. A few minutes later, while I went about closing the windows and preparing for our scene, he checked the message. No emergency. She just wanted him to bring her the mail. (sigh)

I was across the room, ready to come to him. He stood at the couch, holding his phone, looking sheepish. "I probably should call her back, huh?" 

I made such a face, he put his phone down. "Or not," he added. I just shook my head and snickered at him. "What?" he asked.

"Look at you," I smirked. "You've got a woman all ready to drape herself over your lap and bare her ass to you, and you're like, 'Oh, wait, maybe I should call an old lady in a nursing home first.' Way to prioritize, honey."

He sat down and glared at me. "Be quiet and get your ass over here."

Mmmmmm. Yes, please. That's more like it. First things first, FFS.

I got my much-needed attention, and she got her mail later. Win-win.

That wasn't too much to read, now was it? :-Þ 

(Thanks to all who commented yesterday.)

Rant: Yes, I'm frustrated

Sometimes I wonder, why do any of us blog anymore?

In a recent discussion with friends, I asked if they thought people were "over" blogs. Have we run our course? What's left to discuss? Granted, the DD bloggers write about their day-to-day household relationships. The video producers write about their shoots. The authors write about their latest releases. Occasionally, we write about parties, private scenes, etc. But who reads it all anymore?

In the past couple of months, my blog views have been at an all-time low. It doesn't matter what I write. It can be spanky, it can be serious, it can be funny. But, lest you think this is merely a bid for attention, allow me to continue. It's not just me. It's the entire blogosphere.

I've been perusing the blogs of others, people who still take the time to write out something thought-provoking. I see how few comments they get, if any. They might as well be talking to themselves. I also notice that several of my favorite writers hardly ever blog anymore. I can't really blame them. Why bother, if no one is reading you, or commenting on you? 

For example, a blogger I'm choosing to keep anonymous recently posted two lengthy, heartfelt and interesting posts about experiences and thoughts. She didn't receive a single comment on either one. But when she put up a post with pictures, blammo. Comment city. How annoying.

It's now a world of sound bites, quickie texts instead of phone calls, pictures instead of words. The spanking photo blogs continue to proliferate like wildfire. You can't even comment on the damn things -- all you can do is like them or repost them. So people repost, and repost, and repost. Readers would rather look at the same freaking pictures over and over, than take the time to actually read something and comment. Our attention spans have gotten that short.

I've seen blogs that sometimes put out questions for discussion, asking for reader feedback. Aside from Hermione's Spanko Brunch, which is outstanding and still gets plenty of responses, I see these questions go unanswered. How frustrating for the writer. God forbid we should have some intelligent discourse. It might interrupt our picture viewing.

Fine! You want pictures? Here you go. Here's a nice generic photo of a cute young girl with perfect stripes. I don't know what the source is. However, I'm sure this photo is posted is about 50 other places, so one of them is bound to know where it came from.

Yeah, I'm pissed. But it sucks. No writer wants to feel like they could just stop writing, disappear into the Internet ether, and no one would notice, because their eyes are too glazed over looking at 500,000 different versions of asses and genitals.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to get my own ass beaten. Oooh, maybe I''ll have some pictures!

Oh, the things you find on Facebook

You've all heard me snark about how vanilla and boring Facebook is, right? Land of Candy Crush saga, family and friends spying on you, and exes stalking you. Where it's rather pointless to have a kinky profile -- that's what FetLife is for, right?

Which is why, although I use my scene name, I keep my profile on Facebook fairly vanilla. I've posted a couple of semi-sexy photos, but never any spanky ones. I don't broadcast my proclivities, out of respect for friends who are trying to maintain a low profile themselves. So why do I bother? Because: 1) it does help me keep in touch with the few vanilla friends I have; 2) I love to play Scrabble there; and 3) I actually find some of the funniest, dirtiest photos there.

Those blasphemous pictures I posted on my Easter blog? Yep. Facebook.

And here, for your Friday amusement, are a few more I found just this week. The caption that went with this one: "Tag placement is everything."

Now, while this made me giggle, I could see upon closer inspection that it's a fake. The box must have been printed with "THIS SIDE UP," and someone cleverly replaced the I in SIDE with LI. Still funny, though.

Apologies in advance if this offends anyone, but it made me go Whaaaat?

Uh... good to know, thanks. By the way, using that logic, that would mean you also can't hold hands with God while you're driving a car, or eating a sandwich, or washing your hair.

And finally -- raise your hands, people. How many of us would like to have this t-shirt? I've love to sell them in mass quantities at the next weekend spanking party. :-D

I think they should have made Dino with a red tail, but perhaps that would be a bit much.

Have a great weekend, y'all.