Terrific Top Tuesday

Fetlife can have "Topless Tuesday." I like mine much better. :-)

Two years! Can you believe it? I can't. We've come a long way with our top/bottom relationship/friendship and have weathered a few storms. But he gets me, and I get him. He understands what I need, what pushes my buttons, and he accepts and embraces the good, the bad and the ugly. He welcomes both my tears and my laughter.

Well, sort of.

I laughed at him in the middle of our scene yesterday. Oh, kids, I couldn't help myself. In the middle of an intense flurry, the type where my mind was battling with my body in order to process it, he uttered two words: "Take that!"

Does anyone say that, really? Except in the stories? I'm sorry... I lost it. I started giggling madly into the couch cushion under my face.

"Excuse me?" he said. "You find this funny?" Which made me laugh even harder. Which prompted him to (lightly) slap my thigh. "Really, this is amusing to you?"

"I can't help it!" I blurted. " 'Take that! and THAT!' You sound like a cartoon character!"

Oh, dear. Wrong. Thing. To. Say.

He swung right into Top Mode (which, as you know, in the right circumstances with the right person, is unbearably hot). When he started in on my thighs, I curled my feet up and clamped his hand down so he couldn't move it. "Put those down!" he ordered. "You stop that right now, young lady."

It was like a light switch flipped. I felt my semi-submissive alter ego kick in and I put my legs down, and the mad giggling stopped. 

"You do not laugh at me," he scolded, punctuating his words with hard smacks. "I don't like that. Do you understand me?"

"Yes," I mumbled.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Yes."

He gave me another thigh whack. "Take that! So, did that feel like a cartoon?"

"Noooooo."

Lesson learned. Thou shalt not laugh at "Take That." No matter how cheeseball it is.

Ah, but it was all in fun. See? No hard feelings. :-)

A quick aside, speaking of Topless Tuesday -- are you familiar with the expression "photo-bombing"? That's when an outside party insinuates themselves somehow into another person's photo, usually with funny results. Last night, perusing Fetlife, I saw a picture of one of my friends, Tasha, taking a selfie -- and there behind her, mugging in the background, was Alex, completely topless. How did Tasha caption this photo?

That's right. "Photo-boobing."

I damn near fell off my chair, I was laughing so hard. I don't know if she just made that up, or if photo-boobing is a "thing." But if it isn't a thing, it should be. 

Happy Hump Day. Back to work with me.

Where are these from -- anyone know?

OK, screw nostalgia. Johnny Carson shtick went over like a lead balloon, so I'll get to something more pertinent. I just saw this photo on one of the bazillion spanko Tumblr sites out there, and I've never seen it before. It was uncredited; any ideas?

I think this is stunning! I love the color, the contrast of her full bottom and tiny waist, and that damn near impossible curve in her back. Beautiful. 

Also, because I have OCD, I appreciate the evenness of the color as well. Yeah, it wraps the right hip and thigh a wee bit, but you know, what price art. No short shorts for her for a while.

And while we're at it, any ideas where this came from? Again, uncredited:

I'm not a big fan of corners, but this is so artistic -- the shading, the way her head is dipped down, the innocence of stuffed animals and dolls juxtaposed with the sexuality of a nude young woman. The only thing I don't like is that stupid cactus. Why is that in there?

And finally, anyone know the origin of this one?

Oh, wait... that's me. Never mind. :-D

OT: Who remembers this guy?

I am going to be seriously dating myself with this entry, but... oh well. Last week as I was driving the 405 Freeway, I passed the Slauson exit -- as I did, I couldn't help thinking, "Take the Ventura Freeway to the Harbor Freeway to the San Diego Freeway to some other freeway until you get to the Slauson cut-off, get out of the car, cut off your Slauson, get back in the car..." Sound familiar to anyone?

Back before Jimmy Fallon, before Jay Leno, there was Johnny Carson, host of the Tonight show. He had a collection of characters he played from time to time (like Carnac the Magnificent), but my all-time favorite was Art Fern, host of the Tea-Time Movie.

If you've never seen this character, you missed out. Dressed in a loud orange jacket and wearing an oily black pompadour wig, Art Fern would roll his eyes, wave a pointer around and use his nasal whine to describe some really bad (fake) movies, whose stars' names rhymed and always included some weird animal, such as Squirt, the Wonder Clam. He'd also present some outrageous ads, and to help him hawk his wares was the Uber-Stacked Matinee Lady, played by Carol Wayne. The sketch would be riddled with sexual innuendo and comments about her breasts -- pretty risqué for the time. When the commercial would end, he'd return the viewers to the movie, which would play for about two seconds and then the camera would cut back to Art and Matinee Lady making out. 

Unfortunately, a lot of Carson's classic sketches cannot be found online. I don't know whether it's because they are property of NBC, or you have to buy the Johnny Carson DVDs in order to see them, or what, but I've never been able to find Art Fern clips... until now. I found one on YouTube -- it's not complete, but most of it is intact, and it contains a lot of the familiar shtick (including the Slauson cut-off).

Wanna laugh? Take a break and watch this. It's a little dated, but I think it's still funny. And I don't know about you, but laughs are very welcome to me these days. The sound isn't great, so turn your speakers on high. Damn, I still miss Johnny. Enjoy.

Friday hodgepodge

Two years ago today, I met this man for coffee...

And y'all know where that went. :-) Today, I have a top, a protector, a friend who takes care of me. Sometimes, we all just need to be taken care of, no? Well, I know I do, anyway.

I got to see him briefly yesterday -- I had driven 40 miles to meet with my finance guy for lunch, and Steve's house was between that locale and my place, so I stopped by on my way home and saw his house for the first time. No play, though... he had to rush out and I needed to get home and work. But we will celebrate our two-year anniversary this coming Tuesday.

And next month, I will be celebrating 18 years with this character:

I've had a lot of ups and downs lately; more downs, unfortunately. But despite that, today, I am feeling grateful. I have good people in my life, and I am loved.

In other news... Unless you've been under a rock the past couple of days, you've noticed the mini-tsunami rolling through the spanko blogosphere -- the trailer for the "Fifty Shades of Dreck" movie! No, I'm not going to link it here; it's already been linked ad nauseam. It was even on the Tonight show. I did watch it, though. As predicted, even the trailer is cliché-riddled. The two leads are predictably and perfectly gorgeous (because God forbid we should pay $13 to watch two average-looking schnooks engage in wannabe BDSM). Although Dakota Johnson (Anastasia) is doing her best "I'm-really-pretty-but-I'm-dressed-down-to-look-frumpy-and-insecure" bit. You can see that her hair is in a nondescript ponytail in the beginning, but you know that hair will come down and fly erotically around her ecstatic face sooner or later. Meh. What crap.

But of course, the Missionary Mommies who devoured the books will flock to the theater like demented sheep to sit and squirm in their seats, shoveling popcorn in their faces while dampening their panties over Jamie Dornan (Christian Grey). heavy sigh

Oh, well. Guess I'd better brace myself -- if there's this much buzz over a freaking trailer, I don't even want to think about when the movie actually opens.

And finally... I knew I forgot something when I wrote about fantasies gone bust the other day. I knew it, and yet I couldn't come up with it. However, it came back to me this morning, and it's too good not to share, albeit a little late.

Anyone remember Shadow Lane's classic oldie, Spoiled Rotten, with Keith Jones and Tanya Foxx? Still one of my favorites, rich with fantasy fodder. For me, one of the hottest scenes was when Keith chases Tanya around a pool table, then finally traps her and bends her over the table for a spanking/strapping. From the first time I saw that scene (and I've lost count of how many times total I've seen it), I fantasized about being spanked over a pool table.

Guess what? It happened, about 10 years ago. I was visiting my play partner at the time, and he was spanking me in every room in the house. When we got to the den, I saw the pool table and my eyes lit up. Yes! Yes, please! 

Reality?

It was uncomfortable as @#$%. The side of the table dug into my hipbones; a pillow would have helped, but really, in the movies, who stops to get a pillow or whatever to make those steamy scenes more comfortable? The table, despite the felt covering, was very hard under my face. And the worst part? It was like an echo chamber -- every blow he imparted reverberated through the table and went right into my ear. So much for that fantasy!

Have a great weekend, y'all. Oh, and welcome back to our beloved Bonnie!

Fantasy vs. reality

I just finished proofreading a very hot book, which was kind of a take-off on the old Fantasy Island series, but with kinky fantasies. It followed the exploits of four couples, intertwined throughout the story, and of course, because this is fiction, everyone's fantasy was realized with utter perfection. Which got me thinking (always a dangerous thing) about fantasies that were far better than their real counterparts.

I was extremely lucky in the spanking department. One of my biggest fears, when I was about to be spanked for the first time, was that the actual experience wouldn't come anywhere near what I'd built up in my head after years and years of thinking about it. But that first time, as many of you know, was mind-blowing. However, I've had a couple of other sexually related "flops" that I thought it would be fun to share, and hopefully encourage others to share theirs.

Remember, I didn't lose my virginity until I was 26. But in the years prior, I'd read a ton of romance novels, which made the simplest actions sound like four-star interludes. Like showering together.

The morning after I finally had sex for the first time, my partner asked if I'd like to take a shower with him. Would I!! Oh, the imagery. I'd read plenty of scenes about steamy showers and baths with a lover, kissing under the stream of water, soaping each other up intimately, being slammed up against a shower wall... bring it on, baby.

However, I didn't realize that this particular gentleman, once he exited the bed, reverted back to a buddy and nothing more. No morning-after snuggles or cuddles, no lingering looks or touches, nothing. When I got into the shower with him, that's exactly what we did: shower. He went about the business of washing his hair and so forth, and left me on my own. The only encounter we had was when he took the washcloth and scrubbed my back for me. Not sensually, but in a very brisk, impersonal manner. Well, crap. 

You can imagine how I felt -- newly de-virginized, my head spinning, my body aching, disoriented from lack of sleep and new stimuli, and now, this same man who engaged in all manner of intimate activity with me just a few hours ago would barely acknowledge me. What the @#$% was wrong with this picture? More important, what the @#$% was wrong with me??

Meh. Fortunately, I learned later (from the man himself), that he wasn't the touchy-feely type, or the romantic type. Whatever. Y'all will be happy to know that since then, I've had my share of sexy showers. Much, much better.

But wait, there's more.

How many movies and TV shows have we watched with this familiar scene: The lovers, near a table, or a desk, or a counter, or pretty much any flat surface, shove everything aside with a rustle and a clatter in the heat of passion, and make mad love right on top of said surface? Hot stuff, yes? Yes, please. I really wanted to experience that.

About 20 years ago, I was "dating" (I put it in quotes, because really, it was little more than screwing) a younger man, who had a libido that wouldn't quit and loved to do it anywhere, anytime. One night, we were making out in my kitchen -- items of clothing had been removed and he had me backed up against the counter. Suddenly, in one of those delicious rom-com moves, he grabbed me and hoisted me up onto the counter.

And after that, it went spectacularly wrong.

As he did so, I crashed into a small turntable of items (salt and pepper shakers, kitchen timer, can of cooking spray, etc.) and sent them rolling around behind me with a ruckus. I leaned back, clunked my head on the bar behind me, then struggled back up, partially sitting, but leaning back on my elbows. Very uncomfortable. Meanwhile, he was trying to angle himself properly, but the counter was just a little bit too high and, well, let's just say it wasn't quite working. Trying to get situated, he grabbed my hips and shifted me forward toward the counter's edge, which made my coccyx (tailbone) bang against the hard surface (not a good pain). And finally, we, er, connected, but the angle was still so awkward, my tailbone hurt, I could feel an errant salt shaker grinding into my vertebrae, and it was about as sexy as a pelvic exam. 

After a few thrusts, he paused, looked at me and said, "You know, this kinda sucks." I burst out laughing and replied, "It always looks so hot in the movies!" He laughed too, and then he lifted me off the counter and carried me to my bedroom, where we finished things properly. 

So, do tell. Any fantasy-gone-wrong stories out there? Spanking or purely sex? Would love to hear. :-)

(And no, I'm not seeing Steve this week. But we will make up for it next Tuesday. As it happens, it's good timing that he can't make it, because I'm swamped with work. Break time is over -- must get back to it.)

Things I'd love to see

You guys have heard me bitch about annoying people at the gym before, so this is nothing new. The beefy grunters who, every time they hoist a weight the size of a small car, let out a roar that sounds like they're giving birth. The chatters who yammer on the phone while they're working out, and don't have indoor voices. And one of my favorites: the texters who use gym equipment as if it were their living room furniture.

Last week, I waited for 20 -- that's twenty -- minutes for the quad machine while a woman sat on it and texted. I was this close to going to get a manager to haul her ass off of there, when she finally picked herself up and moved to another machine, where she continued her texting. Must have been some conversation. Jeez, lady. Why don't you save the money you spend on your gym membership and go park your butt at Starbucks instead?

But today took the cake. A young woman was draped over the hamstring curl machine. For those of you unfamiliar with gym equipment, the hamstring apparatus looks like something you could find at a spanking party or in a dungeon.

You lie on this doohickey, put your feet under the platform, then curl your feet up toward your butt -- this exercises the muscle that runs down the back of your legs. It also makes your bottom look really, really nice.

However, this woman was not curling anything. She had herself in position, with her perky little butt, clad in tight shorts that barely cleared her sit spots, but she wasn't gripping those handles you see up front. No, she was propped up on her elbows (which arched her back, making that perky butt stick up even more), and she was busily texting.

I did my circuit, and every time I finished one machine and moved to the next, I glanced back over. Yup, she was still there. If anyone wanted to use that machine, they were SOL. She had claimed it, and was completely oblivious to anyone who might have been waiting for it. Several minutes passed; I thought, "She has to get up sooner or later." Turned out, it was much later.

If she had any thought process at all, I'm sure it went something like this: "Look at meeeee... I'm so cute, and my butt is so perfectly perky, that I can get away with hogging this equipment while I exercise my manicured li'l fingers, and y'all can just wait for me, K?" But I doubt she was thinking anything at all. She was just clueless.

Here's what I would have enjoyed: If one of the hunky trainers sauntered over, positioned himself behind her, and gave that perky butt a mighty, resounding SMACK, loud enough to make everyone stop what they're doing and look. She'd jerk upward, her phone would go flying, and she'd turn her big indignant eyes on her perpetrator, who would calmly smile and say, "Use it or get off it, princess." And the entire gym would cheer.

Well, I can dream, can't I?

OT, but it cracked me up

After such a somber week, I figured it was time for some humor.

I have a friend on Facebook, whom I won't identify because it's a vanilla account with his real name. But he is freaking hilarious. One of his "things" is to Photoshop himself and his little pug dog into everything you could imagine -- old movie stills, works of art, etc. He even put his face into the Mona Lisa. Sometimes it's really irreverent -- I won't tell you what he did on Easter, but I almost peed myself looking at it.

He also has a blog he calls his "enemies list." Every week, he creates a tongue-in-cheek list of people who have annoyed him. A lot of the time, it's just humorous digs at his friends. Other times, it's people in the media.

A week or so ago on FB, he claimed it was "Fresh Spinach Day," and he posted a cartoon of Popeye with his ever-present can of spinach (and with his own face cartoonized, replacing Popeye's), with his pug in a sailor cap with a pipe in his mouth. It was very cute, but I couldn't resist: I commented, "If it's Fresh Spinach Day, what's up with the canned spinach?"

Today, lo and behold, for the first time ever, I made the enemies list. Here is the entry, in all its glory:

Erica Scott. Wednesday was officially Fresh Spinach Day so to comemorate it I cranked out an illustration that was kind of cute, with me as Popeye and my beloved pug Winston as Popeye’s dog getting ready to chow down on some colon-healthy greenery. Ms. Scott is a proofreader by profession, which means that she gets paid to condescendingly point out other people’s mistakes. So it was a matter of professional ethics that she felt compelled to respond “So if it’s fresh spinach day, what’s with the canned spinach?” There’s nothing more enjoyable for me than doing something artistically creative simply for the fun of anyone who wants to take a peek at it and be immediately slapped down for making a minor miscue in my labors. But Ms. Scott made a fair point; the holiday is explicitly celebrates “fresh” spinach whereas the raspy-voiced mariner with the deformed forearms favors the preserved variety. To make it up to her, I’m going to propose that her birthday of September 22 be recognized as National Hemorrhoid Day. It seems the perfect time to recognize a throbbing pain in the ass.

(The throbbing pain in the ass is a double entendre, since he knows I'm a spanko. Well played, my friend.)

I've never so thoroughly enjoyed being flamed. But just so you know, I had the last word. My comment? "It's 'commemorate,' not 'comemorate.' :-Þ "

It feels good to laugh. Have a great weekend, y'all. :-)

"Come back to me"

Depression is an ugly and destructive force. It lies, it manipulates, and it undermines all good things. I have had it in me for as long as I can remember, so I know. I also know that, no matter how godawful I feel when it's happening, that it's been much worse.

Over the past week, dealing with the latest go-round, I still did everything I needed to do, showed up everywhere I needed to be. In the past, when I was much younger, feeling like I did over the past week would send me to bed, remaining there for days, not dressing, not answering the phone, not doing anything but rotting my brain with hours of anything on television, no matter how crappy it was. I did laundry when I ran out of clothes, and then, being too down to fold it all, simply plucked what I needed out of the wrinkled heap in the basket. I either starved myself, or ate everything in sight.

So yes, I'm much better. I can function with a bout of depression. But it really, really sucks. And only those who share this chemical dysfunction truly know how it feels. It's like having a relentless bully living inside your head, sitting on your chest, tormenting you every damn waking minute.

I am normally a fairly animated person -- my face is expressive, my voice rises and falls, I talk with my hands, etc. But when I'm depressed, everything has a flat affect. John has described it this way: "It's like the light's gone out of your eyes." True, because the light goes out of my world, along with the color. John, somehow, is able to make me laugh like no other. So when I was with him on the weekend, I was distracted. But as soon as I left and came home, the shroud settled back around me. As Steve has said, I go into a dark place. I walk, I talk, I dress, I show up. But my essence is elsewhere.

"Come back to me," he says, when it happens.

Yesterday, I was pretty numb when he came over. Tears dribbled out of my eyes as we talked, but I didn't actively cry or sob. He was sad because he knew his lack of response to my spontaneous selfie had upset me, but he was also hurt that he had to find out about it by reading my blog, instead of my telling him directly. I told him it wasn't just the damn picture; it was a lot of other stuff, a culmination of several things (including a week without work) that had put me into my pit.

We talked for a long time, and he held me. I curled into him, but I wasn't very responsive. He asked what I wanted, what I needed. I answered, "I want you to decide. Take charge. I don't want to think."

So he did.

It took a while to push through the wall of malaise, solid as brick, behind which I was hidden. His hand slowly but surely built up speed and power, and it had been two weeks, so it stung. But I barely registered it. I lay still. 

He'd thoroughly covered my bottom and sit spots, and I was absorbing it with barely a whimper. Then, unexpectedly, he slapped my mid-thigh. Completely unprepared, I jerked up and screamed, before I clapped my hand over my mouth to stifle it. It was the first real reaction he'd gotten.

"Maybe I need to do a little more of this," he said, slapping the other thigh. "Maybe then you'll remember who I am, who we are, and you'll come back to me."

No implements this time; he just used his hand. It was all he needed. He struck my thighs repeatedly; nowhere near as hard as on my bottom, of course, but enough to make me thrash around and moan. I twisted my feet together so roughly, my left foot seized up in a horrible cramp and I couldn't straighten it. "Cramp," I gasped. "Where?" "Left foot." He stopped immediately, took my foot into his hands and massaged the arch until I was able to straighten my foot and relax. And then he started up again.

"Grit your teeth, honey," he said softly, just before assailing my thighs again. I screamed into my pillow. "I know that really hurts. I'm sorry. But it has to be done."

I knew it did. He was breaking down the wall. He alternated the slaps between the extra hard ones on my bottom and the medium ones on my legs, and I started to cry, really cry this time, with passion and pain and feeling. "Do you remember now, Erica? Are you back with me?" 

I was.

He held me close for a long time afterward, while I covered his t-shirt with tears. Now, instead of passively accepting his embrace, I gripped him as tightly as I could. 

We did not take any pictures or video. However, about three hours after he'd gone, I took a couple. First, I was amazed at how much color had remained, long after the scene:

And second, I wanted to capture my face, right at that moment. No makeup, eyes swollen, expression tired... but soft. At peace. My head was quiet, my insides felt clean and clear. I altered it to black and white, to signify the simplicity. I hope you can see what I meant for you to see... this photo may look sad, but I was actually in a good place.

To everyone who commented, who sent PMs, thank you. It's risky, sharing this personal pain publicly. But it's how I reach out. And to those who suffer from depression, I want them to know that it does pass. It's difficult to work through when it's happening, but it passes, and you come out of the tunnel and see light again.

Friends help. Partners help. And for those of us with that particular proclivity, tops help. ♥ ♥ ♥

Oh, and the famine has become feast. I'm currently working on one project with three others waiting for me. So yay. :-)

Struggling

You know, I've always endeavored to be honest here, to be my whole self, not just my scene self. The good, the bad and the ugly. I don't expect my blog readers to fix me. I don't want anyone to fix me. I just need to vent here sometimes, because things get overwhelming. And honestly, because I'm such a loner, I don't know how to reach out any other way. I don't text, I don't call. Because I feel like I'd be bothering people. So I post, I put myself out there, and figure, well, people will read and respond if they choose to. I'm not entrapping them.

Just having a rough time lately. It started last week, when I sent that stupid, stupid selfie to Steve. That tacky bid for attention, that got exactly what it deserved: nothing. He didn't respond to it at all. Didn't even notice it until the next day, when I texted him to ask about it. That fell flatter than a lead pancake, as did my ego and my spirits. And I felt incredibly foolish. I've never sent a text like that to anyone, and I doubt I ever will again. 

I talked about it with a couple of friends, laughed about it, figured I'd get over it. But I'm not. I still feel foolish and embarrassed. Nothing like doing something you think is cute and sexy and spontaneous and fun, and getting zero reaction to it. 

Then last Wednesday, I ran out of work, and didn't get any more. It happens. It's summer. But the timing is really bad. When I am not doing well emotionally, the best thing I can do for myself is keep busy with work and feel productive. So as the days passed, my mood darkened.

The health struggle with John continues. He is still battling with his HMO, and time just keeps passing and passing. They are not helpful, but he is not helping himself either. At this point, he needs to take off some of the mass quantities of vacation he's accumulated and bombard the various doctors with visits and follow-ups. But because he won't take any time off, the only day that he can have a doctor's appointment is every other Friday, when he's off. Yeah, I know. Please don't tell me how counterproductive this is. I already know it. But I am powerless over what he does. I am powerless over what anyone does. Please don't suggest ultimatums or trying to take charge. John does not accept either one, not from anyone. It's just who he is, and I need to work with that. Because I love him.

The spanking community, just a couple of weeks ago, was a very kind place, pulling together to collect money for a friend in need who was ill. Now, there is a situation brewing that is combative, ugly, and will polarize people. No, I'm not going into detail about it; it doesn't matter for the purposes of this blog. It's very much in bloom on FetLife, but many of my readers aren't on there. Suffice it to say that I feel like we'll all be forced to take a side. I don't want to take a side. I care about the people on both sides. All I want to do is go bury myself in a hole until it all blows over. 

The damned depression is lying to me again, whispering its ugliness in my head. "You're out of sight, out of mind." "You're irrelevant." "You are lousy at your job and that's why you're not getting work." "That guy on Fet was right; you are too long in the tooth to still be involved in videos, or posting pictures of your body." "Go ahead, disappear, stop blogging, stop posting. No one will notice." Last week, there was some controversy on Fet about suicide, and how some people think those who kill themselves are selfish cowards. To these people, I said "lucky you." Because you've clearly never known depression. You've never had the relentlessly nattering voices inside, telling you how utterly worthless you are. You haven't struggled against them, fighting not to believe, not to succumb.

This too shall pass. I know this. But I just fucking hate going through it. I hate how I feel. However, fighting and kicking and screaming against it doesn't work. Surrendering to it does. If I stop fighting, the demon sitting on my chest gets bored and wanders away. All I have to do, all I can do, is breathe, and take a minute at a time.

There will be fun spanky stuff on here again. Just not right now.

Correspondence Hall of Shame, 7/11

Finally! I checked; it's been three months since my last CHoS. I've built up a nice little collection for your Friday amusement.

Do you want me to come fuck you really hard?

No. (gazing at the accompanying photo) You're really proud of that thing, aren't you. Shame that it's all you've got going for you.

This one isn't rude, but it does win the stupid prize:

hey was that you in the videos i saw?

Um... can you be a little more specific, please? I really don't know which videos you saw. No, I wasn't in the Sound of Music. Or in Boobs on Broadway.

How are you?

Would you like me to eat out your pussy?
Its my fantasy and fetish to do this, because I like the taste and smell

Well, good for you. I'll pass, however. My fetish is another kind of licking.

Aaaand this one wins the Supreme Arrogance prize:

real beauty and femininity comes from the inside and sometimes a slave/sub needs an experienced mistress like me to train, guide, nurture, use and bring out the best in them.. You can read my profile and get in touch.

And you can read my profile, especially the parts where I say I am neither sub nor slave, and that I bottom to men only. Then you can take your training and guidance and... well, figure it out, Mistress. :-)

As always, I saved the best for last:

Hi sweetness, 

Im Xxx a Dom. I am looking for a cute submissive like you to train. You have pretty face. It is in your nature to serve and service and I will train you well and give you a snapping pussy. I enjoy Domming you and giving you pleasure too as you gleefully submissively serve and service me. In private I do like to control with dirty talk to you and treating you like the down n dirty,in constant need of cock use slut behind closed doors we both know you are. I know we will have lots of hot fun together. I do luv to spank you with lots of ass swats making your ass nice and red! You have a cute face nice legs and a pretty ass. I luv to bring out the hot naughty inner slut inside you behind closed doors as your juices run out down your legs. I do find you sexy. You are about a hour drive for me. Call me or txt me at xxx-xxx-xxxx or send me your number and I will call or txt you. Send me more pics at xxxxxxxx@gmail.com And I will send you some of mine. I look forward to talking to you. You are cute and just what I am looking for a in a good sub. 

(sigh) Where do I begin?

I have no idea what a "snapping pussy" is, sweetness, but I really don't know why any man would want a woman to have genitalia that could bite their dick off. Of course, in your case, you have nothing to worry about. I doubt you can get anywhere near pussy, snapping or otherwise.

You're an hour away? Good. Please stay there.

To these charmers, I present today's Grumpy Cat:

It's been a crap week and I'm grateful it's over. One lovely bright spot was having lunch with Alex and SpankCake yesterday. Otherwise, it's been fairly blecchhh, with too little work and too much time on my hands. Post-holiday slow-down, perhaps. On a positive note, I did have the time to completely clean out my closet, and filled two giant Hefty bags with clothes for Good Will. Looks like it's time to shop! Hoping that next week will be better. 

Have a great weekend, y'all.

More Fetfuckery for your amusement

This is sort of like a CHoS, but with a couple of differences. First, the writing wasn't sent directly to me; it was posted to a group on FetLife. And second, I didn't just conjure up a fantasy reply; I actually posted it. It had to be done.

So I'm viewing the Fet feed last night, and a post from the group "Arizona 50+" catches my eye. I click on it and read:

Women 50+ Lose Their Sex Drives

Personally I like older women, but reality gets in the way of having sexual relationships with women over the age of 50.

These are just some of the problems why men start looking at the young gals:

1) Young women look better. Most women start going downhill after the age of 30. Having kids exacerbates this. Most older ladies dress matronly which makes them look even worse.

2) Almost all post-menopausal women lose their sex drive. They also get dry and they can't have orgasms.

3) Older women are cynical. Young ladies are sweet.

4) Women over the age of 50 have been brought up to think that ladies who enjoy sex are sluts. They may talk like they have broken the shackles but when push comes to shove they have a very tough time enjoying recreational sex.

5) Women over 50 don't use the internet to find sex, partly because of the reasons stated above.

6) Women over 50 are focused on getting married, not in having casual dates and/or sex.

So, I'm not surprised this part of fet gets little activity. Men are looking for young ladies and older women aren't looking.

* * *

After a brief pause to clean my brain explosion off the computer screen, I checked this dude's profile. He's 56 (my age), and his profile photo is a closeup of his tighty-whities, with a big ol' gut hanging over them. Charming. Yeah, I think I understand why women aren't having sex with you, cookie.

I don't belong to the Arizona 50+ group (duh, I live in CA). And you can't post to a group unless you belong to it. So guess what I did? Yup, I joined. What the hell, so the moderator can kick me off, I don't care. I just wanted to have my say and head off. I then posted this reply:

"Wow. Just wow. I do not live in Arizona, but this... masterpiece came across my feed and I just had to respond.

1. I don't look like a matron, I look just fine, thank you, and I'm in way better shape than you are, OP [original poster], even though we're the same age.

2. My sex drive is very much present, and I have orgasms that would wake my neighbors if I didn't put my hand over my mouth. Perhaps these women of which you speak are dry only around you.

3. Yup, I'm cynical. Because I've spent more time on this earth dealing with asshats like you.

4. I love sex. My mother raised me to believe that sex is a wonderful thing and that it should be fun and fulfilling. So much for your cliché.

5. I am as Internet savvy as any 20-something, and I have found countless play partners online.

6. I've never been married, I've never wanted to be married, and I doubt that I will ever want to be married. I've been with the same man for 18 years and we don't even live together. So that debunks your final cliché.

Don't worry, I'm not going to remain here, since I don't fit the group's locale criteria. And you'll no doubt delete this. So I might as well go for it -- good god, you're an idiot."

* * *

Shortly thereafter, the group moderator came on and posted: "I am not removing these comments -- they are spot on!" LOL!

No response from the moron yet. I wonder if he'll have the stones to come back, especially after the group mod approved his shaming. :-D

I present as pictorial evidence, this shot from Shadow Lane 2013. I am a good 30 years older than all three of these women (L to R: Maddy Marks, Christy Cutie, and Kelley May). Do I look like a @#$%ing matron to you??

By the way, after a three-month hiatus, I will have a brand-new CHoS for you this Friday.

Topless Tuesday

You know how, on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, they have Throwback Thursday, where you post your "blast from the past" photos? FetLife, not to be undone, has their unofficial "Topless Tuesday." (They also have No-Pants Friday, but that one isn't as alliteratively pleasing.) So, some women post their boobies, and the occasional man will post a ripped chest.

But for me, Topless Tuesday has a completely different meaning. It is a Tuesday without Steve. And it sucks.

I am busy today. I have work to do. It's in the 90s outside and I am blissfully comfortable inside in the AC. But I am restless and sad and feeling needy. I am missing my weekly fix.

About a half-hour ago, I was struck with a mischievous impulse. He's out in the middle of nowhere somewhere in Utah or Nevada or wherever the hell his Harley has taken him today, and I don't know what kind of reception he has, but I figured sooner or later he'd be in a place where texts would come through. So, I texted him this:

"Since I'm having a Topless Tuesday, I figured I might as well dress the part."

And I attached this:

What? I figured that was fitting -- I'm Topless, and I'm topless. Makes sense to me.

If he doesn't like it, he can always spank me for it. Oh wait, he can't. Because he's TOO DAMN FAR AWAY! ;-)

What a difference a week makes

Last night, John and I went to Alex's birthday party. What a great time! Alex looked adorable in a yellow print dress (complete with matching bow in her hair), white knee socks and black Mary Janes. Several of her friends showed up, we had snacks, birthday cake and ice cream (and See's candy, which John and I brought), and the evening flew by with lots of talking and laughing. By midnight, several had left, but a core group remained, and we sat in the living room and kept talking until nearly 2:00. I felt completely relaxed and like I belonged there, as I often do with fellow spankos. We went home happy and crashed just before 3:00.

Last weekend, I was at another birthday party, and the experience was completely different. Granted, it wasn't an adult party; it was a birthday party for a one-year-old (John's niece's son). And as far as kids' parties go, it was a nice one. They went all out with the decorations, had a kiddie pool in the back yard, streamers and toys and bubbles (it made me happy to see that kids still love blowing soap bubbles!). But I felt like a complete misfit from the time I got there.

Everyone there was either a parent or a grandparent (or both). I tried engaging with some of the babies, including the birthday boy, but they didn't know me and were overwhelmed with all the attention. I didn't feel like I had anything to say to the people there; everything was baby talk. So, I basically sat and watched the kids play, and surreptitiously checked my phone now and then, being very careful to not let anyone see FetLife on the screen. 

Here's the irony -- in a party full of kids and babies, the only mishap was with an adult. John's brother-in-law's brother (who is a very nice guy, but has quite a few issues with substances), fell backward on the patio and his hand/arm went through the glass door. He had to be taken to the ER. And John's sister, as per usual, got sloppy drunk and was maudlin and sappy with John and me when she saw us slow-dancing on the patio to the jazz that was playing in the background. "Youuu twooo are soooo cute!" she slurred. Then she started plying me with compliments. "Thank you for taking such good care of my brother. You've been there for him allllll these years and you're so strong and you're blah blah blah... I love you both sooooo much." (Yeah, I thought, I know how much you love your brother. I can still recall one of the first things you ever said to me: "We all think you're a saint for putting up with him.")

I was embarrassed and tried to demur, wishing she would just shut up, but she kept going on, insisting that I was the best thing that ever happened to him and he should show me appreciation. "I'm thinking jewelry," she actually had the nerve to say. John, amused by all this, held up my wrist to show her my watch, the one he gave me four years ago on Valentine's Day. "What about this?" he asked.

She gave it a cursory glance, made a face and said, "I want to see some diamonds."

Can you believe the gall? I really had to bite my tongue then, so I wouldn't say, "First, it's none of your damn business what he gives me; second, I don't need diamonds; and third, this watch you just summarily dismissed is a vintage Rolex, for Christ's sake." I said nothing. There was a buffet supper, so we stayed to eat and then made our escape. When we got outside, John's brother-in-law (the letch) was outside saying goodbye to some others -- bleah. Was hoping to avoid him. As we stood on the lawn talking, I looked down and noticed that his toenails were painted bright green. What the....?? I couldn't help it; I blurted, "What's with your toenails?" He just gave me a look as if to say, "God, you're so boring and uncool" and said, "What about my toenails?" John, trying to lighten the moment, said, "They match his shirt!" (Which they did.) OK, then. Goodbye, you freakasaurus.

What's my point? Probably just the same things I keep saying: spankos/kink folks are awesome, and chosen family is the best. Gatherings like last weekend used to make me feel like an antisocial freak, like I couldn't get along with or relate to anyone. Not the case. I just hadn't found the right people yet. ♥ Last night's party reminded me how I can be when I feel comfortable and accepted.

It's going to be a long week. Steve has sent me the first picture from his trip, him on his bike in front of Zion National Park. My panties are not in evidence, but it's not a selfie; clearly, someone else took the shot. So we'll see what I get later this week. I miss him already.

Hope everyone had a nice weekend.

Happy 4th

I figured since I had red and white (and stripes) in the panties, all I needed was some blue stars, and I was in the spirit of the holiday.

I have a few positive stories. First one starts out really sucky, but it gets better, I promise. Today, it is about 90 degrees here, and humid. I really wanted to stay indoors in my nice cool apartment (thank you again, new AC), but I had several errands to run. So off I went, in and out of the car, and by the time I reached my last errand (gas station), I was light-headed and thirsty, and could feel a headache coming on. Aaaaaand then I proceeded to lock everything in my car -- purse, phone, keys.

The guy in the gas station mini-mart was so sweet. He let me use his phone and he looked up AAA for me, since I didn't have my phone. He printed out a piece of receipt so I could give them the address of the station. He let me wait inside, where it wasn't exactly cool, but it was a far cry from the heat outside. And while I was waiting, he insisted that I help myself to a cold drink.

After AAA came and unlocked my car, I tried to pay the attendant for my soda, but he said no, it's OK. What a great guy. :-) And now I'm back home, cooling off, and waiting for the Advil to work.

In other good news, our friend Jersey John made such rapid progress, he was released from the hospital today, instead of sometime next week as they'd originally predicted. And he is flying home tomorrow. Many friends local to him have been taking care of odds and ends like cleaning his house, and I'm sure he'll have quite a posse to welcome him back. There is nearly $11,000 in our collection, with 29 days left, plus his vanilla friends are collecting funds as well. This man is well loved, and the support has been beautiful to see.

And finally, Sunday is Alex's birthday! Tomorrow night, John and I will be heading to her place for a birthday party. I love that girl to bits and I'm so glad I get to be a part of her special weekend. It's not going to be a play party, but that's OK. It's too hot anyway. Just have to make sure John has plenty of allergy meds, with her two very furry kitties! If you're friends with her on Twitter or FetLife, be sure to give her your best birthday wishes.

Everyone have a great holiday weekend (and for my non-American readers, a great weekend, period).

If EL James were Jewish...

Unless you've been in a cryogenic state for the past couple of years, you know that EL James is the writer (and I use that term loosely) of the crapfest known as "Fifty Shades of Grey." The hoopla about the books finally died down, but now it's rising once again, due to the upcoming film. We will never be rid of this scourge, folks. 

But it could have been worse. Imagine what kind of clichéd wannabe BDSM nonsense we would have gotten if James were Jewish.

Christian Grey and Anastasia Steele would be named Chaim Blackman and Anya Blumenthal. (Pronunciation of Chaim is with the same phlegm-clearing "ch" as in chutzpah and tuchas.) The name of the book? Of course: "Nu, Black and Blu?" 

Instead of the Red Room of Pain, we'd have the Blue Room of Guilt. Anya would be locked in there with her mother, who would then intone her various disappointments and complaints until Anya pounded on the door, begging to be beaten instead.

All the leather spanking/BDSM furniture would have plastic slipcovers.

Chapter 1 would be titled: "Oy! You Want Us To Do WHAT?" and continue from there.

Punishments would include spankings, nipple clamps, and being force-fed gefilte fish. (Trust me, it's disgusting.)

Snippets of sample dialogue:

1. "Anya, I thought I told you to shave." "I did! Feel my legs." "That's not where I meant." "Whaaaaaat??"

2. "Holy triple kreplach, that hurt."

3. "Chaim, honey, I know you're trying. But 'it's potch in tushie time!' is not turning me on in the least."

4. "What, you didn't like the tie I gave you for your birthday, so you have to use it like this?"

5. "Chaim, where's the Ex-Lax? I'm feeling a little stopped up." "Anya... you're wearing a butt plug."

6. "Where did you two meet?" "The 'So, You Want a Little Extra Something' section of J-Date."

7. "No, Anya. You may not claim cleaning house as a hard limit."

8. "Mmmmm, Chaim, your bodywash smells so sexy. What is it?" "Eau de Schmaltz." [schmaltz is chicken fat, kids]

9. "Here, Anya, for practicing you-know-what, use this knockwurst." "What? For that, better I should use the cocktail weenies."

10. "Not tonight, Chaim. My Inner Goddess has a headache."

So, who's going to see the movie? I feel like I almost have to, just for the sake of cultural literacy. But I don't want to put even one more nickel in that woman's pocket. Maybe I'll just watch this again, instead.

Flowers and spankings -- the dynamic duo

Next week, Steve will be away on a trip. He's taking off on his Harley and will be traveling through CA plus three other states. So no session for us.

So he said that yesterday, we'd have a special, extra-long time. He'd spend all afternoon and into the evening, we'd go to dinner, etc. No rush, no work interruptions, no kids, just a nice long visit to tide me over for two weeks.

Until he called me Monday evening, and said that friends were in town (from out of the country). He'd seen them over the weekend, and they'd said, "Hey, we're leaving on Thursday -- can we come stay with you and hang out for a couple of days? How about Tuesday?"

(How do people invite themselves like that? I couldn't.)

Long story shortened, he didn't cancel our Tuesday, but it was not as we planned. He could come over in the morning, but he'd have to be out of here by 2:00.

I was not happy. If he were going to be here next week, it wouldn't have been so bad, but this was supposed to be a special long day to make up for his absence next week. Now it was even shorter than our usual visits. So at that moment, I felt a little blown off, relegated to a lower priority. Yeah, I'm such a girl sometimes. But I couldn't understand why he couldn't tell them, "I have plans on Tuesday -- wanna hang on Wednesday?" Maybe that's just me, because I detest people who spring plans and invites at the last minute. John's family is notorious for that.

I know I was being silly. I shared this story with John when he called later, and asked if I was overreacting. His answer was: "Um... sweetie, please tell me what you want from me now. Do you want the voice of reason, or the voice of agreement?"

(sigh)

So much for shortening the long story. Anyway, when Steve turned up at my door yesterday, he was bearing a small vase with six perfect pink roses. He didn't need to do that... but I'm so very glad he did. :-)

Pink turned out to be the theme of the day:

He told me to choose my implements, as few or as many I wanted, whatever I needed to feel. I decided to keep it simple; the leather strap and the Lexan paddle. Flexible and rigid. Stinging and thudding. 

The implements weren't used for very long. The dam broke early on and I was bawling through the whole thing. Especially when he said he may be gone for two weeks, but he'd never leave me. The man knows my buttons.

He took my panties with him, and said they will be accompanying him on his trip. I am to expect selfies of him on the road, with his black-and-chrome Harley handlebars adorned with matching panties (black with little silver studs). We'll see. I'm a bit skeptical he'll have the opportunity to do that. But one never knows.

I was thoroughly drained when he left, ready for bed, but it was only 2:00. I managed to make myself work for an hour and a half, and then finally succumbed to a nap. Oh, and the dynamic duo really needed to be a triumvirate to be completely perfect, so I had some chocolate. :-)

By the way... was there some sort of game on yesterday, a competition that was a really big deal? Guess I missed it.

And I will miss you. Safe travels.