Special weekend

No, not just because of the Shadow Lane party, although that's plenty special. This Saturday, August 30, John and I will be together 18 years.

We have never lived together, never spent more than four days at a stretch with each other. But we might as well be an old married couple, for how well we know each other. For our routines and rituals, silly made-up words, all those couple-y things. Eighteen years, and he can still make me laugh so hard, I have to pull over if I'm driving.

I wasn't kidding about the made-up words. Want an example?

Every weekend, when we're getting ready to go out, it's the same thing. All John has to do is put on his clothes, brush his teeth and run a comb through his hair. Me? Not quite that easy, since I have makeup to apply and hair that needs a bit more attention than just a comb. So, here's what happens:

John's voice from outside the bathroom: "Sweetie? Come on! I'm ready!"
Me: "I'm not!"
"But sweetie, I'm ready!"
"That's nice, honey. I'm not."
(Pause) "Sweetie?"
"Yes?"
"I'm ready!"

This continues, until...

Me: "OK, I'm ready."
John: "Oh, wait, I'm not ready."
Me: "Oh, for @#$%'s sake."
John: "You're being mean! I can't go now. I'm kermuffed."

(There's an explanation to that word, but I won't go into it now.)

In a few minutes...

Me: "Are you ready now?"
John: "I'm totally ready. I'm in a complete state of ready-tude."
Me: "Yes, but are you in a state of ready-osity?"
"OK, that's not a word."
"Neither is ready-tude!"
"Of course it isn't. What's wrong with you? I'm concerned for your welfare."

Somewhere about this point, I start banging my head into the wall. :-)

I love you, my sweetheart. Happy 18th.

In other news... it seems my clients unanimously decided to hold off sending me the work they have for me until after I come back, so I'm not experiencing the last-minute crank-it-out insanity I was expecting. I'm not looking forward to the pile-up once I get home, but I'll deal with that then. For now, it's hurry up and wait! I'm doing laundry, getting stuff pulled together, picking up our rental car this afternoon.

Yesterday, I read on FetLife that, although Joe and Ten didn't get a chance to print up brochures of the suite party itinerary, a schedule had been created for us on a free Smartphone app called Guidebook. Just install the app, put in the created Shadow Lane code, and poof, there it is, right?

Uh... except that Erica is a total cell phone dummy and has never used apps before. So I tried to figure out how to do so. I found an icon on my phone: "Apps." That has to be it, right? I tried all afternoon to access it, but I'd click it, it would say "Loading..." but never load. Finally, I shlepped to the Verizon store a few blocks away.

"Were you trying to access apps from here?" the tech asked, indicating the Apps button. I said yes, and he said, "That's the wrong place."

OK... so what do I do? He then showed me -- I had to go to Settings, and then I'd see a little icon at the top of that screen that looks like a suitcase. Click that, and it takes me to the Apps store.

Oh. Yeah, that's crystal clear. (sigh) Well, live and learn. I found the app, installed it, and found the schedule. Yay me. I feel so cool and tech-y.

I CAN'T WAIT! Hurry tomorrow! And please get us there in one piece, no traffic accidents, no last-minute crises. So many people are there already. I want to see our friends and get/give a million hugs. 

I won't be blogging over the weekend, but will still be checking comments and emails and so forth. Stay tuned for reports and pictures and all the low-down. Until then, have a great holiday weekend, y'all. :-)

The scene that almost wasn't

A little background story is in order here. I've had various repairmen in my bathroom for the past couple of weeks. There was a leak from the apartment upstairs, and my bathroom ceiling was cracked open in two areas. Also, the water had traveled down the inside of the wall and rotted everything, so when I went to use my bathtub stopper, it snapped right out of the tub wall. 

So first, the plumber had to cut a hole in my ceiling to find the leak. That was one visit. Next, the painter came in, drywalled the hole and repainted the ceiling. And last week, yet another guy came in and replaced some of the inner workings inside the shower wall, also replacing the access door. All I needed now was a new stopper. 

Which brings us to this morning. Steve called at 10 and said he'd be there in about 20 minutes. Fine. A minute later, my phone rang again. This time, it was my building manager, George. "Hi Erica, I've got the plumber coming with your new stopper and he'll be there sometime before noon."

@#$%&!!!! Now what? And how long would that take? Ugh!

When Steve arrived, I told him the plumber was due to arrive, and he said that was ok. We hadn't seen each other for two weeks, so we had lots of catching up to do. And when the plumber showed up, we could leave and go have some lunch. So we talked, and we waited. And then Steve got mischievous.

"Come to the bedroom," he insisted. I knew where this was going. "No! The plumber will be here any minute," I protested. "So you'll let him in then. Come on..." And once there, he flipped me over and started pulling down my leggings and panties, above all my yammering that I'd have to get up to answer the door. 

Sure enough, the doorbell rang. I was on my feet in a split second... but my leggings were all tangled up around my ankles, and I kept fumbling trying to pull them up, cursing mightily. The doorbell rang again, then there was a knock. Dammit!! In desperation, I yanked the leggings off in an attempt to untangle them, but then they were inside out. Steve was encouraging me and snickering at me at the same time. My hands shook worse as I struggled to turn them the right way, and I was so frustrated, I just yanked them on without bothering with my panties. At that moment, I heard my front door open. "Erica, you there?" George called out.

"Be right there!!" I called back, and then I dashed out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me. 

Why, you might ask. Well, George is a great building manager and he takes good care of everything. But he's also older (in his 70s), kind of a busybody and a gossip. And he knows John; he's seen him here, knows how long we've been together. So I didn't see how I could possibly explain a strange man being in my bedroom. ("Oh, don't worry, George, John knows all about him; he just comes here once a week to spank me.") Yeah, I didn't see that flying. 

The plumber and his assistant went into the bathroom, and I figured George would leave, like he usually does once the work gets under way. But today, apparently, he was in a chatty mood. He pulled up one of my living room chairs and sat down, yakking away with me about the building and the neighbors and how much he can't stand the president and this and that and the other. What could I do... I sat down and listened, figuring he'd leave any minute. He didn't. The plumbers kept on working, George kept on talking, and Steve was shut up in my bedroom.

I repeat, @#$%&.

Finally, I jumped up and said, "Well, George, I have to go, I have a lunch date." As timing would have it, the plumbers finished right at that moment! All the hardest work had already been done and the stopper was a snap. And so the three of them left. I felt bad about making Steve cool his heels holed up in my bedroom for about 15 minutes, but I needn't have. He was in there, watching TV with the sound off, and he thought the whole thing was hilarious. "This was all your fault!" I hissed at him. "You and your insisting we come in here and play!" He just laughed, said there was no harm done and I'd handled it fine.

But wait, it wasn't over yet. I'd told George I was leaving... and yes, we were going to lunch, but I couldn't let him see me leaving with Steve! I just had a feeling George would be on the grounds somewhere, so I told Steve to leave ahead of me and then wait for me near my parking garage. Sure enough, once again -- I walked down to my car, and there was George, checking out something in the garage. He called out, "Have fun, dear," and I answered, "I will, thanks!" and looked around to see Steve approaching the garage, so I waved him away and he ducked back. Jesus, so much freaking intrigue! The things a woman has to do to get spanked, for God's sake. But hopefully that will be it for my repairs for a while.

We had a lovely lunch at a little café with outdoor patio seating; it was a perfect sunny day, not too hot, and we were in the shade, so we lingered quite a while talking after we'd eaten. But finally, we came back, and Steve showed me all the pictures from his trip to CO. I was still sitting at my computer chair, and he went to the couch, patting his lap. "Come here," he said.

I just smiled. "No," I answered. "Say please."

He shook his head. "No. Come here." 

So I leaned back in my chair and smirked at him, not moving. He got up; I thought maybe he was going to pull me out of the chair. But no... he just went to get his camera.

After that, he said, "Come here," once again. I started to get up, but then he said oh-so-smugly, "Ha! I knew I'd get my way." And I sat back down.

Oh, don't worry. I went over there eventually. :-)

After all this, it was anticlimactic, since we had already decided we were going to do a light scene, just hand, so I'd be fine for the party. Not even worth pictures. But that's OK. I will make up for it later.

And he could not stop snickering about how we got "busted." How did he put it... oh, yeah. "We were a couple of of 50-somethings acting like high-school kids." (groan) Thanks, honey.

I told John the story, and what did he say? "You owe Steve an apology." Men!!

It was a fun day. :-)

Pre-party prep and the panty parade

(Men, you can tune out now if you want. This is going to be mostly girlie stuff.)

So, thanks to my damned aching back last Monday, I had to bow out of plans to go pre-party panty shopping with Alex and SpankCake. As I've no doubt mentioned a time or two or 27 before, new panties before a spanking party weekend event are essential. New dresses are good too, but the panties are a must. You can't have too many.

Thanks to my chiropractor, ultrasound treatment and a deep-tissue massage, I was feeling much better by Wednesday and found myself with a couple of hours to spare. So, before I went to my gym class in Northridge, I went to a strip mall nearby, where my two go-to stores -- Target and Kohl's -- are next door to one another. Score!! I found two cute (and cheap) dresses, a new top, two bras and three pairs of panties. One pair was particularly gorgeous, and I was thrilled to see there was a matching bra. Eagerly I riffled through the bras... but my size wasn't there. Meh. I bought the panties anyway, figuring I'd find the bra somewhere else, maybe even online, since it was a popular brand (Maidenform).

Aren't they pretty?

The bra had the same pattern, with purple lace and straps. So I wrote down the style name and number, and later on that night, I started searching for it online.

Shop after shop after shop, I found that style of bra, but not that pattern. Not even on Maidenform.com. What gives?? Finally, I contacted Maidenform, gave them the stock number and asked where I might find this particular bra.

They wrote back the next day. It's been discontinued.

@#$%&!!!!!!!

Oh well. I guess I'll wear them with a black bra. They will look great on Saturday night with my new dress, which has a print of black, blue, purple and dusty rose. 

My hair is cut and the grays have been freshly obliterated. Lots of odds and ends to do this week, but without back pain, I'm feeling a lot more positive. I'll be seeing Steve on Tuesday for some semi-light, party prep play. And last night, John and I had a fabulous dinner out with Alex, Paul and SC, eating marvelous food and laughing and chatting until the place closed around us. So much fun, and I get to see them all again in just a few days! :-D  It's great to have Paul back home. Seeing Alex happy makes my heart happy. 

Still anxious, mind you. That never changes. But I'm feeling more eager and excited, rather than completely overwhelmed as I did last week. Now I just have to get through the week in one piece, John and I will get there, and the fun will flow. :-)

The convoluted paths of punishment

I've never been one to spend time analyzing why I'm a spanko. I just know that I am, I love it, and it's made my life better, and I don't really care where it came from. But I do wonder sometimes why I have such strong preferences, and such intense dislikes/aversions to certain aspects/ancillary activities in TTWD.

Recently on FetLife, several of us were on a campaign of sorts to "free" a woman who had been grounded from FL by her top. We wrote impassioned notes to the top, no dice. Someone suggested that we come up with a "free Piper" song. The top said that if someone did, he just might consider reducing her sentence. So I immediately did that, doing a parody of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star."

Piper Piper come and play,
Piper Piper what'd you say?
JC won't let you come out,
Why's he being such a lout?

And so on. Then another woman wrote another parody, and took it a step farther: she recorded it and put it on FL. I figured if she could do it, I could too, so I recorded mine. Then yet another woman recorded herself doing an interpretive "free Piper" dance.

None of this worked, by the way. She's still off FL until Sunday. Can't say we didn't try.

Anyway, while all this silliness was going on, I caught myself in judgmental, pissy mode, thinking, "WTF is up with this grounding business? I wouldn't allow that! I'm a grown woman, dammit!" I get the same hostile reaction when I hear about bedtimes, or writing lines, or mouth soaping. It's not so much that these things sound unappealing to me -- they actually make me feel angry. "How fucking childish! How can anyone allow themselves to be treated like a child??"

And then, just as I'm up my own ass with my righteous indignation, I laugh. Yeah, right, Erica. Because being over a man's knee getting spanked is SO grown-up.

Yes, the hypocrisy didn't escape me. So what's up with that? Why do I accept spanking, but eschew so many of its adjuncts?

I think it's my own personal connection with these adjuncts. My mother was big on all of them.

When I was little, my mother shoved soap in my mouth when I parroted swear words I'd heard. She actually made me write lines a couple of times. And she was big on rules, restrictions and creative punishments. 

My bedtime was rigidly enforced, to the point that if I went to bed 10 minutes late one night, I had to go to bed 10 minutes earlier the next. Same thing with TV. Two hours a day, and not one minute more. If I wanted to watch something that took up more time, I had to borrow the time from another day.

If I misbehaved, she took beloved things away. No TV. Cancelled plans. No dessert, or even no dinner. Once, she wouldn't let me read for a week. Considering I spent nearly every waking minute with my nose in a book at that time, that was torture.

And I felt intense rage at all this. My mantra was "I can't wait until I'm old enough to make my own decisions. No one will ever impose restrictions on me ever again."

Of course, that was silly. Life is full of restrictions and rules. But I am mistress of my personal life. No one tells me when to get up or go to bed, how much TV I can watch, how much time I can spend on the Internet or what sites I can go to. Those are hard limits, because they seriously piss me off. As it turns out, with good reason.

For those who had these dynamics in their scene relationships, I wonder how they feel about them. They may moan and complain, but are they secretly turned on by these restrictions and punishments, just as I am by spanking? We all have our triggers. I know I love having my hair fisted, but others say that's a hard limit. I guess this is why the "hard limit" discussion is so important. Because one bottom's ecstasy is another's torment.

Thoughts? How many of you use these adjuncts in your spanking play? (Don't worry, I'm not condemning. I'm curious.)

Overwhelmed!

It really is amazing, kids, what I do to myself even when I'm looking forward to something. In case you can't read that scrawl in the cartoon above, it reads, "able to jump to the worst conclusion in a single bound!"

A week from Friday, we leave for the Shadow Lane weekend. I've been looking forward to this for months, feeling sad when I watched friends go to all the other big parties and eagerly awaiting our turn. Now it's here, and I'm a wreck. Just like I am every single @#$%ing time. Sucks to be me, sometimes. I'm my own worst enemy.

I don't do well with having too many things to do. And for me, "too many" is, like, more than two. I'm a terrible multi-tasker. I'm trying to coordinate work, shopping, preparations, etc., and every time something new is introduced, I panic. As much as I want and need work, I'm freaking out because everyone seems to need something from me next week. Whatever happened to end-of-summer slowdown?? Family will be in town this coming weekend and they want to see me on Monday. I would love to see my cousin, as I haven't seen her in years, I've never met her guy, and I'm dying to meet her two-year-old son. But I don't have time for this now! I have shopping to do, I need a haircut, I need a pedicure, I need to book the rental car, I need to pack, I need to do this, do that, blah blah blah. I need a lobotomy, is what I need. It's all manageable stuff, but to me it feels Herculean.

This past Sunday, I had a fender scraper. Not even a fender bender; I just misjudged my distance backing out of John's garage and tapped a car. I can't believe I did that. I don't DO stuff like that. I'm a very careful driver. I was incredibly lucky, though. The man couldn't have been nicer. He was more worried about me than he was about his car; kept patting my arm, saying it was OK, that I needed to relax, it was just a car. "Maybe you should go get her some water; she's shaking," he said to John. When I pulled out my insurance card, he waved it away, saying he didn't want to bother with that, that we could just give him some cash. It was just a little scrape, but on a very nice car; an Acura TL. I started to get out my checkbook, but before I could, John got out his money clip and peeled off $250 for him, which was the amount he'd agreed to. My hero... With badly shaking hands in 100-degree sun, I wrote up a little document stating what had happened, what we'd paid him and saying that neither one of us would make any further claims. We both signed it and that was the end of it. It could have been much worse. But my heart pounded all afternoon and into the evening. I felt like I was losing control, doing something so careless. What would I do next?

My back started acting up two weeks ago. I am used to this; I've had low-back issues since I was in my teens. Most of the time, these little attacks self resolve. But this one didn't. So I started panicking -- What if it doesn't get better before the party?? All I've been doing so far is just taking Advil and using ice, but yesterday I went on full-scale attack, going to the chiropractor, getting an adjustment, ultrasound and a deep-tissue massage with very spicy smelling cream. Today it's a bit better, which is a relief. But what if, what if, what if...

(An aside -- I've never used capsaicin-infused cream before. What a weird feeling; my back tingled and burned for about an hour afterward. It wasn't exactly unpleasant, but a little disconcerting, especially since it was 100 degrees here yesterday. How anyone tolerates that stuff on a spanked ass, I'll never know!)

John insists he is fine, he will be fine for the trip, he'll hang out and relax, etc. But his health worries me constantly. He reminds me that he's gone to Shadow Lane with a shattered collarbone, and to 50 Freaks with a blood clot in his leg. If he could get through that and still have fun, he'll be fine for this weekend. But of course, I still worry. I see, up close and personal, how deeply exhausted he is. I hear his labored breathing sometimes. And don't even ask how the negotiations are going with his HMO and moving forward with this damn surgery. The pace is glacial.

The atmosphere feels thick with sadness and unrest lately. Too many deaths, political unrest, racial unrest, anger and violence. I can't watch the news. When I'm already in a state of anxiety, I can't handle the outer stimuli. For fuck's sake, I wept when I heard Don Pardo had died. The man was 96 -- did I think he was going to live forever? But it feels like another piece of my life's soundtrack died. I've been hearing his voice since I was a kid and he was the announcer for the original Jeopardy! And how can we have Saturday Night Live without him?

No Steve this week for stress release, either. Not until next Tuesday. Auuggghhh. 

My brain feels like an anthill, swarming and teeming in all different directions. And all this because I'm going away for a few days to do something I enjoy and to be with people I love. How insane is this??

Why am I sharing all this? Dunno. Maybe so I can have a laugh at myself and how crazy I'm being. Maybe because some people will relate. Anxiety isn't logical. It just is.

I remember back in my office days, when I was overwhelmed with juggling the work of roughly three people and feeling like I was going to come apart at the seams, I had a little plaque at my desk that read: "REMAIN CALM." Perhaps I need something like that here, only this time, because I'm at home, it could read: "Calm. The. F#$%. Down."

Sometimes I wonder which is worse: anxiety or depression. Meh... they both suck. 

My new favorite picture

Yesterday's post was rather heavy, as was this week. I want to end the week on a lighter note, so I'm dialing it back a bit and posting something I really liked.

Alex Reynolds and Chief John Osborne recently shot a classic OTK scenario for AAA Spanking. He posted several of the photos on his blog. I'm not one for reposting photos, usually, but in this case I'm making an exception, because I love this so so so much:

You all know how I feel about aftercare: it's absolutely essential to me. Not so much after light party scenes, but after anything more intense, especially when emotional release is involved, it's a must. And so I love photos that depict the special tenderness, forgiveness and utter sweetness of aftercare.

For me, this picture should be an aftercare poster! It's perfect. Everything from the bow in Alex's hair to the look on her face to how tightly they are hugging. If this were posted on FetLife, I'd want to love it 500 times!

Speaking of Alex, I met with her and SpankCake for dinner on Wednesday night. We talked and talked and talked until they closed the restaurant around us just before 10. If it stayed open later, we probably would have still been there at midnight. So much fun! And they will both be at Shadow Lane. Oh my god, that's in just two weeks...

Have a great weekend, y'all.

OT: My two cents on Robin Williams, suicide and depression

It's been a sad week, kids. Robin Williams, one of our most beloved comedic icons, took his own life this past Monday. I'm old enough to remember when he first broke into our collective consciousness (on Mork and Mindy) and watched his trajectory from street mime to comedian to TV star to movie star, handling both comedy and drama with aplomb, winning an Oscar in 1997. I saw countless appearances on the Tonight show and Late Night.

It was a horrible shocking sadness. And yet for me, it wasn't a complete surprise. Because I had read for a long time of his struggles with depression and addiction. I'd watched his manic performances and knew there was a very dark flip side to that seemingly boundless energy. I knew, because I know that flip side myself. So I felt very sad for him, for the extreme pain that drove him to ending it.

But nothing prepared me for the next couple of days.

Monday was mostly about reaction and shock and tears. Tuesday brought on the judgments. 

Suicide is selfish. Suicide is the coward's way out. Suicide is for the weak. He gave no thought to his loved ones and how they would suffer. He had all that money; he could have paid for the best of care. Lots of people get depressed; they endure it and they get over it. And so on and so forth, blah blah blah.

And I felt all-encompassing rage.

You know what? Until you have existed in the living shroud that is depression... until you have known, up close and personal, that utter darkness, despair and hopelessness... until you've counted the minutes every day until you could go to bed and sink into oblivion for a few hours of respite from the misery... until the simplest of acts, like putting on your clothes or brushing your teeth, are Herculean feats for you... until you've listened to hours, days, months, YEARS, of negative nattering in your head... until all that and so much more... you do not get to say jack about suicide. You do not get to judge, and you do not get to condemn. If you have never experienced any of this, then more power to you. I envy you. But have a little compassion anyway. And if you can't find it in your heart to feel that compassion for a another's tortured soul, then keep it to yourself. Think your judgmental thoughts if you will. But SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP. You are helping absolutely no one with your intolerance.

No, Robin Williams wasn't thinking about his loved ones, because he'd gone beyond rational thought. Depression isn't about logic. Depression isn't something you can talk yourself out of; it's a brain disorder, a chemical imbalance, and victims of it can't talk themselves out of it any more than diabetics can talk themselves out of low blood sugar. Suicide is born of the worst despair imaginable, a relentless torment.

I know, because I attempted it when I was 19. And one thing I will never forget, as long as I live, was the way I felt the morning I decided to do it. After so much crying and agonizing and fighting, peace descended over me, enveloped me. My crazed mind went blank, I felt calm. Finally. It would be over. I thought of nothing else -- not my family, not my friends, nothing. All I could think of was my deliverance from pain and how relieved I felt.

One of my friends on Facebook wrote a blog in which he compared Robin Williams to Roger Ebert, who suffered for years from the ravages of cancer before he finally succumbed to it. He claimed that Ebert faced his pain heroically, while Williams surrendered and betrayed his loved ones in the process. I did not wish to disrespect or insult my friend, but I had to say something. So I commented that it was unfair to compare the two: Ebert had a ravaged body, and Williams had a ravaged mind. I was respectful, and he was respectful in his comment back to me. But it made me sad. People just don't understand.

But wait, there's more. Wednesday brought yet another type of judgment and condemnation.

Certain members of religious groups were, almost gleefully, saying that because Robin Williams committed a mortal sin with suicide, and because he was blasphemous and profane in his comedy, he was burning in hell for all eternity. The Westboro Baptist Church clan intends to picket his funeral. And so on.

When I read about this, I waited for the next wave of rage. However, it didn't come. Instead, I broke down and bawled. 

I am not a saint. I have felt anger, and yes, even hate, toward certain people, particularly those who have done dreadful things to me or to those I care about. But what the hell did Robin Williams do to any of these people? How anyone can wish eternal misery upon a fellow human being, whose only "sin" was his inability to endure his own torment, is beyond my scope of understanding. 

As I wept, I read further, searching for some sanity. Fortunately, I found some. I am an atheist, but I wanted to find some goodness, some human kindness and compassion, in both realms: the religious and the secular. So I found two quotes, which I will share here.

This one is from Mark Shea, a Catholic blogger:

Robin Williams, RIP

He brought joy to a lot of people.  May he find in death the peace he could not find in life, through Christ our Lord.

And please, if you must comment, prayer only. If you feel a compulsion to make some political commentary, or wish him into hell because you’ve decided God has authorized you to pronounce on his eternal destiny (yes, I’m seeing people do this around the blogosphere), for the love of God just stow it.

And this one is from Michael Stone, a secular humanist:

In the end, of course, there is no heaven, and there is no hell. Death is final, and that is tragedy enough. There is no afterlife. All we can do now is mourn the loss, and celebrate the life.

Pick whichever one works best for you. For the record, I found both comforting.

So I will mourn our loss of a great entertainer and humanitarian, and I will celebrate the good memories and honor his life by enjoying his performances. I feel the need to see Dead Poet's Society again. O captain, my captain, please rest peacefully.

A final note: I don't wish to minimize the death of screen legend Lauren Bacall, who passed away on Tuesday. She was one of the few remaining greats of that era, and it's sad to see her go. She was 89; she had a long and fruitful life. And while I don't believe in heaven, I'm going to suspend that disbelief here just for a minute. Because if there is indeed a heaven, then Bogie has been waiting there for her since 1957. That would be one hell of a reunion. ♥

Tuesday of Pain

Dunh-dunh-DUNNNHH! Doesn't that sound ominous? It was.

So here is Steve's convoluted Top Logic. He will not be here next week, as he's going hiking/camping with his son before school starts. And in two weeks, it will be the Tuesday right before Shadow Lane, so we will have to play lightly that day. Therefore, yesterday's session needed to be extra hard. Right?

Yeah. I thought it sucked too.

OK, so maybe I'd better tone down the smart-assery and sass, I thought to myself. No dice. He did everything he could to provoke my feisty side, including one of my pet peeves -- repeating the same @#$%ing phrase over and over. This time, it was "young lady." Which I usually like, but maybe just once in a scold-y way. Not fifteen times. 

"Enough already with the 'young lady'!" I snapped.

SMACK to the thigh. "Excuse me? Did you say something?

Aaaaand we were off. Damn that man... he knows my Achilles heel all too well. I can kick, squirm, rage in frustration and yell "STOPPIT!" He'll just laugh, say "No-o-o-o..." and do it again. 

(Just a reminder to everyone else out there who might play with me at a future party: Steve is the only top who gets to do that. Don't get any big ideas! :-Þ )

We moved to the ottoman. I was ready for him to bring it.

I love that Cane-iac OTK strap. But the Lickin' Stick? Not so much.

He patiently, quietly, and firmly kept going, the hard blows juxtaposed with gentle and kind words, encouraging me to take just a little more. I reached the point of "Oh-my-God-I-can't-take-anymore" and then went beyond it. He eased off a bit, let me catch my breath, then resumed. Crash went the heart-shaped paddle, and I burst into tears. And there it was, that flow of emotion, that release, that inexplicable trust.

How does one explain this to people who don't understand? Here was this man causing me pain, and I couldn't feel any safer with him. He is my protector. His pain delivers me.

As you can see, my thighs got some attention this time.

I need this to tide me over for two weeks. Think I can make it! (Ha! Probably not even two days. But it was a valiant effort.)

I felt at peace yesterday, despite the pervasive sadness all over the media due to this week's events. But I don't want to talk about that now. I will post my thoughts in a future blog. For now, I want to stay in my bubble for just a little while longer.

Tonight: dinner with SpankCake and Alex! Win!

(sigh) I just can't help myself sometimes

Pet peeves. We all have them; some of us more than others. I certainly have plenty of my own. Likewise, John has his.

In general, I try to be respectful of other people's peeves, even if I don't share them. Just because something doesn't bother me, doesn't mean it doesn't drive someone else completely nuts. But sometimes, a bit of well-placed teasing is irresistible.

One of John's biggest pet peeves? Earworms.

You know, when an obnoxious song or tune gets stuck in your head and you can't get it out? Most of us find them annoying. John finds them maddening. And he will get really ticked off with me if I deliberately introduce one -- like if I sing an obnoxious commercial jingle, or a crappy song. Or if I take a good song and ruin it by parodying it in an earworm-y way.

Anyone here a James Bond fan? Enjoy the movies, especially the old ones with the premier Bond, Sean Connery? Then you're no doubt familiar with Goldfinger, and its theme song, powerfully belted out in Shirley Bassey's booming voice: "GOLLLLLLLLD-FinGAAHHHHHHHH!" (If you don't know it, you can hear it here, if you're curious.) I'll get back to that in a minute.

Anyway, yesterday, we were poking fun at a restaurant review, for one of those trendoid places with snob food. You know the type, right? Where they take a huge plate, leave it mostly empty save for about two-and-a-half bites of food that's covered with an infusion or a reduction or some other such pretentious nonsense, decorate it with a flower petal and a drizzle of yak oil, and charge you $100? John read the part out loud about how your sushi is "graced with truffles or gold leaf," and I snorted.

"Gold leaf? WTF?? Why would anyone want gold on their food?"

Without missing a beat, John shrugged and replied, "Maybe it makes their poop sparkle."

After I picked myself up off the floor laughing, I was seized with a mischievous urge. I knew John would hate this, but I couldn't help it; it was irresistible. Taking a deep breath, I then, invoking my best Shirley Bassey, loudly sang: 

"GOLLLLLLLLLLLD-SPHINCTAHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Sure enough, this earned me the stink-eye from John and "Don't. EVER. Sing. That. Again." Oh, and I'm supposed to tell Steve that I permanently ruined the theme from Goldfinger. Hey, it could have been worse. I could have parodied the whole song. "Golden words he will pour from his rear..."

I don't know why John's so bent out of shape. He doesn't even like Bond movies.

My "treatise" on the corner controversy

This post is for Jay! Earlier this week, she wrote about how her work computer faces a corner, so she's essentially "in the corner" for eight hours a day. This got me thinking about the ever ongoing discussions about corner time on FetLife, and I wrote a tongue-in-cheek piece about how to make it entertaining.

Mind you, I don't really have an issue with the corner thing. It has little effect on me -- aside from posing for pictures there on occasion, I don't have much experience with it. I've never had a top who was into it. So I don't hate it, but it doesn't do anything for me, either. My sole (and vehement) objection regarding it is when tops put a bottom there after the spanking. Before the spanking, or during a break, fine, but after is a big NO for me. Sorry, but when the spanking is over, that's the time for whatever your idea of aftercare is -- not for making your bottom feel isolated and untouchable.

Anyway, here's what I posted on FetLife, for those who aren't on there and might find it amusing. :-)

I've been observing the "corner wars" posts the past couple of weeks. Bottoms hate corner time and think it's a waste of time. Tops think corner time rocks and is an absolute necessity. I, of course, am on the side of right: the bottoms' side. But if tops insist on this ridiculous practice, I have a solution.

Bottoms: just bring a tablet or your Smartphone with you.

While you're stuck standing there feeling like a dummy with your red bottom on display, maximize your time! Catch up on the latest news. Answer your emails. Write something new; perhaps a treatise on the latest reasons why tops are wrong. Take selfies of sticking your tongue out. You're facing the wall; they can't see you.

If the corner time is extra long? Bring a Kindle with you and read a new spanking novella. Get some fresh ideas on how to make mischief once you're sprung from your painted prison.

If your top balks at this, claiming you're not entitled to entertainment during your punishment, remind him/her about how you're always in trouble for wasting time and not getting things done. You are simply trying to rectify this situation by not letting any precious minutes slip by without filling them with something useful. (Useful to whom doesn't matter.)

If your top is one of those nose-to-the-wall sticklers, then put your headphones on and listen to music. Enrich your senses. Turn the sound up enough so that it turns everything your top says to you into garbled murmurs. Which is pretty much what it always is, anyway.

Exercise your artistic abilities. Go to the Paint program on your tablet and draw a funny caricature of your top. The possibilities are endless. Or hone your computer skills and do something artistic with Photoshop. I once swapped a top's head out with Alfred E. Neuman's head. It was highly amusing.

My point is, make lemons of lemonade. What you think of corner time is immaterial, if the tops insist on it. So instead of protesting, use it to your advantage. Who knows... the tops might just see the erroneous nature of this silly ritual and give it up altogether.

Of course, that might mean that you need to maximize your time elsewhere. I suggest reading the news while OTK, but do that at your own risk.

The comments I received overall were quite funny. Of course, one Uber-Dom sort had to chime in and say something about how that would be the perfect time for some extra spanking attention on the soles of the feet. !!! I wrote back that striking the feet is not spanking, it is bastinado. And I pity the poor BASTard who would try BASTinado on me, because I'd kick his sinuses through the back of his head.

Have a great weekend, y'all.

The "C-Spot"

Fellow bottoms, you know how, in the throes of a spanking session, there is a certain swat or series of swats that causes the perfect harmony of sensations, that reverberates all through your core and sends all the right signals, just the right blend of pain and pleasure, zinging to your brain? Steve can always tell when I've gotten one or more of those, because I let out a really guttural, semi-orgasmic groan.

"Ooooh," he said yesterday when that happened. "Did I hit your c-spot?" I roused enough out of my stupor to mutter, "Wha...?" "Your 'cheek-spot,'" he replied. Cute.  

Well, he hit that all over the place yesterday. Damn, what a great scene. Exactly what I needed, after reading all the post-Crimson Moon comments and looking at picture after adorable picture. Dammit... end of this month, it's my turn for party time!

Anyway, yesterday I got my just deserts and dessert as well. Steve showed up with cake, a lovely big chunk of triple chocolate cake from the nearby bakery, for our 2nd anniversary, which we hadn't gotten around to officially celebrating yet. But the sweets had to wait until later.

In order to commemorate our two years, Steve felt it was necessary to drag out nearly every damn implement I own and make a presentation of it:

He didn't use all of those (particularly not the thicker wooden cane, since I threw it into the corner of the room). But he used quite a few.

As you can see, I wasn't taking him too seriously at first (what's up with that face??):

But shortly thereafter, it began to sink in that he had the upper hand.

By the time he was done, I had about half the bedspread scrunched up into my fists. I was pleading with him, "no more, no more," all the while hunkering down for more. He pushed, just enough. 

It took me a long time to calm down afterward. I shook and twitched and panted, and it felt like stinging sparks were shooting off my bottom. Then, the peace and nothing-ness settled in, enveloping me, as he held me close. I actually dozed off for a bit. That never happens. But that's how relaxed I was.

Lovely.

And then there was cake! :-D  Chocolate cake, chocolate mousse filling, and chocolate icing, with glazed berries on top (a perfect strawberry, raspberry and blackberry). Couldn't have been more perfect.

Last night, instead of setting my alarm, I decided what the hell, work is finished for the moment, I'd just sleep until I wake up naturally. I went to bed around 1:30, and was shocked when I opened my eyes and it was 10 minutes to noon! I guess I was truly wiped out.

Steve told me that when he picked up the cake, there was a sweet, middle-aged woman behind the counter, who smiled at him and asked if this was a special occasion.

"Yes, anniversary," he replied.

"How nice!" she beamed. "How many years have you been married?"

And that fool answered, "Oh, we're not married. We're spanking partners."

I said, "You didn't. You did not. You're yanking my chain." But he insisted that he did. And then she said, "Oh, that's ni... huh?" Her face looked thoroughly confused. He then took his cake and left, wishing her a nice day. Oh my GOD.

I told John about this last night. His comment, "Good for Steve. Tell him next time to say that when you're there with him." 

Men. Buncha buttheads, every last one of 'em. But I do love mine. :-)

OT: You know, some people really suck

Sorry, kids. This has absolutely nothing to do with kink, or anything fun. I just need to blow off some steam. 

Every Sunday, John and I have a routine: We go to the same restaurant, where everyone who works there knows us and we always sit in the same server's station. She never brings menus, just puts our order in as soon as we're seated, because we always get the same thing. We stay at the table for a long time, lingering over the paper, my crossword puzzle and several cups of coffee, and leave her a ginormous tip. 

Today when we came in, the waiting area was crowded, no place to sit, so I put our name in and we stood to wait. Because of the blood clot in John's leg, it hurts him to stand on it for more than a few minutes, so when a couple of spots on the bench freed up, we sat down, pulled out our reading material and focused on it as we waited. People came in and out as we sat there, but we were reading and didn't pay much attention.

Suddenly, we heard a man's voice saying very loudly, "It's amazing to me that in this day and age, a man will still sit down when there are women standing." We looked up. There stood a man about our age, staring directly at John. Standing next to him was a woman I figure was his wife, and seated at the other end of the bench was a much older woman with a walker. I'm assuming that someone else got up so she could sit down. If John had seen her, he would have gotten up himself. But they came in after us and we weren't looking.

John calmly answered, "What did you say?" The man, still staring John down, replied, "I said..." and then repeated exactly what he'd said a moment ago. 

John stared back. I sat there looking back and forth between them, thinking, uh oh. This isn't going to be good. But then John, after a good long measured look, went back to his paper. He didn't answer. A minute or so later, the trio was seated.

I was furious, though. Where did this creep get off, judging John? What did he know about why John needs to sit down? So when we were seated, I saw that Mr. Loudmouth and his two cronies were in the same station. I got up and walked over to their table.

"Excuse me, sir," I said, looking him in the eye. "My boyfriend has a heart condition, and he also has a blood clot in his leg. He needs to sit. So what you said back there was really out of line."

Before he could answer, his bitch of a wife lurched forward in her seat and got in my face. "No, it was NOT!" she snapped. I started to insist that it was, but she talked right over me, saying, "Just shut your mouth for five seconds!" I was so shocked, I stopped talking. She went on to give me this lecture about how her mother is 88 years old, she's on oxygen, she uses a walker, and that takes precedence over anything else. Then Mr. Jerk-off chimes in with, "And if that really is the case with your boyfriend (what, like I'd make that up??), then you say so at the time, and then you get off your ass to let an older person sit down, how about that?"

Wow. Just... wow. I was dumbfounded, being slammed into this wall of self-righteousness. The wife finished off, saying in this superior air, "Just a little something for you to think about as you age. Now go off and enjoy your day!" I shook my head at them and said, "OK then... you enjoy your judgment!" and I walked away. I heard her call after me, "We DO, thank you!" Ugh.

Twenty-twenty hindsight, what I wish I'd said was, "You know what? My boyfriend is twice the man you'll ever be, and he probably won't live to be anywhere near 88. So both of you shut your mouth!" But I didn't. I was too flabbergasted.

But wait, there's more.

I got back to our booth, and as I slid back in, I hissed to John, "Fucking bastards!" I followed his eyes and looked to my left... Jerk-off was right there. He'd followed me back to our booth. "What now??" I said.

"What, you can come to my table, but I can't come to yours?" he said, stepping closer to me. That's when John jumped in. "Leave her alone! Stop talking to her!"

The guy then swiveled his whole body aggressively toward John and answered, "OK, I'll talk to you!" But before he could launch into his next barrage of BS, John gave him a look of pure disgust and blurted, "What are you doing, man? Go away! Stop bothering us!"

At that moment, our server walked over, looking a little apprehensive, and John said to her (while flapping his arm as if he were waving away a bad odor), "Susie, get this guy away from us, will you please?" She then timidly tapped the idiot's elbow and said, "Sir..."

I guess then he realized that he had gone too far, and he was risking getting thrown out. He walked away without another word. Our server then gave both John and me a hug, and the manager came over to make sure we were OK. When our food came, the manager said, "Enjoy your breakfast in peace," and left us. Later, she said, "See you both next week!" So we were still in good standing. After all, we hadn't done anything wrong.

It's been hours and I'm still stewing over these fucktards. I really do need to let things go more easily. But I do not like people screwing with my loved ones. Anyone gives John crap, including his own family, and I want to fling it right back plus extra. 

(sigh) Oh well. At least it's off my chest now. 

Tomorrow, I'll start fresh and try to focus on the good folks again. I promise. Tonight, I'm allowing myself a good stew over self-righteous asshats. Begone from my head, cretins. You're not worth my consideration.

Public swattery

Yeah, I know that's not a word. It should be.

I think I've mentioned before that John is fond of giving me a swat (or two) in public places. Sometimes while we're walking down the street, or in a parking garage. Oftentimes it's in some kind of store, when I'm leaning over to get something off a shelf. I'm sure our hi-jinks have turned up on many a security camera.

You know, it's weird. As open as I am about the spanking thing, I am embarrassed when I get swatted in Vanilla Q. Public. (I guess that's the point, huh?) I immediately dart my head around to see if anyone saw us. We've gotten some smiles, some snickers, even a couple of whistles and catcalls from cars driving by. One woman called out, "I saw that!" But most of the time, no one sees (that I'm aware of), which is my preference. Silly, right? Considering how open I am about this and all. But I don't want vanilla strangers gawking at me.

Last Sunday, we were at CVS Pharmacy, and I was reaching for John's shampoo. As he is wont to do, he gave me a good smack on my right cheek. "John!" I snapped, straightening briefly and looking around. Then I went for the shampoo again. "I'm sorry, I meant this one," John said, and smacked the left.

"Stoppit!!" I hissed, turning around, and then I saw an older woman walking toward us. Oh, crap. She was smiling, so of course she saw. But I didn't expect the following -- she went right up to John and said, "You're embarrassing her. Stop that." HA!

John, always quick on the uptake, came right back with, "It's all her fault! She started it."

To which our friend shook her head, gave him an "You're so full of it" smile and replied, "Oh, don't even go there with me. I know better." Then she walked on down the aisle.

I didn't stick around to watch John feign indignation... I was too busy stumbling around the corner, laughing my butt off. She sure told him!

How do you guys feel about public swattery? 

Have a great weekend, y'all. To my friends who are currently at Crimson Moon, I am freaking jealous and miss you like mad and can't wait to see you at the end of the month!