My heartthrob is... How old???

OK, anyone who's known me for five minutes knows that my (almost) lifelong actor crush is on David Selby, who played the roguish Quentin Collins on Dark Shadows. I was 12 years old when I first laid eyes on him, and his handsome, 6' 4" presence rocked my pre-adolescent little world.

His birthday was this past weekend. He turned 70.

SEVENTY???????

No way. It can't be. He is not 70.

Ah, but he is. (sigh)

But in my mind, in my stacks of Dark Shadows DVDs, he will always look like this:

Oh, the fantasy mileage I've gotten from David Selby and his alter ego. I even wrote a spanking story about traveling back in time and finding myself face to face with his character in Collinwood, 1897. But wait, there's more! My good buddy Dave Wolfe immortalized us both, a couple of years ago:

Wolfie is so freaking talented, isn't he? Swisssshhhhh! Heehee...

Yet another friend paired us again, by taking a cartoon from the amazing Endart and Photoshopping "Quentin's" and my face into it:

























I know, I know... does it get any sillier? I'm way too damn old for crushes. But I've had so much fun with this one, it's hard to let it go.

So happy belated birthday, David... I still love ya! :-)

The Stranger

When my doorbell rang at 6:30, I opened it eagerly, expecting to see New Guy standing there smiling back, ready to give me a warm hug after three weeks of not seeing each other.

But the man at my door didn't smile, only stepped in silently, Feeling a bit thrown, I started to wrap my arms around his neck, and he shrugged them off. Then I felt his fist tightening in my hair.

He spun me around, pushing me toward my bedroom. I nearly stumbled on my high heels. Wordlessly, he threw me onto my bed, then flipped me over, pinning both arms behind my back. He rummaged in his bag and next thing I knew, he was tying my hands together. Once that was done, he leaned down and spoke. "Did you really think you could write something like that in your blog and no one would get ideas?"

"Ah... um... I...." I stuttered, and he yanked my hair. "Did you?"

"No..." I murmured. I thought perhaps I could reason with him. "I couldn't help it," I cried. "Those pictures... I don't know, they just did something to me."

"Yeah, well," he said, "now I'M going to do something to you." My legs were bent, my feet tightly curled up under my bottom; he pulled my legs straight, and unceremoniously yanked my leggings and panties down my thighs and off. Then he tied my ankles together.

"Now," he growled, "you are going to get exactly what you deserve."

The spanking was hard and fast and ferocious -- no warmup here. I squirmed around, but I could barely move, and the ropes bit into my wrists if I pulled too hard.

"Are you scared?"

"Ye-e-e-s...."

"You should be. Maybe you'll be more careful about what you put on your blog, won't you? Be careful what you wish for." Then he jerked the rope off my wrists. But before I could sigh in relief, he pulled my hands forward, wrapped the rope securely around my wrists once again and tied the ends to the bedframe just above the caster. He then did the same thing with my ankles, tying them down at the other end.

And then the implements came out of the bag. He brushed them against me, teasing me, tormenting me. I was on sensory overload... yes, it was scary. It was also wildly, almost unbearably arousing.

"Please," I whimpered, "please..."

"Please what?" he asked. When I didn't answer, he snapped the strap down hard once, twice, three times quickly. "Please what? he repeated.

"Please.... don't hurt me," I whispered. My usual bravado and brattiness had completely disappeared. He was someone I didn't know, and yet I did. And I was someone I didn't know, as well.

He leaned down to me once again, his mouth to my ear. "But I want to hurt you," he hissed. I moaned and steeled myself.

Strap, belt, paddle, another strap... it went on and on. He said little, and I buried my face in the comforter, trying to stifle my yelps. I started crying early on, not necessarily from the pain, but from the surges of emotion. But I couldn't wipe my nose or push my hair out of my face. I was helpless, at his mercy.

After a while, he paused and spoke again. "I like hurting you," he drawled, his voice silky. "And you like it too. Don't you!"

God help me, I did. I loved it. I nodded vigorously, even as I cried. And then he finished me off with ten rapid, heavy paddle strokes. I had to count them.

It was over. He untied me, then sat on the bed next to me, gathering me close. Suddenly, he was New Guy again... sweet, gentle and soothing. He smiled into my face, the menacing look gone. I wept and trembled and clung to him. And through it all, I kept mumbling, "Oh God. Oh my God. Wow... Wow... That was... oh my god, that was sooooo @#$%ing hot..." He laughed. Said he was glad I'd liked it, because he sure did too.

I have been tied up before. But I'd never experienced it like this, as part of a roleplay scene, sprung on me so unexpectedly. It was different. It was rougher than I usually play. But I could do it with him. I could go there. I trusted him. I knew I was safe, so I could fully immerse myself in the fantasy.

And don't anyone worry about me. Don't anyone think any of this was too harsh, because I wanted it. Does this look like an abused woman to you?

Didn't think so. :-)  I even recovered enough to sass him. Paid for it, of course.

Thank you, my friend, my evil stranger.

On my mind...

... right this moment? It's 10:35 A.M. I want it to be tonight. NOW.

I want to bypass the stupid workout and the boring folding of laundry and the paying of bills and the checking of work ads and all the other mundane nonsense that will pass the hours of this day, and go directly to the good stuff.

I am not a responsible adult. I am a greedy, wanton, spoiled adult child, wanting her treat.

But no matter how much I kick and fuss, the clock stubbornly ticks the minutes away one at a time, instead of leaping forward in large chunks of hours that bring me to this evening.

Arrgh.

Much better, thank you

As always, the down times pass. I don't quite comprehend my chemistry and what makes me go into my dark cave sometimes, but I can always see the light outside. For many years, I would stay in the abyss feeling like there was no way out. Now, my depressions are short-lived and open-ended. For this, I am grateful.

Kind and supportive friends help a great deal. Oh, and getting Chrossed today didn't hurt either. :-D  Thank you very much, Mr. Chross. And congratulations to all his other choices this week.

Two things today indicate that I am over my funk: 1) I actually wanted to get out of bed this morning; and 2) I am once again craving spanking like nobody's business. Fortunately, New Guy has written to me, informing me that he is much better and I can count on seeing him this coming Monday. It's been three weeks; how spoiled I've become, because I used to go much, MUCH longer than that. But now it feels like forever. I can't wait to see him.

This afternoon, I find myself fixated on kinky photos all over the place, and not just of the spanking variety. In fact, I've been "perving" FetLife photos that have nothing to do with spanking, and this mystifies me. But they definitely have everything to do with dominance.

I have never (at least not consciously) EVER had any sort of abduction fantasies. I suppose the roleplay of being spanked against my will is a roundabout form of abduction, but the whole kidnapping thing, the damsel in distress being threatened by a menacing man? Hasn't entered my mind.

So why, on FetLife, do I keep returning to these photos, again and again? (from Anton Video):

These pictures make my heart pound. Why?

OK, duhhhh. The guy is freaking gorgeous. But besides that.

It's the look on his face, in his eyes. His absolute power. Her helplessness. He will have his way, no matter what, and there isn't a blessed thing she can do about it. Does something in me crave that as well?

Of course, in the videos from whence these pictures came, he doesn't spank her. I would lose interest as soon as he started defiling her however they portray that sort of thing in bondage/abduction/humiliation videos. But say if he broke in, snuck up on her and had his way with her, spanking-wise? "Don't you scream," he'd whisper to her. "It will only hurt for a little while." Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!

I guess this all figures into the "consensual non-sensuality" phenomenon. Intellectually, I know I choose everything that happens to me, regarding spanking play. But the pretense that it's out of my hands and into his -- very powerful, and soooo damned exciting.

OK, Erica. Snap out of it. Go work out.

It's only February 4, but John is already singing goofy Valentine songs and wishing me "happy Valentine season." He knows I'm a sucker for all that romantic blather, bless his heart. Stupid commercial holiday that it is, I still love it. Can't wait to see him tonight either. :-)

Happy Stupor... er, Super Bowl weekend, y'all.

Reality crash

It was bound to happen, I guess. What goes up must come down.

I was on quite the high for a while, and understandably so. I had an exciting adventure to look forward to and prepare for, so the anticipation was great fun. Then the experience itself, and you all know how fabulous that was. And finally, all the after-fun of writing and sharing about it, the photos, the feedback, the warm fuzzies.

I don't get out much, folks. I actually lead a very quiet life. So, episodes like this go a long way for me. But when they end, like a little kid after Christmas, I crash. People have referred to "post-party drop" and "sub-drop"; perhaps this is "shoot-drop." (Even writing that makes me shake my head, because it sounds so silly.)

Nothing tragic happened. I'm not in Egypt, nor am I trapped beneath piles of ice and snow. No one died. It's just... life. It went back to normal and it felt sucky.

My financial advisor called me and admonished me that I am spending down my retirement money. Tell me something I don't know! He said I needed to stop taking annual distributions. And live on what? Does he have any clue as to how crappy the freelance market is right now? I am in competition with literally hundreds of other hungry proofreaders, and many of them have additional skills that give them an edge. My job has changed a great deal since I entered the field in 1981. It used to be that you could just be a proofreader, sit at a desk and read copy all day and be damn good at it. Nowadays, the profession is considered devalued because of Spell Check and proofreaders are hired to read plus do a lot of other job functions, and need to be savvy in several computer programs. Go back to school to learn some new things and advance my career? Again, with what money?

So yeah, I'm living on my nest egg for the most part. Me and a gazillion other people, those who even have savings. My health insurance alone is $870 a month. I know I should be thinking of the future, but I need to live now.

Of course, thinking about the future and aging makes me think about my mother, and you all know how @#$%ing depressing that is. I haven't seen her in months, not since this whole thing with John began. I simply don't have the energy to deal with it; it's all been spent worrying about John. Who, incidentally, is back to working long hours again and is tired all the time. And when he's home, sleep is a fleeting commodity, because he has a new neighbor in the house right behind his, and guess what? They have a barking dog, which is left outside a lot of the time. It's so close, it sounds like it's almost in the house with us. I swear, that man cannot catch a break with neighbors.

Then last evening, someone posted an anonymous and horrid comment on an older blog post, where I talked about my upcoming shoot. This person said I had no class, that my "giddy bragging" about all the nice things Paul was doing was "mercenary and money-grubbing in the disguise of gratitude" and that it was disrespectful to Paul, and he/she hoped I enjoyed every moment because it would never happen again.

I'm sure you can imagine the effect that had on me. I was so upset, I copied and forwarded it to Paul himself, asking if I had indeed come off this way and if so, I certainly hadn't intended it. He was so kind... not only did he write me back immediately with reassurance, but he came on and posted a polite but firm rebuttal to the comment. His compliments to me made me cry.

What is wrong with some people? Do they really not know the power of their words? And why do I allow the erstwhile negative comment to disturb me so much, when I get so many positive ones? I suppose that is human nature, but damn, it's tiresome.

I've been watching Six Feet Under on Netflix for the past few months, since I don't get HBO and didn't see it when it aired. What an incredibly brilliant show... but it could be very sad. Last night I watched the finale. Probably not a good idea to watch a show about death when you're depressed. I was bawling practically through the whole thing. OK, enough of that. Time for some comedy.

Sorry to be so relentlessly bleccchhh. I will get over this; I always do. My sense of humor will return. And to end on an up note, I'm posting yet one more picture of the dogs. :-)  Impossible to feel sad, looking at this.