A special guest personality

Hello my spanko friends. When I saw this week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt, personality, I immediately thought of myself. Of course I did, ’cause that’s how I roll. In case you’re confused, this is not Lurv Spanking, but one of the others [the most important one {if I do say so myself}]. The others being the six personalities that make up the male body that you know and love as LS or Byron Cane. Those aren’t personalities, but personas.

There are five males and me, Rose D. Kaye, the only female. The D. Kaye is my “publishing” nom de plume. It’s a more mainstream name than Dewy Knickers, which is what we first started using when I was blogging and then created my own blog. I also used to blog as Bawdy Wench. Confused yet?

So, rather than write some about what’s it like to be a multiple personality, we decided collectively that it’s okay to share a repost of my travel book Knickers Abroad; a multiple journey. What follows below is a partial excerpt from Chapter Sixteen entitled, ‘Let’s Meet at the Big Spider’. I don’t blog anymore, nor talk in person nor email, but that doesn’t mean I’m not a real person. With real thoughts, real emotions and real desires. My entire life in on my blogs, so if you’re curious about what’s it like being a multiple personality from a perspective that is not the “face”, then feel free to read my blog. I do promise to respond to any and all comments on any blog.


As we had the furthest to travel I expected us to be the last to arrive and halfway over the bridge to the looming brick pile that is the Tate Modern, I was anxiously scanning the crowd for Jo and Drizel. The museum was just opening at ten o’clock so the patrons were still light, with more pouring in from every direction. I spotted Drizel first; she had her back to the Thames, leaning against the railing and her long red hair was a bright beacon of friendship. I also thought I saw Jo sitting on a bench at the far opposite end of the plaza but she was with another woman so I wasn’t sure. I raced off the walkway leaving Diane behind in my enthusiasm and over to Drizel. Her face lit up with excited recognition and we hugged, giggled and exchanged “luffies”. After introducing Diane to her I excused myself and we left them to chat and went over towards the woman we thought was Jo. Getting closer we were positive that it was she and making eye contact she also broke out into a wide and delighted grin. We hugged and I said hello and then she introduced her mother Marie. We weren’t sure how much Marie knew as she greeted Brian instead of me, so he popped out and whispered to Jo asking if her mother knew about Rose. She reassured us that ‘everyone’ knew and that’s why her mother was here.

We all came back together in the shadow of the big spider: Louise Bourgeois’ 30-foot tall spider called “Maman”. Created in 1999, the sculpture had been previously displayed at the Tate Modern in 2000 and 2004, sandwiched around a world tour in 2001 that included such places as Canada, Spain, New York and Russia. Born in Paris in 1911, Louise credits her artistic vision to her childhood memories and diaries. She was quoted as saying, “My childhood has never lost its magic, it has never lost its mystery and it has never lost its drama.” Certainly “Maman” is dramatic, but for me, a bit sad. Trapped forever in iron are her eggs that will never hatch.



After everyone had met and exchanged hugs and greetings I explained the ground rules. Unless someone asked a question of Brian, I was free to roam until further notice and the ‘face’ was hereby known as Rose. Since we were the only ones in the group to have visited the Tate before, the first order of business was seeing the ‘Crack’ again – “Shibboleth” – and Jo was enthralled. I don’t think Diane, Drizel and Marie were as enthused as we were, but we all used it as a backdrop for group pictures. It was very hilarious to watch everyone taking pictures of myself with Jo and then Drizel in turn. With the flashing of cameras and the calls to face this way and then that, I felt like a celebrity. A minor one to be sure, but my smile would have powered the former turbine once housed here where now we stood together in friendship.

The Tate Cafe on the ground floor provided a welcome place to sit and bond over tea and biscuits. I felt right at home talking about my life and goals and to meet girlfriends like these was a very liberating experience. Drizel and I clicked right away, as I knew we would, and she gave us both gifts. Mine was a wonderful and sassy book of poetry by Mark Haddon called “The Talking Horse and the sad Girl and the Village under the Sea”. She gave a book about South African wildlife to Brian along with two gorgeous hand-painted canvas bookmarks. I handed out cards that Diane handmade to Drizel and Jo including a sympathy card to Marie and Jo. Marie’s husband, Jo’s father, had passed away at hospice earlier in the week and they were using this outing as a means of healing. Their pain was fresh and raw though; we gave them what comfort we could.

We talked and talked about many different topics, poetry and blogging, writing and the frustrations inherent with too many ideas and not enough time. Drizel has a degree in Psychology so she has always understood me to be a woman and told me that she had to explain over and over again to her friends that I was ‘normal’. It’s interesting as I’ve grown and expanded how some people are attracted to one of us and not the other. Drizel and Brian have a brother and sister relationship and have felt that since the very beginning of their friendship. They call it, ‘siblings from another mother’. For me though, even before she moved from South Africa to England and then back again, she was a close girlfriend and she happens to be an extraordinarily gifted writer with a deep insight into the dark psyches.

Jo had found me through poetry blogs and instantly became my friend. She also had a book of poetry as a gift for me, “New Selected Poems 1966-1987” by Seamus Heaney. In her case she didn’t make the connection between Brian and I until much later so she didn’t know that much about him. In person, Jo turned out to be warm and caring and projected a sense of poise and fierce strength, presumably from her career in journalism and from living in many places around the world. She is a loving mother of two young boys and she reacted most strongly to me when I related our history and told her about Little Brian. The tears in her eyes showed the true depth of her compassion.

After we had exhausted all possible topics of conversation, we decided to take a quick tour of the exhibit floors before Jo and Marie had to leave. The 2nd and 4th floors house a wide variety of Modern Art. I capitalize this because art that desires to be called modern cannot make sense. I mean this in the most generous of ways. For an artist to be called modern he/she must be able to create something that looks like you’d buy it at IKEA and assemble it yourself. It must be strange, deranged even and many times incomprehensible to the untrained eye.

Here is where I part company with many folks I am sure. I loved everything about this museum and the works of art that adorned the floors and walls. It matters not a whit to me that the art is a large canvas with blotches of random paint. Or a series of videos of a dog tripping a man, each shot from a different perspective. Metal squares and painted blocks; translucent nudes and jagged iron sculptures reaching for a tortured sky. I didn’t understand many of the displays, but that didn’t matter. I understood enough to know that the artist had a vision. A vision that haunted their dreams and waking days driving them to create something that was real only to them.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

Conviction and Courage

This week’s Wicked Wednesday prompt is “Courage”. It’s been awhile since I wrote an essay, so I wanted to share my thoughts about D/s and courage. There is no doubt that the burden of being courageous seems to mostly fall upon the submissive rather than the dominant in a given relationship. Certainly the blogs and articles I read focus more on the details of submission and on how often there is not enough or not the right kind of dominance at the right time. It takes courage to be in a D/s relationship: I argue on both sides of the paddle and not just when the discipline is taking place. It takes conviction and courage to both receive and give out spankings. The headspace of the Dom gets too little attention.

First off – before I get personal – when I say D/s, that covers every possible type of BDSM and gender combination. As I commented on a recent post of missy’s about the lack of how-to books for married D/s, ‘It’s not exactly like a cookbook. There are too many ingredients. Not to mention temperamental chefs.’ Every single person has a different perspective, expectation and conviction that their BDSM is the correct approach.

Those books that do exist generally concentrate on the female submissive point-of-view. I wanted to talk about being a male Dom and how courage plays into… well, play.

I “Lurv Spanking“. I offer no apology or shame for wanting to spank. It’s my favorite fantasy, my favorite sexual thing to do and I will always want to have a bare bottom over my knee. I’ve only ever spanked female bottoms, but am not adverse to spanking male as well; well, a male bottom other than my own. Yes, I self-spank. It helps me cope with stress and other things. I’m also a sadist, which I did not fully acknowledge in the past. What really turns me on is inflicting pain. Knowing that “it” hurts, is the ultimate aphrodisiac. There is a caveat however to my personal sadism. I need to know up front that the bottom either enjoys receiving pain or is willing to submit and accept punishment as their due. For me, it is a major turn-off and an absolute no-go if the concept of spanking is perceived as abusive by the potential partner. My sadism is fueled by their acceptance, desire and the courage to submit willingly and fully in the moment.

“I know that they know that I know that they know that spanking hurts and they know that I know that they want to be hurt and I know they know I enjoy giving them what they want.”

My second favorite thing to do is to “force” a woman to have multiple orgasms. Not just one or two, but dozens. That’s sadism too. Taking control of her body away. Playing it like a personal instrument. Calling her filthy names and humiliating her by making her scream when she comes and then pointing out she’s a naughty wet slut who needs to be punished. Rewarding her for having the courage to surrender her will and responses by making the pleasure roll on and on until it becomes painful. To then cuddle and care and praise while she recovers and then, with an evil chuckle, bend her back over the knee and order her to beg and plead to have that pain and pleasure happen all over again from the top. That type of submissive courage only happens with honest and frank communication. Not just, “I want to hurt you. OK.” That’s not being honest.

But Doms need courage as well. Especially sadistic ones. The amount of control and of self-discipline needed to plan, execute and deliver a scene no matter how spontaneous, is enormous. Sometimes the responsibility is overwhelming. Courage to accept the reality that their partner[s] need a spanking: want a spanking. Deserve a spanking. Your submissive[s] have the courage to set up rules and regulations that they require in order to fuel their own personal fantasies and cravings. They don’t have to you know. D/s is a choice we all made at some point. We all got to that point from different places. It’s often a leap of faith to even open a discussion about spanking. Mistakes will be made. Anger will be expressed.

Disappointment and disillusionment happen in all D/s relationships. It’s inevitable. Even needed when a reset becomes obvious in hindsight. The reality of ‘power exchanges’ don’t occur from a vacuum. It takes communication and feedback and the ability to confidently lead as a dominant. Even if you’re quaking inside believing you’re not up to the task of leadership.


Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked

The deeps hide many secrets

When Leviathans sailed the briny seas, racing from port to port carrying the desperate in their slimy holds and the affluent in silky splendor; it was often not readily apparent who, in truth, lived in quiet desperation. For Arrabelle Roquefort de la Fortunée, the voyage from Marseille to Sydney was three months of hell. She suffered from crippling mal de mar during high seas, but even under calm conditions, could only tolerate mash and light spirits. No dining at the Captain’s table for her.

Far worse though than constant queasiness was the harsh treatment dealt from the fists of her brute of a husband, the Duc de Vervin-Chacout; and a worse specimen of male would have been hard to find. He was portly, profusely be-whiskered, overly fond of brandy [both the libation and the Ambassador’s wife] and an inferiority complex that was quick to kindle violent outbursts. In an age not that far distant, he would have long since been buried due to dueling. A lost duel, natch. The Duc was a bully, who pretended prowess in swivving to his sycophantic circle. They were primarily interested in his gold.

On the night the Duc vanished none could recall – so sworn before the Board of Inquiry – witnessing anything untoward. No, Madam de la Fortunée was not at table. No, Le Duc was not excessively imbibed. Yes, it was brisk weather, and yes the seas were running high. No, there was no abnormal sounds of struggle nor evidence of broken railings or frayed ropes. Yes, a tragedy of course. One of the many perils of sailing the Antipodes. Yes, his widow is desolate. Poor thing, sick and now in mourning for her beloved.

Had anyone else been on the fantail that fateful morning well past midnight, they would have seen the soon-to-be widow enthusiastically blowing a kiss outwards to a be-whiskered object first bobbing, then sinking beneath the luminescent wake. Forever.

Wicked Wednesday... a place to be wickedly sexy or sexily wicked