travel

A special guest personality

Rose2 Comments

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.

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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.

Eggs

Spider

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

Not all baggage is bad

lurvspanking14 Comments

I found it in the back corner of an antique shop on the Left Bank. I was in Paris for a week, backpacking around Europe while I staved off maturity and the perceived death of all my dreams.

It was leather, dusty, the color of faded deep chestnut; where it wasn’t covered with labels from exotic hotels and resorts. The lock was broken, but the brass hinges stubbornly held the old suitcase together.

I was not blind to the metaphor: baggage older than my parents when most days one meal was all I could afford. My wistful sigh must have carried through the shop, because the proprietor — all haughty élan as only a French woman can project — offered me a choice.

“La valise en échange pour une performance.” My stomach grumbled. “Et un repas.” Her smile was knowing on so many levels.

“What kind of performance?”

With a casual flick of her manicured finger, she flipped the sign from OUVRIR to FERMÉE, then beckoned me upstairs. The scent of food lured me as much as the twitching of her pert derrière in tight wool skirt. I expected sex of some kind; bodies were barter in the world of student travel.

I watched dusk fall behind the Eiffel Tower, the apartment balcony fit a small table and two chairs, in painted wrought iron of deep burgundy. I felt no compulsion to move as I digested, the sodium-yellow lamps created a playground out of hard stone and narrow streets.

“Es-tu prêt?”

“Oui.”

She’d turned off all the lights, except for one spot, the straight-backed chair sinister in its singularity. In the dark reaches of the room I heard whispers and rustlings from an unseen audience. It was then I noticed what coiled innocently on the embroidered seat. A martinet.

I balked.

She held out her hand, palm up, shimmering in elbow length black silk glove, the pearl and gold bracelet an iridescent gleam matched by her sparkling eyes. I clutched as if drowning.

“Tu ne vas pas être blessé.”

The nuance of hurt versus harm challenged me, but I nodded my acceptance. A unnamed frisson ran through the gathering. She presented me to whomever lurked in the shadows. Falling into my role, I curtsied. Whispers of appreciation in many languages. Obediently, I bent forward over the ornate gilt top rail of the chair, damp palms interlaced with the thongs of the whip. A red scarf — Hermès — folded and drawn gently over my eyes, my head bowed to allow the knot tied at my neck.

The martinet drawn away, soft leather strands caressed my cheeks, rested on my lips. I kissed. Another sigh moved like amber larches in autumn. The handle traced my spine, at the small of my back, it pressed down in unmistakable command. I dipped, presented my bottom.

Faint footsteps, muffled by the thick carpet. Hands, many hands slowly lifted my peasant skirt, carefully folding until I felt the cool evening air tease my bare thighs. Ashamed now of my plain white underwear, worn thin through repeated hand-washes in hostel sinks, I stepped out as they were drawn down over trembling calves.

The handle tapped my inner thighs. I widened my stance. Wider, wider urged the whip: straddle the chair and show everything. Humiliated, yet seized by a determination not to be weak, I displayed my parted buttocks and hairy pussy to the voyeurs.

Scratchy music filled the apartment. Caruso sang of love and loss, of hatred and fury. The whip dangled through my crack and teased my holes. I tensed. She rubbed. I sighed and relaxed.

My whipping started slowly and softly. Light flicks barely grazing the skin. As the lamento grew in scope and power, the leather bit deeper and faster. There was no pattern: she struck everywhere and yet it seemed always in an untouched spot. Moans escaped as I writhed. My bottom rising and falling with the operatic vocalizations of legends long deceased.

But, I was alive. In pain yes, but oh so alive. It was not unbearable; if anything, my first ever spanking was shattering inhibitions I never knew I possessed. I strained on tiptoe, with eyes blind, I begged for more. Loud ‘splats’ as she swung hard. I imagined her in pressed Lacoste tennis whites, coolly smashing a forehand winner down the line with genteel grace.

Minutes passed. Five, ten, thirty; I knew not how long the set lasted, but as Caruso reached for the climatic solo, she shifted her target. Up between my widely stretched legs sang the whip. The impact drove a shriek from my mouth. Again she followed through, the sound a wet ‘smack’. My lips stung. The burning heat in my bottom was now secondary to the sharp pinching on my pussy.

Softer, then harder, she varied the rhythm, urging me to give in, to concede the point, give way to her dominant will.

I surrendered. She flogged my throbbing clit. “Un.” A pause as I panted. “Deux.” My thighs clenched. “Vous serez orgasme sur trois.”

Through my tears, I begged, “S’il vous plaît!”

“Trois.”

I came.

When I recovered my senses, and removed my blindfold, the room was brightly lit once more; and empty. My panties were neatly folded on top of the now polished suitcase. My fingers shook as I pulled the nylon over red flesh, I winced and cried out when I sat down. The suitcase was heavy. It required both hands to carry as I stumbled out into the night.

~~~

I realize now I was naive and very fortunate in my rash choice. But — as I tell my husband whenever he asks why I keep the battered chestnut leather stored in my closet — sometimes life is a suitcase: until you open it, you can never begin your journey.

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

Don’t forget the SPF69

lurvspanking5 Comments

The next frontier for adventurous—yet discerning—travelers? Vacationing in the buff. At least that’s what a growing string of nude resorts are betting on as they fancy things up to lure a well-heeled clientele. Davy Rothbart ditched his drawers to find out whether there’s actually such a thing as high-class nudity.

Thus begins an article called, Inside the Clothing-Optional Resort of Your Swinging Dreams, in the August 2017 edition of GQ Magazine. The author travels to Cancún, Mexico and checks into the Desire Pearl, a clothing optional rather than nudist resort. As he states:

The free spirits flocking to Desire Riviera Maya Pearl Resort, I figured, had to be a different sort. With nightly rates during high season of $700 to $1,500, this place wasn’t for hippies. So, then, who was coming? And how was it that Desire Pearl and a string of establishments like it were booked solid for months at a time?

Within a few hours, Davy makes his way to the pool area, complete with bar and cabanas. The Desire Pearl caters to those seeking more than simply getting a suntan in the buff. After meeting a first-time couple, married with three children, they quickly discover that inhibitions have been shed along with swimsuits.

In that moment, a murmur swept across the Jacuzzi. Half the folks in the water turned their attention toward one of the six cabanas that ring the oversize tub. There, a tall, young, freckled woman was giving her boyfriend a sensual blow job, her ass waving in the air behind her. Rob’s and Laura’s eyes went wide. I have to admit, no matter how much sex you’ve seen in movies or on bookmarked sites on your laptop, it feels crazy to watch real people go at it, just yards away.

Sure, I’d prepared myself to see some amorous behavior, but I’d imagined it’d be fleeting and discreet. Swinging, I had deduced before arriving, was a fact of life at Desire Pearl—and the possibility of a little public sex (perhaps with someone new) must have been a draw for some couples. I knew all that. But even when the trailhead signs warn about bears and rattlesnakes, you’re still a little surprised when you see them.

Although it may be a key attraction for some, the prospect of sex with strangers isn’t explicitly advertised by Desire Pearl. There’s talk, on the resort’s website, of the “erotic,” “sensual,” “open-minded atmosphere” but almost no explicit mention of swinging. Why all this coded language? According to Daniel, one of two Americans who work at Desire Pearl selling vacation packages, the obfuscation allows for a level of discretion, even deniability. If your colleagues or acquaintances from church start Googling around about your vacation, they’re not going to learn too much.

Of course, as Daniel notes, not everybody is here for sex—you’ve got plenty of standard-issue nudists, and also people just drawn by the edgy atmosphere. “Only some are swingers,” he told me. “Others like the freedom of hanging in the pool naked.” The appeal is pretty broad, actually: It’s a tranquil destination where you can step outside of everyday life. There’s an open bar all day and night and a slew of naked people you can flirt with and maybe have sex with. Think of it as Vegas on HGH, a place to let your id off the leash. “The demand is large and growing,” one longtime Desire Pearl staffer told me. “People want ultimate freedom. We provide it.”

The article goes on to explain all the rules about nudity not being allowed in the restaurants, sex only in the cabanas or the ‘Sin Room’ and absolutely no harassment of staff or fellow guests. It paints a picture of safe hedonism far from the grubby club scene. By the end of their stay, the couple he first met winds up swinging with an experienced pair after a late night of partying.

There’s no D/s or spanking going on, or at least none mentioned, but again, the tone of the reporting is constrained and slightly skeevy. I’m actually getting quite discouraged at reading numerous magazines that focus on the ‘abnormal’ aspects of nudity, sex and kink, instead of saying: “America, get your collective heads out of your asses and start accepting the joy of sex.”

For most people though, a vacation—of any kind—is hard to afford. I guess stay-at-home nudism will have to suffice.