It’s Blushing Jock–Fun, but not as we Know it
“I ache for the touch of lips dear, but much more for the touch of your whips dear. You can raise welts like nobody else …” Tom Lehrer
Have kilt, will travel. Inured to the jokes about what’s up your kilt and seldom blushing, I had a chance to find out if I could pass a test by experts.
It started in the Authors’ Lounge at the London Book Fair a few years back. Feet sore, and ready for a coffee, I found a space at a table. I took fell into a chair with a big sigh. In moments I was in conversation with an attractive woman, a successful author as it happens. We chatted about this and that, and she invited me to meet her publisher. Great idea. Opportunity beckoned.
Little did I know my experience was about to widen …
Down the aisles, with blushing to come
My new friend had navigation problems, and we walked down many aisles searching for her publisher’s stand. Finally, in a far corner, there it was… OMG … You may remember the old line, that’s a nice outfit you’re almost wearing.
I gazed at six-packs, cleavages, buttocks, thighs; exposed acres of firm flesh — nothing improper you understand. Just book covers and posters with scant amounts of clothing. In fact, I can’t think why I walked into the column supporting the stand.
After a brief introduction to the boss, I promised to drop by the next day for a coffee and chat with the team. My education on erotic literature, far from complete, was about to get a boost.
Back at the stand
The following morning, they were ready for me. Imagine me, a Scottish author and son of the manse, standing there in a kilt, black socks, and black shirt – every inch a crime writer. If nothing else, I represented mankind as the only male on the stand and firmly in the cross-hairs for a spot of blushing, as I was about to discover – talk about lads and lashes (sorry Sean).
Two or three editors, a couple of authors and the publisher sat talking until some invisible director bellowed action, in a voice only they could hear.
Lamb to the slaughter
They focused on the art of making a person blush. Hmm, that sounds like an interesting piece of psychology, I thought. Psychology or not, their focus was a slightly different tangent from mine. My teachers on the subject of erotica weren’t talking about how words can achieve a rosy tint. No, they meant techniques for spanking others with implements. Implements, you say? Implements. You know, paddles, cats o’ nine tails, whips, lashes, rods, twigs, belts, straps, rulers – I could go on – all intended to create a glow.
Taking up the challenge of appearing comfortable, a man of the world sort of comfortable. I listened, blush free as they discussed the latest apparatus. My innocence protected me as I heard of techniques to raise a corporeal flush without breaking the skin: flick, swipe, swish, stroke … amazing; the appliance of a light (?) punishing science between consenting adults. It was all about pain and of course gain for some people. Are there PC terms? Inflictor/Inflictee? Whacker/whackee?
My hand must go up here – sorry, no rudeness intended. I knew nothing before I went to the stand. Now, my awareness is greater, and my knowledge increased, perhaps even unbeatable.
The women I met were pleasant and mischievous. Did I bolt? No, of course not. I believe I left with dignity, and I’m sure the chuckles I heard came from a nearby stand.
One thing I must admit. I’ll never slap my knee, stroke a cat or strike a golf ball without new trains of thought springing, unbidden, to mind.
© Mac Logan