The Traveller by Afrodykie

V is for … Va-Va-Voom

IT was going to be for Vanilla, but everybody knows what vanilla sex is …

It’s the standard rumpy pumpy — no nips, slap-spanking or salacious sucking — and certainly no dressing up to give a dressing down.

Vanilla is missionary all the way (yawn) and a quick shower afterwards.

Sies!

There’ll never be a silk scarf in sight, never mind a fishnet stocking.

Nor suspenders in any shape or form! My word, no!

Aren’t they for whores? And dear, you and me, nibbling ear lobes is as far as we go, that’s deviation.

Pass the butter, please.

What? Your name’s Marjee? Ha ha. Short for margarine, coz you spread so easily?

Darling, no … that’s crude. Just now you’ll be hauling out the high heels, perhaps a mask or two.

Maybe you’ll tie me to the bed post and fetch the feather duster.

God forbid you tickle me with that.

I know you. You’ll tease me tease.

Yes, dear, that’s called erotic sexual denial.

Kinkeeeeee.

I’ll make you want it, want me, madly.

Laughs.

Top? Bottom. Sub. Dom? What’s that?

No, no, no lovie, it’s got nothing to do with my legs in the air and your backside pumping like a crazy piston.

It’s all about dominant-submissive, and it may be sexual or non-sexual.

I see. You in control, you tell me what to do.

Yes. Pass the marmalade, now. Tora!

Winks.

The point is: one of the pair submits, that’s a dom-sub relationship, and if there’s pain or humiliation then it starts melting into sado-masochism.

But there are no strings attached, sweetie, not like in bondage and discipline but let’s face it, BDSM, the whole bang shoot, it demands that one partner surrenders. It takes trust, and an imagination.

Yikes.

Nervously curls forefinger around cigarette and looks at partner quizzically.

Draws deeply, and blows smoke rings.

You mean like butch and femme?

No, love, really, that’s so 70s.

We’re stuck in a bit of a time-warp here, perpetuating these heterosexist roles. Don’t you think?

Just now you’ll want to get married!

Well, it’s worked so far … this hetero what did you say?

Maybe for you, but I’m getting bored, in bed too. Bed death. Ha ha. There’s nothing worse than this type of restraint … the proclivity to dwell on the familiar. I mean, when last was intimacy thrilling?

It tell you what, we get a movie or something, and some toys, and fantasise a bit. And you let go of that manly stuff, and just be sexual? Let’s titillate each other. Let’s go where we haven’t been.

Runs toes up partner’s leg underneath the breakfast table.

Drops shoulder of her blouse to reveal elegant clavicle and a throbbing pulse in her neck.

I want to give the orders.

Cocks head and blows kiss.

Naaah, love, c’mon … You’re being silly now. It’s just one of your silly ideas.

Smiles, and opens legs to steady herself. Partner leaves seat.

You going to do the dishes, love?

No baby, I’m going to do you. Now!

(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

U is for … Unusual

EVERYTHING you are not used to is unusual.

It may be usual for someone else though, so technically, nothing is unusual.

It’s only your experience that makes something usual or unusual; your seeing, and being.

But this isn’t a philosophy lesson.

And you don’t want to think too much on a Wednesday morning in Eressos, Greece.

You prefer to imagine the summer’s silver growth on the olive trees, sleek leaves on thin branches, they bend and bob whip the sky. They bow to kiss – and miss — the stony earth.

The olives cling to them, they hold on to get fatter.

The figs too, they are swelling, bubbles of green fruit burgeoning; and your pear tree, the pears are robust in their ripening. They’re starting to blush so keen are they for a ravenous devouring; their curves voluptuous.

Oh that pear tree. That’s where you should’ve met her lips with yours.

The air bristled with potential and your heart raced.

But you had lead in your shoes, and courage sank into your soles.

She looked the other way, and drew her dogs about her.

Oh, how the crows cawed, raucous in their mocking, the doves dipped dangerous from the blue.

They laughed — what a fool are you hoo hoo.

The gravel’s stones crunched and footsteps kicked up dust, cloudy grit spiralled.

It stuck to your thick ankles, to your socks smothering your sweaty feet.

She sighed.

The sheep looked at you sideways.

They carried on chewing.

What did they know about desire, the future’s pyre burning bright, scalding.

What could they say about Attraction, that unruly tyke, the teasing scamp who makes a rogue of lust?

The rascal taunts you terrible. The night, the day – ardour coats your skin, your everything.

You’ve learnt a lot in these three months, a lot about yourself.

It’s not been easy, this learning, alone on a Greek island.

These lessons, a brutal and unyielding teacher, they’ve forced you.

They’ve called you to respond, no blanket of excuses could shield their chilling rout.

They’ve left you bare in the startling glare of clarity.

A focus so intense it lights a path. It dazzles you draws you.

It holds you close.

Your heart skips, joyous.

Pure essence illuminates your nakedness as you dance to the song of a dream.

(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

T is for … Thank you
THANK you for the music, the songs I’m singing … nah, way too cheesy, even for an Abba fan.
Thank you, Milou, for the washing machine, that’s what you want to say.
Milou? It’s Snowy in French. You know Snowy, from the Tintin comics?
The name is on the wall of their building, just metres from the sand and sea, in Skala Eressos.
Milou Bed And Breakfast http://www.roomsmilou.com.
The kindness almost made you cry.
How sweet was that, to respond to a request on Eressos Connected, and to offer the use of their washing machine – and drying space?
It’s the warmest Eressian gesture you’ve had the privilege of appreciating — the second time in three months that anyone has invited you anywhere, and been nice to you!
You like soft landings…
And it was very soft at Milou.
Yonca added stuff to make your washing come out more delicate and someone, you don’t know who, pegged your laundry to the line.
You went for a swim and bought some vegetables and fruit while the sun lapped up its wet.
On Sunday, it was the day of the Big Full Moon.
You finished your online work and called Babis – you’re always calling Babis — to drive you to the beach.
You told him you’re getting a car on Thursday.
Ne, he said, and dropped you at the cantina.
You hitched your rucksack onto your shoulder and kicked off your slip slops.
The paddle ski cost E5 to hire for an hour.
And off you went, out into the Aegean, and around The Rock.
We call it the island, said the bloke who told you the do’s and don’ts of ocean rules.
The sea was choppy and the wind pushed you this way and that.
Around The Rock you paddled and then, boy o boy, you had to stop and plan.
The current pushed you back; the wind too.
You dug the oars deeper into the heaving sea, and still you didn’t move.
The beach looked very far away.
OK, don’t go straight into the wind, cut across it.
Phew. You could see the buoys again, and hear Parasol’s music pump.
Your plan had worked, and you paddled, sure and strong.
You went in and out of the shiny slipway in to the setting sun.
The church bells banged across the sea and the water splashed across the bow.
The ski slapped bumpity-bump, it clouted little waves, surly restless swells came at you.
You passed Da Luz then paddled back again.
The ocean was turning into silky oil, colour changing in the receding light.
You were ready for your swim, a lovely swim, and you found a sand bank.
Teens were playing Marco Polo there, and it made you smile, their carefree friendly joy.
Families, friends, they laughed and sprawled their happiness on the sand.
For once there were empty tables at the Blue Sardine.
You faced the sea waiting for your mountain tea.
It was soothing and warm. Like Milou.
And the moon smiled, and spilled its big bright light on you.
(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

T is for … Thank you
THANK you for the music, the songs I’m singing … nah, way too cheesy, even for an Abba fan.
Thank you, Milou, for the washing machine, that’s what you want to say.
Milou? It’s Snowy in French. You know Snowy, from the Tintin comics?
The name is on the wall of their building, just metres from the sand and sea, in Skala Eressos.
Milou Bed And Breakfast http://www.roomsmilou.com.
The kindness almost made you cry.
How sweet was that, to respond to a request on Eressos Connected, and to offer the use of their washing machine – and drying space?
It’s the warmest Eressian gesture you’ve had the privilege of appreciating — the second time in three months that anyone has invited you anywhere, and been nice to you!
You like soft landings…
And it was very soft at Milou.
Yonca added stuff to make your washing come out more delicate and someone, you don’t know who, pegged your laundry to the line.
You went for a swim and bought some vegetables and fruit while the sun lapped up its wet.
On Sunday, it was the day of the Big Full Moon.
You finished your online work and called Babis – you’re always calling Babis — to drive you to the beach.
You told him you’re getting a car on Thursday.
Ne, he said, and dropped you at the cantina.
You hitched your rucksack onto your shoulder and kicked off your slip slops.
The paddle ski cost E5 to hire for an hour.
And off you went, out into the Aegean, and around The Rock.
We call it the island, said the bloke who told you the do’s and don’ts of ocean rules.
The sea was choppy and the wind pushed you this way and that.
Around The Rock you paddled and then, boy o boy, you had to stop and plan.
The current pushed you back; the wind too.
You dug the oars deeper into the heaving sea, and still you didn’t move.
The beach looked very far away.
OK, don’t go straight into the wind, cut across it.
Phew. You could see the buoys again, and hear Parasol’s music pump.
Your plan had worked, and you paddled, sure and strong.
You went in and out of the shiny slipway in to the setting sun.
The church bells banged across the sea and the water splashed across the bow.
The ski slapped bumpity-bump, it clouted little waves, surly restless swells came at you.
You passed Da Luz then paddled back again.
The ocean was turning into silky oil, colour changing in the receding light.
You were ready for your swim, a lovely swim, and you found a sand bank.
Teens were playing Marco Polo there, and it made you smile, their carefree friendly joy.
Families, friends, they laughed and sprawled their happiness on the sand.
For once there were empty tables at the Blue Sardine.
You faced the sea waiting for your mountain tea.
It was soothing and warm. Like Milou.
And the moon smiled, and spilled its big bright light on you.
(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

S is for … Scribble

NESTLE into the neck of a nice quiet page, with no words on it, no thoughts, no humour, no pain.

Listen to what it says, its whisper calls you.

You.

It beckons.

It’ll shout if you don’t respond, that page, it’ll pull your face in, close.

Love me, it says.

Clothe me in prose.

You too can write and tell a story. It doesn’t have to be a funny one.

Just do it, please.

Blank pages were made for you to fill, black on white, the drug, the addict.

You get your fix.

They lure you, these pages. The pimps, they pump your fingers up and down.

Fingers melt into the keyboard, dance fast intensity; they move relentless, unguarded words on their route, the road rambunctious to god knows where.

They spring uncalled, the bastards, they burst and gasp grasp the letters, settle them from a swirling well.

They swell, and barge into the light, and then they cringe.

Disclosure, the glare, it dazzles them.

Daunting scrutiny startles, scares them, these words on a page.

It’s a sentence, to write.

Every word elicits a verdict, the reader’s on the bench.

Percipience, they plead. Sagacity.

Off with their heads, shouts the judge. The gallery roars: let them live.

Live!

We’re just words, they say, cowering on the page.

They’re stripped of mirth.

They recoil. They beg to flower, these words.

It’s all in the gaze.

Their meaning draws emotion from a subjective haze, yes.

And they hope, yes they do, these silly little words, they want a more soulful day, a day when they can play, and laugh, and throw a joy onto the page.

They bask in carefree innocence, an innocence dressed in buxom banter.

(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

R is for … Rock
SKALA Eressos, besos – calientes!
Hot kisses, yes, if you know where to find them.
No, silly, not under a rock … that’s not what this R is about.
Ok, this R is for … did you say, um … Rock?
More specifically, the Skala Women’s Rock Group at Little Buddha, as it’s named on Facebook.
It’s fun swimming with the wimmin at the harbour end of the beach, a Blue Flag beach, mind you.
Miss F and Miss T are there every single morning of the glorious summer, and part of spring and autumn too.
They get their little ducks ready steady go all in a row, and it’s splish splash to The Rock, a tiny island 314 metres off shore.
If it’s 10am, it must be swim time.
The daily dip is as much part of Skala’s lesbian culture as the appropriation of Sappho’s sexuality, and the tourism industry that has grown around it.
Yes, Sappho, the lyric poet — Plato named her the Tenth Muse, bless him —she was born in Eressos.
She died here too, but of course nobody knows if she swam to the rock.
Could she swim, with that stylus poised in front of her lip, and a writing tablet glued to her left hand?
She’d have been hamstrung, that’s for sure.
You can’t imagine her emulating the strapping lass who sliced through the sea in 4mins 10 and, on reaching The Rock, turned round to see hapless heads and arms bobbing in her wake.
Generally though, The Swim to The Rock is a social swim.
Miss F told you last year, as she paddled along next to a gasping and unfit you, that she and Miss T started The Swim to add to the spectrum of activities for the women in Skala.
Her swimming cap was turned up at the ears.
It is a chance to exercise, she said, have fun and to do something that doesn’t result in a hangover, a babalas as we say in RSA.
When you’re a first timer, and you’ve finished your swim, Miss T will line you up with the other swim virgins, and someone – everyone, goddamit, it’s the digital age – everyone will take a photograph.
You’re standing there dripping and Miss T lowers a medal over your wet head.
You bow to accept the Sappho Siren Award for Excellent Swimming, a laminated square of paper hanging on a piece of cotton.
There’s that picture of Sappho on it.
You got yours during the Sappho International Women’s Festival in September last year, and you don’t know if every new Rock Star gets one.
But you do recall the words of Miss F during your first swim.
When’s it going to end, you panted, treading water and catching your breath.
She smiled, and uttered words as sweet as a kiss: “As we say, this swim isn’t a race … it’s all about the journey we take, together.”
(ends)

The Traveller by Afrodykie

Q is for … Quiz … and other delightful things
SKALA Eressos is not only about bodies, booze and bonhomie.
Oh, no. It’s also about brains!
Take the Monday night quiz at the Flamingo Beach Bar, for instance.
Miss Whiplash is in charge. Very strict, you’re told, and domineering.
Achtung!
She has tats on her scalp, and a raised eyebrow that sends shivers down your spine.
Nobody messes with her. They don’t dare.
By day though, she’s the Crazy Cat Lady.
She feeds rescue kittens and loves it when their little ears flap as they suck on a tiny bottle teat.
They sleep in her neck, and she holds them there.
Quizzes are close to her too. She’s been compiling questions for a long time.
Last week there were about 50 people in teams at Flamingo, she says.
They gather at half past nine and start promptly at ten to vie for the grand prize, a bottle of tequila.
No brain, no gain?
That’s island style for you.
Libation, a lubricant.
It was yours too, not any more.
You’ve been sorting your life’s work and only yesterday 1. made Facebook contact with one of the friends you shared a flat with in the 1980s, and 2. on the same day found a note you had sent to her, with words on it beginning with … yes, you guessed it, Q.
Quenelle … seasoned ball of pounded fish or meat
Quern … hand mill for pounding corn (quern stones too)
Quetzal … (not to be confused with pretzel) birds of a striking colour, and tralala, the currency of Guatemala
You wrote in the note that you were sucking a paper clip in between editing stories at a newspaper in Port Elizabeth.
You also mentioned that you’d smoked three cigarettes and eaten an apple, banana, rice and two peaches. Oh, and a tomato too.
You added quidnunc to the list; someone who wants to know the latest gossip, a skinderbek we call them in Afrikaans.
And won’t you be my Quiche (open tart)?
Your request was Quashed.
Oh, the Quixotic nature of unreQuited love.
Sigh.
This Quest for Quim, it is a Quandary indeed.
You wonder … Miss Whiplash, do you know the answer?
(ends)