Von Dutch

This is Kenneth Howard AKA Von Dutch.  You can learn more about him and his legacy from web searches; start with WIkipedia if you like.

I am especially fond of the second image because of his physical appearance, un-posed pose, and his socks and loafers, which I find rather sexy.

Fire!

I've decided to stop burning wood in my fireplace.  It's too much trouble and too dirty and the room smells bad when the fire is cold.  When I can afford it, I'm going to change to gas.  In the meantime, here is what I put together with about $25 worth of goods.  It burns denatured alcohol, which is far from the cheapest fuel but it's clean and safe and pretty to watch and it takes the chill off the room in the morning.

More 19th Century Ass Whoopin' Poetry

As I continued to read the erotic literature of The Pearl, it occurred to me that sex was not something that began with the sexual revolution.  Everything I was learning from the David Susskind show had been around for a long time.  What was new in the 1960s was that such literature could be circulated above ground.

From what I know on this side of the pond, English law has put an end to the age old tradition of schoolboy whippings, a practise which seems to have reached its peak during the Victorian era.  My elementary school library's biography of WInston Churchill captured my imagination because of its frequent reference to the canings at Churchill's schools.  It wasn't until I read Frank Fane that I realized the Churchill biographer's description of bloody shirt-backs was deliberately inaccurate, to spare the reader (and the writer) the pain of describing bloody buttocks.

The text of this poem is also copied from Wikisource:

Frank Fane 

a Ballad

The master said to the Schoolboy,
As it fell on a day,
"All the rest are to go,
Frank Fane is to stay.
          
I set you all free
From the birch and the cane,
Not a boy shall be swished,
Not a boy, but Frank Fane."
          
Said the Merry Master,
"Frank Fane is to stay,
To be flogged with a flogging,
As good as your play.
          
Frank Fane is to stay,
To be whipped in the hall,
To be whipped, till his whipping
Atones for you all.
          
Any boy that enjoys
A fine flogging to see,
I give leave to stay here,
With Frank Fane and me:
          
They will see his white bottom,
When they see it again,
I don't think they'd fancy
It belongs to Frank Fane."
          
While the rest went a playing,
In the hall there were four,
Frank Fane and his Master,
And two fellows more.
          
There were three there for pleasure,
And one there for pain;
How they giggled and grinned,
At the funk of Frank Fane!
          
"Now loosen your braces,
And lower your breeks,
And show your companions
Your bare nether cheeks.
          
Make haste to the closet,
And bring a good rod,
Or I'll cut you to ribands,
You shuffler, by God!"
          
"O master! dear Master!
Have pity for once!"
"What, pity for a truant,
A thief and a dunce!
          
For once, and at once,
You shall smart for all three,
A three-fold example
Your bottom shall be."
          
Now his comrades they took him,
Each grasping a hand,
And gaily accomplished
The Master's command.
          
They swayed down his body,
Rolled up his shirt-tail,
And poised up his buttocks,
That a stroke mightn't fail.
          
Then they tied down his legs,
That the skin might draw tight,
That each lash might draw blood
To the Master's delight;
          
Then they twitched at his hair,
And chucked up his chin,
And cried out, "Good Master!
It's time to begin."
          
Now Arthur's and Redgy's
Own bottoms were sore,
But they knew that Frank Fane's
Would be terrible more.
          
And each was too glad
To forget his own grief,
In seeing Frank's flesh
In the state of raw beef.
          
Said Arthur to Redgy,
"We've often been stripped,
All three of us together,
And jollily whipped;

But now we're both masters,
And, crickey! it's fun,
To see Frank Fane catching
Three floggings in one."
          
The first was three dozen,
Laid in with a will,
"Just enough," quoth the Master,
"For a boy in the bill."
          
Then he sat down and rested
His arm for awhile
And looked at his work,
With a grim kind of smile.
          
Then he gave a fresh sentence-
"So much for the Dunce!
Now five dozen for the Truant,
But not all at once.
          
This rod is all splintered,
Go fetch me two more;
No, two's poor allowance,
So, Redgy, bring four!"
          
"There'll be two for the Truant,
And two for the Thief,
And if that does not bring
That fat bottom to grief-
          
Then Keate was a fumbler,
And Busby a fool,
And I'm not a Master
Of Whippingham School!"
          
Then the right trusty Master
Went at him like mad,
And loud were the prayers
And shrieks of the lad.
          
Said Arthur, "You coward!"
Said Redgy, "Keep cool!
Your bottom's a credit
To Whippingham School!"
          
But the Master is pausing!
Is it mercy or fear?
Ah! no, it's to toss off
A mug of strong beer.
          
And refreshed with his tipple,
He's at him again,
He never seems tired
Of swishing Frank Fane!
          
He pauses once more. - "Boys!"
He cries, "Hold him tight,
I remember I've got
A short letter to write.
          
If the creature's rebellious,
Let him taste this sweet cane,
I'll be back in ten minutes
To finish Frank Fane."
          
So the cane on his shoulders
Went rat-a-tap-tap,
And in turns they examined
His bum like a map;
          
Such outlines! Such islands!
Such mountains of weals
And such pretty red rivers
Running down t'wards the heels!
          
Here's the Master returning,
A cigar 'tween his lips,
Hurrah! for the Master
Who smokes while he whips!
          
He knows how to tackle
Two pleasures at once-
The taste of the baccy
The smart of the Dunce.
          
So he puffed like a demon!
And fiercely cut in,
Till you hardly could pick out
An inch of whole skin.
          
Then he took a new country,
And he striped the white thighs,
Till the old hall re-echoed
A tempest of cries.
          
O! firm was his muscle!
And supple his wrist,
And he handled the Rod,
With a terrible twist,
          
But muscles grow weary,
And arms lose their powers,
There's an end for all nice things,
For floggings - like flowers.
          
Shrieks Frank Fane, "I'm dying!"
Says Redgy," You a'nt,
And if you go off
In a bit of a faint,
          
We'll soon thrash you back
Into living again,
You've not done with swishing
Just yet - Master Fane!"
          
Now the whipping is over,
And the culprit is free,
I don't think he'll sit down,
This evening for tea!
          
And when in a fortnight
He's turned down once more,
I fancy he'll find
His bottom still sore.

Remembrance of Spankaholics Past

The Pearl

---

When I was fourteen, I was fortunate enough to come across a copy of The Pearl in the book department of Two Guys discount store in Pennsauken (Cherry Hill?) New Jersey.  I was already familiar with the Steinbeck novel of the same name but the cover art of this book was incongruent with the only story of that title known to me at the time.  I don't remember exactly the cover art but it was of a genre that could be described as "tasteful pornography".

I was unsure and confused about my sexuality.  All I knew is that I was horny most of the time and that I had horrible thoughts that nobody else ever thought of, dreadful, shameful thoughts that were mixed up with raging erections that refused to go away even when I tried to think instead of horrible accidents and hospitals.

It was a shock and a relief to find that someone had taken my most shameful secrets and put them in print!  A century before I even came to be, there was an audience for the sort of entertainment that, up until that moment, I knew to exist only in my imagination.

Charlie Collingwood's Flogging was a revelation to me.  The severity of the whipping was enough of a turn-off to keep me from creaming my pants right there in the book department but I was hooked.  It was another fourteen years before I crossed the threshold into the practice of adult ass-whipping but the conspiracy of silence had been broken.

Night before last, I had a craving to read this old favorite again.  I don't remember what happened to the copy of The Pearl I bought at Two Guys but there is a more recent edition somewhere in my library. 

The Pearl was so much more satisfying than reading my brother's Playboy magazines or furtively searching the subject catalogue under "H" at the public library.  It was not a sufficient refuge from the world and the family in which I felt I was an alien but it provided some comfort during those times.  It was the best I had in those days before the excellent "It gets better" campaign.

Rather than search my library for the book I wanted, I wondered if it was available online.  It had passed into the public domain around the time it had crossed the line from censored to legitimate. None of the writers of The Pearl would have dared assert copyright in the "respectable" England of the late nineteenth century, when such an undertaking would have destroyed reputations and careers and likely led to criminal prosecution.

Credit goes to Wikisource for this copy of Charlie Collingwood's Flogging.  In the event the link goes dead before this blog, I reproduce it here for the reader's pleasure:

Charlie Collingwood's Flogging

Seventeen years of age, with round limbs, and broad shoulders, tall, rosy and fair,

And all over his forehead and temples, a forest of curly red hair;

Good in the playing fields, good on the water, or in it, this lad:

But at sums, or at themes, or at verses, oh! ain't Charlie Collingwood bad?

Six days out of seven, or five at the least, he's sent up to be stripped;

But it's nuts for the lower boys always, to see Charlie Collingwood whipped;

For the marks of the birch on his bottom are more than the leaves on a tree,

And a bum that has worn so much birch out, as Charlie's, is jolly to see.

When his shirt is turned up, and his breeches, unbuttoned, hang down to his heels,

From the small of his back, to the thick of his thighs is one mass of red weals.

Ted Beauchamp last year began keeping a list of his floggings and he

Says, they come; in a year-and-a-half, to a hundred and sixty and three.

And you see how this morning, in front of the flogging block silent he stands,

And hitches his waistband up slightly, and feels his backside with his hands.

Then he lifts his blue eyes to the face of the Master, nor shrinks at his frown,

Nor at sight of the birch, nor at sound of the sentence of judgement, "Go down."

Not a word, Charlie Collingwood says, not a syllable, piteous or pert;

But goes down with his breeches unbuttoned, and Errington takes up his shirt.

And again we can see his great naked red bottom, round, fleshy, and plump.

And the bystanders look from the Master's red rod, to the schoolboy's red rump:

There are weals over weals, there are stripes upon stripes, there are cuts after cuts,

All across Charlie Collingwood's bottom, and isn't the sight of it nuts?

There, that cut on the fleshiest part of the buttocks, high up on the right,

He got that before supper last evening, oh! isn't his bottom a sight?

And that scar that's just healed, don't you see where the birch cut the flesh?

That's a token of Charlie's last flogging, the rod will soon stamp it afresh.

And this morning you saw he could hardly sit down, or be quiet in Church;

It's a pleasure to see Charlie's bottom, it looks just cut out for the birch.

Now, look out, Master Charlie, it's coming: you won't get off this time, by God!

For your Master's in, oh, such a wax! and he's picked you out, oh, such a rod!

Such a jolly good rod, with the buds on, so stout, and so supple and lithe,

You've been flogged till you're hardened to flogging, but won't the first cut make you writhe?

You've been birched till you say you don't care as you used for a birching! Indeed?

Wait a bit, Master Charlie, I'll bet the third cut or the fourth makes you bleed.

Though they say a boy's bottom grows harder with whipping, and times make it tough,

Yet the sturdiest boy's bottom will wince if the Schoolmaster whips it enough.

Aye, the stoutest posteriors will redden, and flinch from the cuts as they come,

If they're flogged half as hard as the Master will flog Charlie Collingwood's bum.

We shall see a real jolly good swishing, as good as a fellow could wish;

Here's a stunning good rod, and a jolly big bottom just under it - Swish!

Oh, by Jove, he's drawn blood at the very first cut! in two places by God!

Aye, and Charlie's red bottom grows redder all over with marks of the rod.

And the pain of the cut makes his burning posteriors quiver and heave,

And he's hiding his face-yes, by Jove, and he's wiping his eyes on his sleeve!

Now; give it him well, Sir, lay into him well, till the pain makes him roar!

Flog him, then, till he stops, and then flog him again, till he bellows once more!

Ah, Charlie, my boy, you don't mind it, eh do you? it's nothing to bear.

Though a small boy may cry for a flogging, that's natural, but Charlie don't care.

That's right, Sir, don't spare him! that cut was a stinger, but Charlie don't mind;

All the rods in the kingdom would only be wasted on Charlie's behind,

At each cut, how the red flesh rises, the red weals tingle and swell!

How he blushes! I told you the Master would flog Charlie Collingwood well.

There are long red ridges and furrows, across his great, broad, nether cheeks,

And on both his plump, rosy, round buttocks, the blood stands in drops and in streaks.

Well hit, Sir! Well caught! how he drew in his bottom, and flinched from the cut!

At each touch of the birch on his bum, how the smart makes it open and shut!

Well struck, Sir, again, how it made the blood spin! there's a drop on the floor,

Each long, fleshy furrow grows ruddy, and Charlie can bear it no more.

Blood runs from each weal on his bottom, and all Charlie's bottom is wealed

'Twill be many a day ere the scars of this flogging are thoroughly healed.

Now just under the hollow of Charlie's bare back, where the flanks are aslope.

The rod catches and stings him, and now at the point where the downward ways ope;

Round his flanks, now like serpents, the birchen twigs twining bend round as they bite,

And you see on his naked, white belly, red ridges, where all was so white.

Where between his white thighs, something hairy, the body's division reveals.

Falls the next cut, and now Charlie Collingwood's bottom is all over weals.

Not a twig on the rod, but has raised a red ridge on his flesh, not a bud,

But has drawn from his naked and writhing posteriors, a fresh drop of blood.

And the Schoolmaster warms to his work now, as harder and harder he hits,

And picks out the most sensitive places, as though he'd cut Charlie to bits.

"So you'll fidget and whisper in school-time, and make a disturbance in Church?

"Can't sit still, Master Charlie, eh, can't you? Well, what do you think of the birch?

"Oh, it hurts you so, does it, my boy, to sit down, since I flogged you last night?

"It was that made you fidget all church time? Indeed, you can't help it, please God-

"By the help of the birch, Master Charlie, I'll teach you to help it, please God-

"If you don't mend your manners in future, it shan't be for want of a rod.

"You're a big boy, no doubt, to be flogged; the more shame for you, Sir, at your age-

"But as long as you're here, I shall flog you," he lays on the cuts in a rage.

"Aye, and if you were older and bigger, you'd come to the flogging block still—

"Boys are never too big to be beaten!" he lays on the birch with a will,

"if a boy's not too old to go wrong, Sir, he can't be too old to be whipped;

"So take that!" and he lays on the rod, till the twigs all with crimson are tipped.

There are drops of the boy's blood visible now, on each tender young bud-

Blood has dropped on his trousers, and Charlie's bare bottom is covered with blood.

But I'd rather be shut up for days, in a hole you would scarce put a dog in.

And brought out once a day to be birched, than have missed Charlie Collingwood's flogging.

How each cut brings the blood to his forehead, and makes him bite half through his lips!

How the birch cuts his bottom right over, and makes the blood spin from his hips!

How his brawny bare haunches, all bloody, and wealed, with red furrows like ruts,

Shrink quivering with pain at each stroke, that revives all the smart of past cuts!

How the Schoolmaster seems to hit harder, the birch to sting more at each blow!

Till at last Charlie Collingwood, writhing with agony, bellows out,"Oh!"

That was all; not a word of petition; a single short cry and no more;

And the younger boys laugh, that the birch should have made such a big fellow roar.

For a moment, the Master too pauses; but not for a truce or a parley:

Then the birch falls afresh, on the bloody wealed flesh, with "Take that, Master Charlie."

All the small boys are breathless and hushed; but they hear not a syllable come,

They hear only the swish of the birch, as it meets Charlie Collingwood's bum.

And the Master's face flushes with anger; he signs to Fred Fane with a nod;

And Freddy reluctantly hands him another stout, supple birch rod.

And again as he flogs Charlie Collingwood's bottom, his face seems aflame;

At each cut he reminds him of this thing or that, and rebukes him by name.

Each cut makes the boy's haunches quiver, and scores them all over afresh;

You can trace where each separate birch twig has marked Charlie Collingwood's flesh.

Till the Master, tired out with hard work, and quite satiate with flogging for once.

With one last cut, that stings to the quick, bids him rise for an Obstinate Dunce.

From the block Charlie Collingwood rises, red faced, and with tumbled red hair.

And with crimson hued bottom, and tearful blue eyes, and a look of "Don't Care."

Then he draws up his breeches, and walks out of school with a crowd of boys dogging

The heels of their hero, all proud to have seen Charlie Collingwood's flogging.

FINIS.