The Blonde Geisha tells all

Did you watch Inside the World of Geisha on Oprah today?   It’s a wonderful look at this fascinating world through the eyes of a Westerner…but what if a gaijin or foreigner had the opportunity to enter the world of geisha back in the 19th century?

What if…and you have The Blonde Geisha.

The heroine of my novel from Harlequin Spice.  How did I become interested in geisha?

My love affair with Japan began with a red kimono.

When I slipped on the silky robe, my bare skin tingled as if the gold and silver threads woven through the sumptuous fabric were spun with magic. I imagined I was a geisha with her tantalizing walk and elegant mannerisms. Her long, silky black hair sliding over my bare shoulder like cool ice. Dark, smoldering eyes hot with desire. Soul-melty lips glistening with the taste of passion. I so envied the seductive powers of this enchantress, but who would believe a blonde geisha?

I am no stranger to Japan. It all started years ago when I studied the art of kimono with a sensei, teacher, at a school that makes kimono in Kyoto. She told me the story about the ghost of a beautiful geisha who haunted the kimono shop, once a wooden tea house. She had died in a fire many years ago, her journey forgotten and covered by the mists of time until her diary was discovered in a small work-box called a haribako containing her geisha makeup. According to the story, her diary was written on long, narrow sheets of soft rice paper, pierced with a silken string and alive with the strangeness and sensuality of the floating world of the geisha.

I never forgot her story.

Over the years I’ve worked for several Japanese companies–writing cartoon scripts, acting in tofu and cola commercials for the Japan market, being a hostess for Japanese businessmen–and immersed myself in the Japanese trends and traditions. I published books about Japanese business and culture (including The Japanese Art of Sex: How to tease, seduce and pleasure the samurai in your bedroom, which was featured on Playboy TV), but I couldn’t forget the red kimono. I wanted to write a story where the reader could experience firsthand what it was like to become a geisha. Living the fairy tale, if you will.

Then it hit me. What if the geisha was a Westerner? And what if she lived at the end of the nineteenth century when Japan embraced everything Western?

What if?…and you have The Blonde Geisha.

It wasn’t until Harlequin started their Spice line that The Blonde Geisha found a home and the rest is–

On video!

“And then Jina Bacarr’s Blonde Geisha crossed my desk,” senior editor Susan Swinwood (née Pezzack) told the attendees during the Erotica Panel at the 2006 RWA Conference in Atlanta, Georgia, “…and that rule just flew out the window.”

The rule Susan referred to was not to include historicals in their erotic fiction program. I’ll never forget that day. I was sitting in the audience, fumbling with my new digital camera, working the zoom, checking the sound, trying to get the darn thing to work, when I heard Susan mention The Blonde Geisha (set in 1895 Japan). Her mention of my book was less than a minute, but it meant the culmination of years of hard work and perseverance.

I’m happy to say I got my camera working in time to record Susan talking about The Blonde Geisha along with highlights of her talk at the Atlanta 2006 RWA conference. Here is that video.

What’s up next for the blonde geisha?

The Blonde Samurai  takes place in 1874 Japan and is the erotic story of an American heiress who flees an abusive British husband when she falls in love with a rebellious samurai who teaches her the “way of the warrior.”

Best,
Jina

The Blonde Samurai:

“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

And check out the adventures of the heroine of The Blonde Samurai, Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke,  in “Naughty Victorian Lady tells all blog at eHarlequin.com

A Naughty Victorian Lady’s naughty first kiss: Episode 1

  

By Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”   

Will your lover send round a Valentine to make your heart flutter?  Wrapped up in soft ivory tissue paper and decorated with red hearts and fancy Valenciennes lace?  I refer not to your husband but to your lover.   

‘Tis what Valentine’s Day is all about, is it not?  

Romance.  

If you are a lady of quality, then I have no doubt you bemoan the fact that you didn’t marry the handsome young gentleman who gave you your first kiss on a swing under the apple tree.  The fragrance of your sweet blossoms arousing you, his hands holding you around the waist so tight you could scarcely breathe.  Now you try to re-create that moment with every new lover.   

‘Tis a pity.  

If you are in love with your husband, it is often a similar manifestation.  Men are such forgetful fellows, not realizing that the simple gesture of a gentle kiss upon milady’s cheek can touch a woman’s heart.  

But what if you were a maid of one and twenty and had never been kissed?   

Such is the circumstance of Temerity Whitechapel, the granddaughter of a wealthy baronet and a studious lass with a delicate nature.  Educated by a series of stern governesses, she spent her life caring for her invalid grandfather (recently deceased) within the dreary confines of Mottersby Manor, a grand old house in the hinterlands with nary a whiff of anything of interest to tempt passers-by to call.  Not even a family ghost.  

Until the day a gentleman came to call upon Temerity with a proposition, a very unsettling proposition.  

She didn’t know why she allowed him to enter the grand hall but she did.  Perhaps because he was tall.  She liked tall men.  

“I have here an offer from the railway company, Miss Whitechapel,” the gentleman said, drawing an envelope out of his breast pocket, his smile beguiling even if next words were not.  “To purchase the eastern sector of your land.”  

“And pray, who told you I was willing to sell?” she demanded in her finest mistress-of-the manor voice.  Best she not appear vulnerable before this stranger.  He could be a scoundrel out to take her land away from her since her grandfather’s estate had not yet been settled.   

The tingling running up and down her spine belied her indifference to him.  No young gentlemen called at Mottersby Manor.    

“Have you not heard?” he drawled in an accent she couldn’t determine.  Manchester, perhaps.  “The railway is scheduled to come right through your property.”  

“Is it now?”  Temerity rubbed her hands on her tailored skirt with nary a pleat out of place.  “I will not have a smelly, smoky locomotive upsetting the tenants on my land.”   

If the truth be known, Temerity found the idea of a railway fascinating, but she would keep that notion to herself.  She had promised her dear grandfather never to sell the property unless dire circumstances forced her hand.  

“I beg you to reconsider, Miss Whitechapel.”  

“No.”  She held the door open for the gentleman, signaling their conversation had ended.  “Please, sir, I entreat you to take your leave.”  

Yes, leave, she finished silently, trying to deny that she was responding to the musky scent of masculinity invading her realm.  She could feel her pulse racing, perspiration wetting the high collar at the back of her neck.     

Where was Mrs. Greenville?    

If the housekeeper had done her duty and answered the door, she wouldn’t have been placed in this awkward position.   

“Miss Whitechapel,” the gentleman began, a sincerity in his voice that she suspected was all about the art of provoking, “I am aware that you are in mourning…”  

She nodded.  “Then best you respect my wishes, Mister–”  She didn’t mean to be rude, but her sense of propriety dictated she send him away.  

“Longhorn.  Captain Jack Longhorn.”  He tipped his hat and the late morning sun grabbed the dazzle out of his blue eyes and tossed it into her face, startling her.  He was handsome, no doubt.  

She blinked, determined not to come undone.  “Now that we have been properly introduced, Captain, I insist that you leave.”  

“If I may be so bold, Miss Whitechapel,” he continued, not taking his eyes off her and setting her teeth on edge, making her wish she could reach down and soothe the sweet longing burning between her legs, “the railway will be a good thing for you and your tenants.”  

“I beg to differ with you, sir.  The Whitechapels have tilled this land for hundreds of years and no railway is going to change that,” she stated boldly.  Why did his gaze warm her in a way she had never known before?  “Good day to you, Captain.”  

With a deliberate swish of her black wool skirt, she slammed the door shut in his face.   

Why did she wish she hadn’t?  

Then, because she was a curious lass, her heart pining for male companionship, she dared to peek through the open shutter for one more look at him.  That was when she heard him muttering about the townspeople warning him that she was a frumpy old spinster.   

Such impertinence.  Why, if she were a man, she would call him out and challenge him to a duel.  She’d show him she wasn’t a silly woman who couldn’t protect herself or her property.  

Her grandfather’s pistols, she thought in a panic.  Where were they?  She may have need of them if this Captain Longhorn returned.   

A duel.  Really.  

Are you shocked by her actions, dear lady reader?  Taken one too many sniffs of your smelling powders?   

I dare say you believed Miss Whitechapel was a docile lass who would swoon at the idea of challenging to a duel a stalwart gentleman with the ripe, manly appeal of Captain Longhorn.  

I must entreat you to allow me to point out a most significant aspect of Miss Whitechapel’s personality of which you are not aware.  She has two vices, neither of which she will impart to you because she suffers from undue embarrassment, so I shall do it for her.  

She adores silk petticoats.  

And lurid literature.    

I am not adding this beguiling information to tease you, dear lady reader.  Look, there, under her skirts as she flies up the winding stairway to her grandfather’s room and ruffles through his old trunk looking for a set of matching pistols in a soiled, burgundy velvet box.   

Scarlet silk petticoats hemmed with delicate lace.     

Quite scandalous, but not nearly as much as the books she kept hidden in the wardrobe in her room.  

Under her plaids and woolens.   

Erotic tomes with such provocative titles as Miss Dooley’s Naughty Affair or When a Wife Becomes a Mistress, and my favorite, “The Misadventures of Molly Pearlbottom.”       

But even the torrid thoughts produced by reading these books couldn’t get Captain Jack Longhorn out of her mind.  

‘Twas with regret for her brash actions that Temerity sipped cold tea that afternoon and never touched the sponge cake Cook put out for her.  She didn’t even scold Mrs. Greenville for taking too long in the village to purchase supplies.  Her mouth was dry, her hands shaking.   

Why had the untimely presence of Captain Longhorn upset her so?  

She knew why.  Though she was beholden to her promise to remain here on the family  property, the idea of spending her days and nights at Mottersby Manor for the duration of her life was not a desirable one.  True, she had Mrs. Greenville and Cook and old Brom to tend to the stables, but she had no man to stroke her cheek or hold her tight in his arms, kissing her neck and biting her bare shoulders.  

Or pull on her nipples to make them erect.        

A gentle stirring in her groin made her shiver.  She couldn’t stop thinking about the tall gentleman who looked at her as if he could see the scarlet petticoats under her skirt.   

And more.   

Pray, what was she to do if he returned?                                                                                     

Will Temerity succumb to Captain Jack Longhorn’s masculine ardor?  ‘Tis not the proper behavior of a writer of tales to do so, but I shall tell you that a madness overtook her when next she saw the captain.  A madness that set off a series of events that will make you loosen your stays and reach for a glass of port to steady you.     

‘Tis so delicious in nature that I cannot wait but I must, and so must you.  Come this Wednesday you shall have the next episode…you will return, won’t you?  

         

===== End of Episode 1 =====                                              
                                                         

             

The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”

 

A Naughty Victorian Lady shocks the corset régime with her naughty memoir

A Naughty Victorian Lady's naughty corset

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”  

Under ordinary circumstances there is no more pleasant time of the day that I relish than teatime.  Though I am Irish-American by birth, I have adapted this charming and soothing hour as my own, fashioning its intricacies from the British and Oriental customs to fit my personal taste.  Nibbling on iced sweet cakes and sipping sweet-smelling jasmine tea.  Reading the scandal weeklies. 

Not today.  For on this afternoon, dear lady reader, the tea imparts a bitter taste to my  tongue. 

The reviews for my memoir are in.  Though I received a stellar passage in The London Times (“Charming story, full of original characters, irradiated with wry humor and fragrant with the romance of the Orient”)–

Others have not been so kind.  I shall explain.

The Blonde Samurai has been available for purchase but a scant few days and already I am besieged with fiery reviews from the corset régime,*** ready to tar and feather me for my scandalous tome about my love affair with the handsome samurai, Shintaro.  And other savory details I deign not to reveal here. 

May I present choice morsels of selected reviews for your perusal: 

“Outrageous. Filled with barbaric rituals in a pagan land that will make a lady swoon. “

“A shocking book showcasing the intimacies of what happens when a married woman goes astray.” 

“A romance containing lurid passages of a sexual nature that should be banned from every British home where decent ladies reside.” 

These precipitous ladies of the corset régime are demanding that The Blonde Samurai be removed from bookshops all over London (except for the pornographic shops on Holywell Street, of which they purport to have no knowledge of whatsoever in their stodgy, stolid world. The hypocrites). 

One reviewer was so insulted by the sexual tone of my novel they went on fearfully about it, detailing my liaison with my samurai in salacious detail.  I dare say my memoir is naughty with ardent accounts of my goings-on in places where ladies do not venture, as well as encounters with my samurai so delicious I sigh with longing as I write this.  

I must admit I glanced over the reviews with an amused eye.  No writer wishes her work to be dismissed or worse, ignored.  I dare say, no one has said that my memoir is the bore of conventionality.  Rather that my story evokes a sense of independence and sexual exploration unbecoming to a lady of quality. 

What do they know about sexual exploration?  I imagine the majority of them have never even seen their husband’s poker. 

Excuse my insolence, but I cannot again taste the sweetness of my tea until I have had my say.  

And so, for better or worse regarding my literary standing, I present to you excerpts of the more lubricious reviews of The Blonde Samurai, penned no doubt by the ladies of the corset régime using male names.  For I have no doubt they will stoop to any measure, dear lady reader, to restrict your access to my memoir.   

I offer for your consideration:

Ladies of Mayfair, beware!  You will have need of your smelling powders if you dare to purchase this book.  Filled with the escapades of a titled lady of questionable background, the heroine runs away from her abusive husband to take up with another man.  Unfortunately this reviewer can not report on what happens next since the copy in their possession mysterious disappeared. 

This romance whisks you away to a forbidden paradise where taboo rituals titillate the reader to the point of exhaustion.        

A novel that entices and teases the reader to do unmentionable acts that cause much anxiety to the lower anatomy.  It is to be avoided by all respectable ladies. 

I pray you have the fortitude to make up your own mind and not allow the corset régime to choose the literature you read.  You would not allow them to choose a lover for you, would you? 

I did not think so.

 

*** The corset régime is that stalwart group of Society ladies who shake their ample bosoms and rattle their tiny parasols whenever a new idea creates social upheaval in their ordered world.                                                         
                                                      

                                      

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”    

A Naughty Victorian Lady reveals the secret beauty rituals of the geisha

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”  

You shall recall in a previous posting that I introduced you to the Duchess of Sussington, the naughtiest lady in London who makes her rounds to parties and soirees sans her drawers.    

Today I shall give the Duchess her own post for she has insisted on imparting to you the secret beauty rituals of the geisha after returning from her recent visit to Japan [I shall leave it up to your imagination as to what esteemed gentleman of state accompanied her there].  

Beautiful, elegant and a lass with an audacious smile, may I present Madeleine Malmesberry, the Duchess of Sussington.  According to all the gossip columns, she is “to the manor born” as we say back home, the daughter of a British lord and a genteel lady of quality.  She married the Duke of Sussington, an elder statesman, when she was but seventeen years.  After the duke’s untimely death, she devoted herself to numerous charities, including founding a home for destitute young girls in London’s East End. 

She appeared on the London social scene a scant two years ago after her husband’s passing and has since turned society upside down with her hair the riotous color of a crimson rose and her naughty, naughty ways.  

Duchess, if you please…

Thank you, Lady Carlton, for your illuminating introduction. 

I admit I was among those in Society who snubbed Lady Carlton when first we met.  She was a bit too free with her opinions, speaking of political goings-on and not hiding her avid interest in Japan and her handsome samurai.

I soon changed my mind. 

Her passion and enthusiasm won me over as well as her vast knowledge of the Orient and the unique ladies there who use their art to seduce a man and not their body.  A notion I found not only appealing but unheard of in London Society.     

I journeyed to Japan to find out for myself, where I uncovered the secret beauty rituals of the geisha.  It is with great trepidation that I reveal them here, knowing that doing so will only add to my scandalous reputation. 

Yet it is with a sincere passion to share these rituals with you that I affix a positive attitude to my posting and so you have them:     

• Geisha use nightingale droppings to polish their skin (first introduced to Japan a thousand years ago by the Koreans). Yes, I make no mistake in my words. I understand that you may find it off-putting, not to mention unpleasant to your sense of smell to use bird excrement to give your skin a pearl-like pallor, so I offer you another solution: Fill a small drawstring silk bag with powdered rice bran then soak it in a hot pan of water.

• When the milky liquid seeps through, the rice bran bag is ready for use. Massage your skin in upward motions for a gentle sloughing of dead skin to polish your complexion and to give you the bloom of a young girl about to have her first Season.

• When a geisha enters a room, she is never rushed or out of breath. You can make a brilliant entrance at your next dinner party in the same manner. Remember, poise is almost synonymous with pause. Give yourself a moment to relax and plan what you are going to say to that handsome duke eyeing you as if he knows what is under your petticoats (perhaps he does?).

• You may raise your eyebrows at the idea of the geisha adding black kohl-like liner to add depth to her eyes, but I implore you not to ignore your brows. The geisha find the eyebrows are a most distinctive element and give them great care. You can give your face a natural “lift” by tweezing your eyebrow until you attain a natural arch.

• The first time I heard a geisha speak I thought of the gentle sound of a running brook. Hushed, soothing sounds that lifted my spirit and relaxed me. The voice of a geisha is one of her most seductive tools. You can train your voice to be more seductive by focusing on the bridge and sides of your nose down to and around your lips. Your voice will open up and become flexible, giving it expression and warmth. Practice by reading out loud to his lordship from a racy romance.

• On a cold day, I often insert what the Japanese call a kairo inside my muff to warm me. I have heard that geisha use what are known as ben-wa balls to provide a different kind of heat. (One ball contains a blob of mercury and the other a tiny tongue of copper.) You insert the silver balls inside you (must I explain where?) and as you sway to and fro, the vibrations produced as they knock together send a range of sensations from pleasurable to ecstatic throughout your body.

I hesitated to enter the last item in this posting, but I could not resist since I make use of these balls often.  I find they bring a blush to my cheeks and a smile to my lips that I find quite satisfactory.  

You may wish to ignore me when next we meet at a soiree or at a fashionable shop and you notice my secret smile.  If you do, I will know you have read what I have written.  Yes, I am a tease, but that is what makes me naughty, does it not?

  

Thank you to the Duchess of Sussington for her guest posting.

 

             

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

A Naughty Victorian Lady writes her even naughtier memoir

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”  

Naughty memoir?  Could there be a more sensual title to make you continue reading?
  
You shall see for yourself as I present to you the opening passages of “The Blonde Samurai:”   

“San Francisco

15 September 1876

” ‘Tis not an easy task I have, dear lady reader, to respond to the vicious gossip spread about me through Mayfair drawing rooms since I returned to England. Whispers of euphoric nights with not one but two men pleasuring me; mysterious items to soothe a woman’s burning need for clitoral touch and fill her with orgasmic bliss; the erotic game of domination with girls strapped down and flogged upon their bare buttocks.

“Did I take part in these wild imaginings? Or are they merely tales fabricated by a besotted male scribbler to sell his stories and make his fortune?

“You be the judge as you continue to read, and I hope you will, for pages and pages of erotic delights await you. What is undisputed is that I ran away from my husband and disappeared. Some say I went mad and was confined to an asylum. Others insist I entered a convent.

“Neither is true, but the scandal I provoked shook the standards of bland respectability and sobriety that govern the upper class and started nonstop discussions about what they deemed to be my outrageous behavior and what should be done about it.

“Done about it? As if they alone exist on a lofty plane and rule all those below. I subscribed to no such rules and they shunned me for it. I will shock you further, for I shall begin my story with a confession, one that will titillate you and give you another reason to speculate whether what you’ve heard whispered about me is true. 

” ‘Tis a fact that I, a spirited daughter of Erin by way of America, came to London in the summer of 1872 seeking a titled match. Be it known my looks were plain and my opinions brash, sending my marital prospects into discord among my suitors, though for reasons I shall make clear in these pages, I married well.
 

“Yet the first man I took to my bed after my wedding night was not my husband—or yours—but one of the most mysterious, elusive and enigmatic men in all Japan. A samurai.  

“His name was Shintaro.    

“I shall never forget the moment the tall, muscular samurai swept into the room, his heavy walk making the wooden floor tremble, his presence commanding, electrifying, his melodic, deep voice speaking to me in his native tongue about waterfalls and flowers and the gods as if he was a poet and could produce an alchemy of words to create harmony between us.

“I burned with such desire I could not catch my breath. All I wanted was him. Bold, handsome he was, and as persuasive as the wind nudging a morning glory up the vine with his heated breath, exposing her to the sun, then seducing her to open up to him and live her vivid, unspoken dreams in his arms.” 

I pray you shall pick up a copy of my memoir and continue reading my story…

                                                                                                                              

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

A Naughty Victorian Lady advises you on how to dress like a naughty lady

The Duchess of Sussington

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”  

Did you observe all heads turning to watch the Duchess of Sussington enter her box at the opera last night?  Even the hefty baritone warbling Figaro lost his place when Her Grace made her arrival like Lewis Carroll’s Red Queen of Hearts toppling heads. 

And stealing hearts. 

Resplendent in a rose-red satin gown, her long train swishing behind her as if brushed by the magic of an Impressionist’s imagination, she showed off her long neck, graceful like that of a supple swan but bare– 

Nary a jewel adorned her throat.  Her head.  Or her wrists.  Wearing long, thirty-two button white gloves that covered her arm almost to the shoulder, her hands fluttered a black lace fan about as she leaned over to utter a witty remark to the gentleman next to her.  Then she smiled at the handsome lord behind her.  And was that HRH himself entering her box?

The corset régime*** says the duchess is the naughtiest lady in London.  Yet her mode of fashion is neither gaudy nor garish but rather plain, though more than one roguish blade has proclaimed that she has a pair of  “sister hills” that can drive a man mad. 

What does this naughty lady have that you don’t? 

I shall tell you, dear lady reader.

I had on previous occasion the opportunity to make Her Grace’s acquaintance at the Viscount Aubrey’s town house residence in London where she imparted to me her secret: It is her manner of dress that attracts the gentlemen. 

No jewels, no lace, no ribbons.  Her only adornment is her personality and her wit.

Where did she chance upon such an idea? I asked her.  She smiled and invited me to take tea with her at her red brick palace outside the city, a casual retreat with red velvet wall coverings and pink paint in the sitting room.  A grand afternoon it was, me, Katie O’Roarke, sipping tea and munching on raspberry dainties with the Duchess of Sussington.  

This is what she told me: 

“My dear Lady Carlton, you of all personages should know the answer to my success.  For ’twas from the recent craze in England of all things Japanese that I discovered the geisha depicted so well in the woodblock prints and photographs.  Drawings and prints of these beautiful women posed with parasols or arranging blossoms or playing the lute and dancing.” 

How did she obtain such prints? I asked her, daring to lick the raspberry jam off my lips when no one was observing me. 

“I am privileged to enjoy the company of a famous British statesman who travels frequently to the Orient.  This grand gentleman visited a tea house while in Tokio, where the geisha in her subdued kimono and sash entertained; she is known for her witty repartee and intelligent conversation on politics, the arts and the news of the day. 

“Imagine spending your life having to look beautiful every day as the geisha does.  We ladies of Mayfair spend days preparing ourselves for a ball or a night at the opera, choosing our gowns and jewels, while the geisha spends her waking hours studying her art.  

“I decided I would emanate the geisha in her long, slim-fitting kimono.  Accordingly, the richness of the fabric and the simple cut of my gowns are like those of the geisha, whose understated garments hint at the deep feelings she possesses inwardly.  I use bold colors sparingly and consider it a must that my gown hugs the curves on my body but is never too tight.  Only the best dressmaker will do. 

“I limit my accessories to a parasol or a fan but never both, since too many accessories tend to make a lady look as if she isn’t a lady but a hatless girl from York Street.    

“I never wear soiled gloves, taking a hint from the geisha who wears only the most pristine white tabi or stockings when entertaining a gentleman.”  

“A geisha is also known for her deportment and how she carries herself.  A lady’s posture can make her appear as slim as the geisha in her long kimono.  Chest up, stomach in, bosom aligned.

“And when I thought I had studied all the photographs and woodblock prints, my gentleman friend told me something I didn’t know.

” ‘Geisha do not wear drawers underneath their kimono but merely a slim underslip,” he told me. 

I immediately adopted this practice and have found nary a gentleman who doesn’t applaud my decision.”

And there you have it from Her Grace, the Duchess of Sussington:

If you wish to dress like a naughty lady, dear lady reader, abandon your drawers. 

Mercy, what will his lordship say?
    

*** I have mentioned the corset régime in a previous post: They are that stalwart group of Society ladies who shake their ample bosoms and rattle their tiny parasols whenever a new idea creates social upheaval in their ordered world.

             

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

A Naughty Victorian Lady learns the Way of the Samurai

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”  

In the autumn of 1874 I learned the way of the samurai.

In a hidden valley amongst the orange blossoms.  Full of sunlight and promise.  Under the tutelage of Shintaro, a man of fortitude and vitality.  A man who lived in a heightened state of perpetual readiness for battle.

And for making love.  His silken futon beckoning me with the promise of erotic delights that no occidental woman had ever experienced…

Did your heart beat faster?  Is your curiosity piqued?  Be aware, ’tis true that I have written the sort of memoir that not even the most audacious lady novelist would dare to pen, but I shall not titillate you in this posting with emotional ramblings of a sensual nature. 

No, today I shall acquaint you with the fervent and steadfast ideals of the female samurai.

Such brave women do exist, I assure you.

While aristocratic ladies surround themselves in frothy veils of mystery, the samurai woman proudly displays her fortitude and strength when called upon to defend both hearth and her person.    

Shocking?  Perhaps.  After all, a lady of quality strolling along Regent Street would have no means except a delicate parasol with which to pound a ruffian upon the head should he attempt to abscond with her reticule. 

On the other hand, a samurai woman carries a dirk or dagger close to her bosom in her obi or sash and knows how to wield a curved spear known as a naginata.  

I also learned how to use a sword (a samurai carries two swords–the long and the short sword and yes, the one between his legs as well) and I invite to read about my adventures in my memoir. 

But as promised, today I shall regale you with historical accounts of samurai women.  Like Tomoe, known for her courage and good seat upon a mount.  She rode into battle on horseback and fought alongside her husband.  Another brave female samurai, Lady Masa, was the wife of a shogun and, after his death, ruled his lands and empire with a strong hand.  

And I cannot forget the samurai women of Aizu Province who, but a few years ago in 1868, defended their lord’s castle against invaders with spears and other weapons when their men were away. 

How can I attain the way of the warrior? you wish to inquire, curious as you are though you would never admit it.  I shall impart the code to you in hopes it will resonate with your spirit as it does with mine. 

The way of the warrior is based on a code of personal honor. Loyalty, courage, self-sacrifice, frugality, rigorous physical and mental discipline and total allegiance to your lord.  

As I wrote in “The Blonde Samurai: 

” The way of the warrior is not about the sword, Shintaro taught me, but about the woman holding the sword, her mental strength, discipline, compassion… experience it as you would a drop of pure, fine oil from a flower, a perfume, if you will, so you may apply it to your life as you would scent to your skin and make it yours alone.”

‘Tis a noble idea, is it not?  And one I pray you shall take with you from today’s posting and carry it with you the next time you are confronted with a difficult situation.  

You are stronger than you think…believe and it shall be so.

                                                                                                                               

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

A Naughty Victorian Lady entices you to read a naughty romance

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”  

It has come to my attention on this rainy day when the emerging buds from the flower blossoms sigh with delight at the welcome shower that you, dear lady reader, are not reading enough romances. 

How do I know this? 

I have it on good authority from the “corset régime” that upper class ladies who are not having satisfying sexual relations with their husbands are resorting to drastic measures to change their circumstance.  

What has so disturbed this stalwart group of Society ladies who shake their ample bosoms and rattle their tiny parasols whenever a new thought infringes upon their ordered world is the idea that reading romances can improve your physical relationship with his lordship.  

You are wary of such an idea, you say. 

Here is a first-hand account to prove my point.  When I ventured out earlier this morning to a fancy goods shop to purchase new leather kid gloves (a weakness of mine), I overheard a conversation between two aristocratic ladies that went something like this: 

Lady M:  “His lordship hasn’t dined at home all week.  I cannot tell you the loneliness that overcomes me when I stare at his empty place at the table, not to mention the embarrassment when I hear the servants whispering about it.” 

Lady R: “Does he go to his club or perhaps that disgraceful establishment near the Burlington Arcade?  You know, the one where the women wear Piccadilly bangs and yellow feathers in their bonnets.” 

Lady M:  (Nodding)  “I fear you are correct.  When his lordship returns home, he smells of a peculiar odor I can only describe as dead grass drenched with patchouli.”  (Groan)  “It is all my fault.” 

Lady R: “Do say, Pauline, you are making mirth about this unfortunate situation, are you not?” 

Lady M:  “No, I am quite serious.  When it time to retire for the evening, I am just not in the mood to have relations.  After his lordship turns down the gaslight, I huddle to the far side of the bed with a feeble excuse and pull the coverlet over my head.” 

Lady R:  Then what? 

Lady M:  I say silly things, like my night corset is too tight or my garter broke or the maid pulled on my hair when she brushed it.” 

Lady R: “Pray, dear, why? 

Lady M:  “I hesitate to embarrass myself in front of you–” 

Lady R: “Am I not your oldest and dearest friend?” 

Lady M: ” ‘Tis shameful to say this even to one’s oldest friend, but I feel so…dry down there.  No wetness at all.  As if the essence of my femininity has been stolen from me, like that maid I sacked who doused herself with my most expensive Paris perfume.” 

Lady R:  (Smiling)  “I know what you need, my dear.  Something that will spark your libido and make it dance a lovely waltz.”  (Giggle.)  “Or a wild mazurka.” 

Lady M:  “You mean I should consult my physician about those genital massage sessions I heard about from Lady Hartford?”   

Lady R: “No, dear, nothing so drastic…or so extravagantly priced.  There is a better way to get ‘in the mood.’ “ 

Lady M: “Tell me, please.” 

Lady R: “Read a romance.” 

Lady M:  (Shocked)  “You mean those racy novels where virginal misses swoon while being tied up and whipped by a roguish lord in tight breeches?  Lady Tarringbone says they are the ruination of a young woman’s mind and her character.” 

Lady R:  (Nose up in the air)  “What does she know?  Her ladyship is a dried-up old codfish.” 

Lady M:  “Really, Pauline!” 

Lady R: “I assure you, Sylvia, reading a well-written romance is an emotional aphrodisiac that will make your heart race and fill you with pleasant sensations that warm and excite you.”

Lady M:  “You are not speaking from experience, of course.” (Pause.)  “Are you?” 

Lady R: “Of course not.  But I have heard from ladies who do reach such literature that they are much more daring in bed afterward and often make bold advances toward their husband–” 

Lady M:  “No.” 

Lady R: “Yes.  They might ask him to unbutton their dress instead of having their maid do it, or snuggle between the sheets with him wearing only their night corset and no chemise–” 

Lady M:  “My dear, I have heard enough…what you are saying is quite scandalous!”  Pause.  “But you say it works?”  

Lady R: “Oh, yes.  His lordship and I–I mean, I have heard that it is quite pleasurable.” 

Lady M:  (Shaking her head.)  “I cannot imagine retiring for the night without a chemise.  Doesn’t it get drafty…down there? 

Lady R: “Who cares about the draft when you’re in the throes of passion with his lordship?  Your buttocks quivering, the heat growing in your groin as he parts your thighs and inserts his finger, one then two, stirring your honey pot with such vigorous action I thought I would–I mean, I’ve heard that women have fainted right on the spot.” 

Lady M:  “All this from reading a romance?” 

Lady R: (A sigh.)  “Oh, yes, it is quite heavenly.” 

Lady M:  “I am shocked, Sylvia, at your affirmation…and quite jealous.  (Pause.)  “May I borrow the romance of which you speak?” 

Lady R: “My dear Pauline, I shall make you a present of it.   It is called–” 

At that inopportune moment the sales clerk happened to bring me my wrapped purchases–three pair of smooth leather kid gloves in gray, taupe and ivory–and I didn’t catch the title of the book.  

But it matters not.  Pursue at your leisure the display of novels at your local book shop and bring home a romance that interests you to stir the marital fires.  You will enjoy emotional satisfaction and a good romp between the sheets. 

Remember, while his lordship finds stimulation at gazing upon your lovely breasts with their rose-tip nubs or the wiggle of your delectable backside, plump and round, we females find the engagement of our emotions to be the orchestrator of the dance that stimulates our bodies and prepares us for sex. 

As I mentioned earlier, the emerging flower bud finds joy with the rain as does your own hard bud, the seat of your womanhood, as it begins to throb and burn with a yearning when all your emotions are engaged. 

As in reading a romance.  

The story you read may be a fantasy, but the results are fact: Women who enjoy reading romances enjoy more sex with their partners.  

As a naughty Victorian lady, you have my word on it.

                                                                                                                         

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

A Naughty Victorian Lady marries a naughty English Lord

Ladies of the 1870s

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”

My wedding was perfect. Something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue…

As in bluebood.

I am speaking about his lordship, Lord James Carlton, born to Braystone House, a fifteenth-century limestone goliath situated somewhere in the Midlands and unknown to me.

‘Tis true that I, Katie O’Roarke, married an English lord in the summer of 1872. Like many titled “land-rich but cash-poor” Englishman, James needed funds and I needed a husband.

But not just any husband.

To please my sainted mother, I did as many American heiresses did. I sailed across the pond to England and joined the ranks of British royalty since its American counterpart of New York society matrons with the dubious moniker of Knickerbockers would have none of the likes of me.

I was among the first young American ladies to attach my person and the family fortune to a member of the British peerage. And what a time I had of it, me with my inquisitive nature and sassy mouth. Be it known my looks were plain and my opinions brash, but a grand journey it was…until I headed to Japan and discovered that all the palaces and finery in the world cannot compare to being with the man you love.

But I digress, dear lady reader.

Today’s post is not about romance but marriage. A mariage de convenance as the French are wont to say. And so I shall attempt to enlighten you with the extravagant and wildly dazzling world of the American heiress in 1870s London.

Where shall I begin?

The O’Roarkes were nouveau riche, what I like to call gritty rich since my da was a man who wasn’t afraid to get his hands dirty to make an honest dollar. And that he did in railroads. He was among the self-made millionaires who could easily afford to spend what they made.

Even though my mother furnished our New York brownstone with elegant chairs in blue velvet inlaid with ebony and ivory and adorned herself in pleated skirts in watered silks, the snobbish society ladies would have nothing to do with us. No invitations to dinner parties or fancy balls. Her silver tray designed to hold such invitations remained empty.

But you don’t know my Irish mother. Undaunted after being snubbed by the elitist New York Society, Mama insisted we head for Paris.

And from there to London where the H.R.H, the Prince of Wales, a royal with a reputation for the ladies, harbored no prejudice against Americans, but rather welcomed the company of Yankee heiresses with fortunes to spend and who looked charming in the latest Parisian gowns while doing so.

They called us buccaneers since we set out to plunder the titles of England like pirates in silk petticoats, the doors to a glittering new world opening up to us with invitations to all the London Society soirees.

I made my mother proud when I was among the first to marry a member of the peerage (I have since heard that Jennie Jerome married Lord Randolph Churchill.***

I soon discovered that while being Lady Carlton afforded me great prestige, it left me with a lonely heart…

Until I arrived in Japan, the land of cherry blossoms and samurai, where I learned the way of the way of the warrior: loyalty, honor and self-respect from a samurai called Shintaro, one of the most mysterious, elusive and enigmatic men in all Japan.

 

[***Jina's note: Jennie Churchill was the mother of Sir Winston Churchill]

                                                                                                                      

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”   

A Naughty Victorian Lady enlightens you on how to use Scent as the Geisha and Courtesans do

by Lady Carlton née Katie O’Roarke, heroine of “The Blonde Samurai”

As the cold days linger and the frost bites at my nose like an unhappy hummingbird, I am oft reminded that the smells of this season–soot and the burning of firewood–make the coming of spring an ever so joyful occurrence with its fragrant scents.

Rose, jasmine, lavender.

Delightful scents that the geisha and courtesans use in their unique, charming manner since these artistic ladies do not use perfume in the manner you do.  They apply scent to the air (incense sticks in redolent smells such as sandalwood and cinnamon) or to the many layers of their silken robes or kimono.  They consider it most important that their scent lingers in the mind of the gentleman once he has taken leave of their futon.   

I am reminded of the young geisha I met in the pleasure quarters of Yoshiwara named Simouyé *** and how she used scent to entertain the customer with her art before the courtesan made her appearance.  A geisha owns many kimono, each one sumptuous and silky and painted with original patterns in the most vibrant colors, but it is the scent of the geisha that makes a gentleman catch his breath and yearn to take her in his arms.

How is this possible? 

Scent affects a gentleman’s mood, evoking a reaction to a smell even before he identifies it, sparking sensual memories with a memorable woman.

 Such as you, dear lady reader. 

If I may do so, I shall pen my thoughts about scent so you may use them the next time you wish to seduce your husband or your lover (though rarely are they one and the same in the boudoirs of Mayfair) and send him adrift in a magical dream where you are the lead player.

1.  The wise goddess of nature infuses flowers with potent, seductive scents (the world of geisha is called the “flowers and willows world).  A drop of an essential oil is all you need. No more.  Even if you can’t smell it late in the evening after you return from a soiree, he can. 

2.  Warm weather enhances your scent, begging that you be judicious during the Season in applying scent to your skin.  Honeysuckle and jasmine are soft fragrances best worn for tea at Brown’s, but for evenings (especially when you wish to be mysterious and are attending a masked ball), a heavy, musky scent can be most seductive. 

3.  A favorite scent of mine–lavender–reduces stress and can help you relax when your household is in disorder (has your husband been chasing after your new ladies maid again?) as well as relieve anxiety and promote a sense of well-being.  Though you may be more inclined to look for a new maid to regain your good nature. 

4.  Oriental fragrances are all the rage with their powdery, sensual, bewitching scent.  Be daring and shed your inhibitions in the boudoir.  Do as the courtesan does and undress slowly in front of your husband or lover and not behind a pearl-inlayed screen, the scent of an oriental paradise wafting in the air and seducing him as he watches you.  

5.  I am aware that many of you dab scent behind your earlobes.  No geisha would do so nor should you.  She is aware that the skin in that area produces an oil that affects the scent.  Instead, rub scent behind your knees since scent rises.  

I shall leave you with a final thought about fragrance: though it may be considered unladylike to apply scent between your breasts, what with the current rage of low décolletage in gowns so popular among ladies of the upper class, is there not a more desirable place for his lordship to bury his nose?
 

***Jina’s note: Simouyé, the mama-san and teahouse owner in “The Blonde Geisha” makes a cameo appearance in “The Blonde Samurai.”

    

  

February 2010: meet The Blonde Samurai
“She embraced the way of the warrior. Two swords. Two loves.”