Emily Bingham

Writer-Instructor-Rope Slut

V is for "Ouch!" Rope Journaling 5-3

It’s been a while since I've played with anyone new. It's also been an equally long time since I've gotten a chance to seriously bottom. So I did a big scary thing and posted an ad in the play dates thread for Kinkfest asking for what I wanted.

Admitting to needing a chance to play and not be in control was terrifying. It didn’t help that most of the people who responded were older men.  And looking at their messages I realized I was zero percent interested in them. Old men used to be my jam! Guess being treated well by the youngin’ Mr Right changed my mind. Turns out feminist, socially aware folks of my generation are a lot more rewarding.

So that left me with just one fella in my age range that wrote a great “this is me and this is the trouble we could get into” message. Problem was he didn't have a picture. Never a good sign. But everything he said was hot and interesting so I took a chance and told him how to find me in the dungeon the first night.

It was half way into the evening already and this mystery man hadn't said hello, all my regular play partner friends were busy getting into trouble already. So I wondered if I should call it a night and go home to play with the sure thing that was waiting for me in bed. Just as I was turning to walk towards my bag and coat the universe tapped me on the shoulder.

I turned around to a younger hyperactive version of Robert Downey Jr. “Hi I'm V. I hope you're Emily because I don't usually talk to strangers.” I instantly knew I would play with V if he was up for it because damn I have a weak spot (and a wet spot in my pants) for RDJ. See, the first dirty old man I slept with on the regular who became my regular fuck buddy all through college looked like RDJ and I'd never quite gotten over him. Guess I wasn't as over old men as I thought.

So after declaring our hypothetical interest in a scene, V and I did a dance of flirtation heavy on sarcasm and geeky puns, you know, just the way I like. Kinkfest is the one time of year I will do pick up play (doing a scene with a near stranger with very little negotiation) because it's a huge event. I trust people to not be stupid enough to try to cross limits in a room of hundreds of witnesses and if something goes wrong there's hundreds of people to help. So I was ready to jump in. V however needed more foreplay.

We sat and chatted about being Midwesterners trying to figure out the strange social graces of the west coast and the differences between the kink scenes in the various places we've lived. (No matter where one goes, Portland has the reputation of being the consent violation capital of the US...so sad and yet so well warranted. There's a reason I don't often play with new partners.) And since we were stationary our friends kept finding us to say hello. And each time we got interrupted it took V a minute to remember we were thinking about playing. So by 11 I was ready to leave him and go try to play with a friend since it seemed like V was never going to happen. And again as soon as I decided I was done waiting for V, he decided he was ready.

Finally! What's a girl gotta go to get tied up around Portland these days?

We settled for a square of super sexy wrestling mats on the super safe concrete floor. (The ambiance of the dungeon this year left a bit to be desired.) He spread out his ropes, I took off only my dress because he didn't want the girl cooties of naked flesh near his body (hey I’d waited this long for the thing to happen I wasn’t going to bail now and I didn’t need my bits touched anyway.) And we began our dance of give and take.

He circled rope around my chest, let the rope go slack and then pulled it tight suddenly to knock me off balance and into him. He pushed me away and finished the rope harness in a similar fashion, always keeping me on edge. We were standing, neither of my arms were bound and he kept looking at me expectantly. We had negotiated and talked about possibilities for over an hour I had kinda forgotten what he had decided on us doing at this point. Did he want me to fight him and be switchy? We'd flirted with rope wrestling as a possibility, was he waiting for me to put a rope on him?

Just as I was about to ask he approached me putting the bone of his knees into the backs of my mine to sweep me to the floor where he added more rope. That answered that question.


As he added more ropes to the tangle of seemingly nonsensical lines on my body he would periodically tug on them or poke me with an elbow or knee to elicit a grunt. “Oh does that hurt? Should I stop? Anything else you have to say for yourself?”

It was about then I realized this is probably what it's like to get topped by me. I sighed at the universe's sense of humor and resigned myself to being tormented by the male alternative reality version of me.  Complete with a rope mess, awkwardly applied pain and sarcastic sadistic comments. I made a mental note to learn some new topping methodology. Who was I kidding...I was having a blast even if his techniques were oddly familiar.  After all I liked all the things I do to people, that's why I do them. I just so seldom get them done to me I forgot what such a thing was like.

It was delightful to lay back and “enjoy” being tormented. V was terrible! In the best possible way of course. I was groaning and threatening to bite him and yelling everything except the “fuck you” he so desired. Not even when he played with my feet did I give in and say every Top’s favorite ego stroking phrase.

We even managed a rope kerfuffle with grace. Instead of panicking when a limb was totally unresponsive V untied it was quickly as possible (no easy task when I was covered with his entire bag of rope) and talked me through sensation returning. We laughed and continued his plan to hurt me until I was loopy. It worked, by the time all the rope was off me I was weaving around while trying to sit up while also unable to figure out my sweater. He coiled his rope while looking at me worried. “Don't worry I promise not to fall over and break my head. It's just been a reeallly long time since I've gotten to bottom to a meanie. This is all good, promise.”

“I figured but thanks for letting me know.  And don’t worry I had fun too, I just have resting overly concerned face.”

After I'd cobbled together a bit of brain power we hugged farewell and I took the train home to cuddle a sleepy Mr Right who was snuggled up in bed waiting for me, sleeping like a puppy.  Curling up around my love, I was well reminded of everything I like and don’t about playing with new people. I guess I should do it more often!

That Time I...Kinkfest-ed!

Aside from all the kinky business I learned in classes and in the dungeon, there were a few other things that stuck post Kinkfest.

1.      People have really strong reactions to being offered golf pencils to fill out surveys with.  The cruelest words I heard all weekend were people refusing my gift of tiny writing implements.

2.      There are two kinds of people…those that understand an event is made possible by dedicated organizers and volunteers.  These people clean up after themselves, thank everyone, and fill out surveys so next year can be even better.  And there are those selfish butt clowns that spill coffee everywhere, say things like “fuck off with your surveys” and complain about everything.

3.      It was interesting how differently I was treated as a volunteer by presenters depending on where they fell on the sub or Dom, leather or rope, and femme or masculine scales. Makes me realize why I hang out largely with ropey queer switches for the most part.

4.      Being in that space as a social justice warrior who also needed to be a friendly volunteer was…let’s say interesting.  People I’ve called out for being problematic tended to either pretend we’d ever had words, as if we’re still friends (ha!) or avoid me.  That last group I had great fun being so saccharine sweet to that one tripped while doing a double take at my smile. 

I especially enjoyed bothering a former shitty (literally, he let his cat shit on my everything and forbid me from using the kitchen) roommate who kept glaring at me from under his fedora then trying to slither away as quickly as possible.  Him I put on the biggest nicest smiles for and frequently just happened to end up having giggly conversations right next to.

5.      It’s really weird when your “real” life and kinky life overlap.  Seeing people out of your normal context is strange!

6.       I never want to see golf pencils ever again. (Bonus points to whoever can come up with a hot scene incorporating tiny pencils.)

7.      Con drop is a fucking asshole.  Especially when it hits at the same time as PMS.  Even more so when work and roommate stress pile on there.

Speaking of which drop is holding onto me like an evil goblin at the moment so the sexy run down of my ridiculous antics over the weekend will have to wait until next week.  In the meantime I’ll be here in bed watching bad TV.  Please send me some ropey hugs!

Look What I Learned!


Also known as these last couple of weeks have been absolutely bonkers but I wanted to update the blog.  So have some photos of the new Hojo Hishi TK I learned last weekend at the FredRX intensive. Three days of non stop rope learning! It was so awesomely exhausting that even though I was topping, by the end of the weekend my entire body was sore. Turns out tying your favorite giggly bottom in painful ties and suspending them from bamboo is hard work! The bottom in question was jazzed to be sore and catch up on rope times. So all in all it was a win win.


FredRX ties in a very particular style that I probably won't use much of in my day to day rope practice. However I learned a lot about how and why knots work which has made the simplest parts of ties so much more secure. It has also made my shoe tying indestructible. So if you need an update on tying your shoes let me know because, hint, you're doing it all wrong. Turns out our kindergarten teachers were shitty rope instructors.


My fella also hasn't seemed to mind my new rope skills as I insist on practicing what I learned on him. Yay more diamond patterns! Especially a harness that looks nice on male and larger bodies. 


And next weekend is the big kinky conference, Kinkfest, here in Portland. Days of non stop classes and dungeon parties. So I'm getting back in the swing of doing sexy things finally. Be in the look out of tales of my naughty adventures dry soon!

That Time I... Accidentally Experimented with Thunder Fucking

As soon as I got done smoking, I realized mistakes had been made. They weren’t my mistakes but I would be the one dealing with them.

Instead of my cramps going away, the room was melting. I was seeing in 4 dimensions. I couldn’t stop giggling and it was really difficult to concentrate. This wouldn’t have been a problem except I was trying to do my taxes. I was trying soooo hard to be responsible after losing a week of my time to house sitting some very needy animals. The constant meowing wasn’t really conducive to focus so I’d missed my self imposed deadline. Then again the fact that my laptop screen seemed to be undulating and changing colors wasn’t conducive to focus either.

I had issues. Mr Right did his best to help me put the finishing touches on my taxes but I could tell this wasn’t going to happen. It was difficult to remember my address let alone if I had receipts for my book release party. And I knew from past experience that if I fought too hard the pleasant buzz was going to fall over into depression and anxiety. Besides my brain was so scrambled that the pain had technically gone away, so that was a plus.

Instead of trying to force myself to adult, I sighed and accepted that the dispensary had given me something much different than the CBD I’d been in need of. The ACDC strain was close to the ATF and the bid tender had sold me the latter by mistake. It never occurred to me to read the label after the hour long conversation we’d had about the strains.

I laughed like a maniac and hid under a blanket as Mr Right consulted the internet to see what was going to happen to me. Thankfully it seemed like I just had silliness and relaxation in store, no paranoia reported as a likely side effect. (Side note: how cool is it to live in the future where you can ask the internet anything and nerds somewhere have already typed it on the internet somewhere?)

Then he told me the full name of what I’d just consumed: Alaskan Thunder Fuck. I groaned. “Ew,no! I don’t like that at all.”

“Fraid so.” My face must have been overly serious and thoughtful because he started laughing at me.

“This isn’t the day I was trying to have! No thunder fucking.”

“None? Not even a little?” Mr Right raised his eye brows and made the noise that in our idiolect comes directly after innuendo laden flirtation, so I slapped him as he laughed harder at my accidental wordplay. The room was moving too fast for me to make out with him let alone fuck him anyway so I settled down to lay in his lap so he could distract me with some dumb TV. Which had become quite necessary as my imagination became convinced that I was growing wings.

Mr Right and I been working our way through a semi dry albeit entertaining series called the Americans. Spies, intrigue, costumes, and Keri Russel in 80’s outfits. There was something for everyone but not nearly enough sex or butt showing for my tastes in dumb TV. Until today when boom stoned Emily is watching every character in the series fuck. Though I don’t find any of these people attractive, by the third on screen coupling my body had other ideas. I couldn’t keep my hands off of Mr Right.


“How you doing?” He asked. More us language for are you just making out with me or are you instigating sex.

Quickly he understood what I was up to as he paused the TV and helped me close the blinds. As soon as we weren’t scandalizing his neighbors I had his pants at his ankles. He had a confused, titillated look on his face that quickly transported to full on bliss as I took him in my mouth and gave him passionate head. I felt no pain so kneeling on hard wood floors held no consequence allowing me to stay there a good long time, taking his hands to put them in my hair. He isn’t has rough as some of my past lovers (something I enjoy about him yet sometimes I get hankerings) but there are ways to pretend, and his hands on my head are enough to help me pretend he’s forcing himself deeper in my mouth as I gently choke myself on him.

When I come up for air I pull off my shirt and he takes off my dress and his shirt. He tries to drag me to the bedroom but I want more cock which he lets me have (poor suffering man friend) until I take a breath again. He leaves for the comfort of a bed and I join him, stumbling gracelessly out of my tights.

His hands are between my legs stroking me to a confusing level of excitement. I'm not used to this level of intensity. This is like the first time, not like the first time with a new lover but like the first time being touched ever. As if this is all new, all my nerve ending awake and on fire in a way they haven’t been in a very long time. The simple pleasure of being fingered or kissed have long since lost their sharp edges over the years, after many lovers, after nearly a year with this beloved. But now in this moment I feel and want and crave everything.

Luckily Mr Right isn’t offended by bedroom giggling because I'm so overwhelmed that’s all I can manage. I really want to know what his cock feels like but he’s trying to make this last, to tease me, to hold back my eagerness, dirty old ocelot I am. Occasionally I’ll catch a handful of his cock and stroke him until he wiggles away. Eventually I can’t take it anymore and break free of his ministrations to grab a condom, put it on him and position myself on hands and knees in front of him.

Nothing is left to the imagination and yet he asks, “Is there something you want?”

I look back at him and position myself onto his cock saying,”You to fuck me silly.”

He does and again it's like the first time, shocking and overwhelming. He’s a nice fit ordinarily but today feeling this way he feels porn star ridiculously large, almost too much. But I like too much, I like rough, I like passion, I like having and feeling everything. So I buck against him until our bodies are slapping together and we’re sweating and exhausting one another.

I fall onto the bed to grab lube and he breaks away to grab a vibrator which he applies to my clit while fucking me. This would ordinarily be a nice treat but not enough to get a huge reaction. Today I can barely take it, my legs shake and I can’t stop squeezing so tight he pops out. I’m almost falling out of the bed. So he takes his cock out of the equation for the moment and uses his fingers. He’s good with his hands and knows what I like and I’m an easy target at the moment so it doesn’t take too long to get me there.

Except orgams are an odd concept in this state. I will get to the edge of one and feel it fall away only to repeat the process until I’m nearly mad with frustration. So I put my imagination somewhere filthy and far away and it does the trick. I come so hard that the pleasure seems to fall in on itself in an endless colorful loop of synesthesia and delight. When I can’t take it anymore I pull him towards me and toss aside the vibrator so that I can come with him inside of me in missionary, me on top, every which way until he comes as I whisper filthy nothings to him. Odd since though I type dirty talk well I don’t do much of it with my mouth in the moment during actual sex and yet here I was chatting away. Mr Right doesn't seem to mind.

After as we cuddle both of us spent, he says “Um maybe that pot has some benefits. I’m not sure I want to trade it in after all.”

“Yeah we should probably keep it….after all getting me high is of course the only way for you to get lucky”

“Shush you.” More of our idiolect for you're hot and can't wait to fuck you silly again soon.

Coming Out...

It will come as no big surprise since you’re reading this on my sex blog, but I’m pretty open (some would say open to a fault) about most of my life.  Almost nothing is a secret.  And yet there’s one thing I’ve hidden (even from myself) most of my life.  But today I want to come out and say it…I’m a nerd!

A comic book collecting, video game playing, sci fi reading, board game liking, super hero movie obsessed big ole nerd.  There I said it!

See, people tend to have this idea of me as a snooty Anais Nin and Pillow Book type erotic foreign film and brainy literature type. And I enjoy that too but at my core I most enjoy the simpler things in life (not that the things that make up nerd culture aren’t deep and meaningful--that’s a whole other blog post for another day.)  The primary colored, easier to digest Marvel and DC universe are just easier to digest than the jealous and complexly motivated jealous lovers of a foreign film.

However I’ve never felt comfortable being out about my deep and abiding love for Rogue and hatred of Cyclops (in all forms of the Marvel cannon always and forever, talk about a one dimensional narcissist.) At first it was because I was always the unpopular, bullied weirdo whose mom made her clothes and wouldn’t let her go out after dark or shave her legs until far into high school. So discussing with anyone the Margaret Atwood, Michael Crichton and Dean Koontz books that I devoured would not have helped lesson the amount of times I got pushed into a locker per day.  My sibling was the only outlet I had back then for such things.  That is until they fell deep into the land of World or Warcraft and left me behind to sit in dark rooms to LAN with other unwashed teenagers.  That was too nerdy even for me.

Later I continued to keep my fandom to myself because I was drawn to nerd boys who were far nerdier than me.  As if it was a competition. (Well I did lose my virginity to a pro Scrabble player so I guess sometimes it was a competition) So I let that be their thing.  I didn’t know as much about the storylines in the lesser X-Men books or feel comfortable in gaming stores and didn’t feel like being mansplained to about such things.  So instead I focused my passion on things I knew intimately like confessional and Beat poetry or weird indie movies.  

Additionally I now realize it didn’t help that I was drawn to assholes and narcissists all the way back to the start of my dating life.  These were creep nerd boys that wanted me to feel silly and lesser-than and uncomfortable with my level of nerdiness.  Creep nerd boys thought I could only play female characters in Diablo 2 or Gauntlet or identify with girlie comics.  No Deadpool or Orcs for me.  I remember going to see the Lord of the Ring movies and my male roommates politely excusing me from their conversion because I was “just a girl” and hadn’t read all the books, especially not the Silmarillion, so I was a fake nerd girl. Just in it to impress boys.

And these creep nerd boys continued throughout my life.  “You don’t love Arkham Horror? Well maybe you aren’t as smart as you think you are? It’s just a board game.”  And “If you won’t listen to the play by play of my D&D campaign why would I read your erotica?”  And “Just read Harry Potter. Here read it. How can you call yourself a nerd if you don’t?”

Fake nerd girl…  You’re just a geek; a glorified book worm. 

Fake nerd girl…  If you were a nerd you would come LARP with me. 

Fake nerd girl…

By the time I was in my thirties I was well and truly alienated from many of the things I loved the most growing up, those first explorations into fandom and exploring my sexuality.  Instead I veered towards sex and erotica (things I was always tangentially interested in anyway), getting passionate about writing smut and learning rope. No one I knew was doing that, there was no one to tell me I wasn’t good enough or passionate enough about it.  After all, the only thing girls are good for is sex so it made sense to the world that I objectify myself, no one argued with me going down that path.

Then when nerds became more main stream with the Marvel Cinematic Universe everywhere,  movies with latex clad heroes filling theaters every summer, Neil Gaiman became a pop culture icon, and comic conventions were everywhere. Suddenly I felt the old twinge of longing, of missing that world. But I was deep in literary culture where if you didn’t have an MFA you were nothing. Where as a lowly “genre writer” I didn’t fit in. I already always felt like the token less successful friend, the circus freak to keep the people with their Oregon Book Awards and scholarships to the Iowa Writers Workshop amused.

“Have you met Emily, she ties people up?”  She also does a lot of other things including write and she’s been published many times but let’s focus on the sex stuff.  Tehehe.  So scandalous.  

Time and again I’d be told at the beginning of parties “Can you not...um...my mom is here.”  The words in between the lines being “can you not be yourself” and “um maybe I shouldn’t have invited you.” As if I don’t have parents or a boss or know how to behave in normal company, you know, on account of the bondage and erotica. So there was no way I was going to lower my social standing further by mentioning that I was excited out of my head to go see Logan as soon as humanly possible.  It wasn’t worth it.

So when I sat across the table from Mr Right on our first date as he talked about board games and geek meet up group I kinda rolled my eyes and thought “oh no, not another nerd boy, boring.”  I didn’t think much would come of us considering our differences so his nerdiness snuck under my radar. It was just one detail of many, just one of the million things he was passionate about.  So I kind of giggled at his games and only half listened as he talked about Wil Wheaton.

Fast forward most of a year and we’re laying in bed discussing how various mutant powers would affect bedroom activities.  Which characters we’d sleep with/want to be (Gambit, duh!) We lurked in the yellow room at Powell’s to buy from the Best Fierce Post Apocalyptic Female Characters endcap, reading and swapping books about clones and the end of the world and robots and spaceships and lesbian lizard alien sex. Which culminates in me sitting in his reading nook absorbing Sex Criminals comics while he plays the new Zelda game. Just another weekend in my new comfy safe life.


“Hey remember when you weren’t a nerd?” He says or something along those lines as I mention how nerd boy dream come true this moment it.  And we go have dirty, silly sex as soon as he finds a save point.

Mr Right didn’t make me nerdy. I’m no letting my nerd out because of or for him. It’s just that in a relationship devoid of judgment and full of support and wonder, where we take turns learning and diving into the other’s world, he has made it easy to be myself.  And the nerdy part of me is just one small part of what was able to blossom. Just as I’ve allowed him to open up sexually and learn rope.  We’ve been good/bad influences for each other.

Now I suppose it’s only a matter of time before I take this to its logical conclusion by finding a Wonder Woman outfit and capturing him with my lasso of justice.

Aimless Love

When I stay in my house in far Southeast I've started taking a new bus in the mornings. The mornings when I don't wake up next to my love and the commute is already long, the buses crowded and full of frustrated and damp commuters. Everyone sitting on one another and crowding each other's space bubbles, personal boundaries already compacted to fit the special etiquette of public transit where strangers touch legs in tight seats but don't talk or make eye contact.

The bus that makes the most sense is the one a couple blocks from my front door that drops me off right in front of work. But each bus has a personality, a genre of people who inhabit it and this bus is grumpy and miserable. No one says good morning or offers a seat to people struggling or elderly. No one assists with arms full of too many bags or even says I'm sorry for stepped on toes. I imagine this bus is what a big city like New York feels like. Crowded and yet so lonely, no human connection at all. The empath in me is exhausted before the day even starts to touch arms with these folks. It's too much, too cruel, too cold.

The route also goes by my former house, the site of which still saddens me, forces me to remember my dog friend the literal love of my life who is just suddenly no part of my life at all. Break-ups are hard enough but breaking all ties with a roommate who used to be a pal never occurred to me.  I never thought to keep my heart to myself when it came to the dog we were co-parenting. So there's a pit bull shaped scar at the center of me that I don't know how to heal. A hurt I can't fix and is too awkward for most anyone to talk about.

“Just be friends with S find a way to figure out your differences for the dog.” As if it's that easy. As if I can forget the harsh words. The lies. The abusive partner allowed to move in. The passive aggressive hatred and jealousy he allowed them to direct towards me. That partner’s threats of violence. The constant substance abuse.  The once friend's ability to forget all I did for him and our dog friend, to push me towards possible houseless all because I asked if our dog friend had been fed that day.

As if I can forget or forgive the unnecessary cruelty of yet another so-called friend choosing a partner and a drug (alcohol and the high of co-dependence in this case) over our friendship. I can't forget and I can't make due with continuing to be mistreated in the name of occasionally seeing my dog friend, an animal I loved so deeply she's thanked in the inscription of my book. So I've ripped off the band aid and moved on, no more abusive relationships no matter what I’ve promised myself.

Me modeling in one of those lovely downtown buildings once upon a time.

Me modeling in one of those lovely downtown buildings once upon a time.

So I found a new bus, one where the people are kinder. They smile and follow the rules of we're-all-in-this-smelly-form-of-public-transit-together. It’s also a bus that skirts that part of town completely, the part with so many strange hurtful memories. Instead it drops me in the heart of downtown Portland. There tall buildings are topped with gargoyles and other decorative stone frippery. Where buses and trains and streetcars all meet and share crowded roads with cars and pedestrians. The smell of petrichor wafting off the bricks. Pigeons argue. Pan handlers sell Street Roots. Stores advertise sales and display oddly dressed mannequins.

And the people. All the beards and flannel and North Face jackets. The hippy lady with the orange leg warmers. The gentleman in shiny shoes and equally shiny hair. The woman in fishnets and leopard print coat, seemingly immune to the cold. The man living on the streets, face grizzled by time and weather who has a life likely infinitely more difficult than my own who smiles and says good morning, knocking me out of my selfish internal whinging about jobs and roommates. And I carry that smile on to a woman across the next street who seems lost and saddened by similar thoughts. She smiles back and seems a little lighter.

All these odd and wonderful strangers going about their day. So many of them looking like extras cast for a movie set in the Pacific Northwest (did I mention the beards and flannel?) And I'm reminded why I stay in this city even though it's difficult. Though I constantly feel on the verge of being priced out of housing or frustrated into quitting the newest in a long line of dead end jobs. I stay because this is the closest to feeling at home I've ever had. And for that morning reminder, those fleeting smiles, that pay forward momentary sweetness that creates  the feeling of we are none of us alone, for that I'll walk 20 minutes to work and take in the city that I love. It's a frustrated love but what love isn't.

So you want to get with* an assault survivor?

*And by “get with” I mean consensually date or have sex with. 

Reposting this essay from my old blog because something tells me it will only continue to become more of an issue in the upcoming years. I use hetero-normative pronouns for ease of story telling, knowing that assault can happen to anyone/anyone can be on either side of this healing process.

Rape changes a lot of things.

Sex gets complicated. Walking home in the dark gets complicated. People who remind you of the person who assaulted you get complicated. But I personally refuse to let that moment of ugliness win. I think of putting distance between me and the night I was raped as a challenge and adventure, rather than the end of the world.

Then some new thing comes along that reminds me that being a rape survivor will always be a part of me. A teeny tiny part, but a part nonetheless. After going on a slew of first dates recently I realized dating was going to be another thing that gets complicated.

There are two things I need to get out of the way with guys up front to see if it’s worth our time to have a second drink. Is he into rope? And how does he react to a casual mention of the other r-word? I know better than to torment myself with a fella who can’t handle either.

Since I tell my assault story a lot usually I say something about having been in a story telling show or having recently finished writing something.

“Oh, what was it about?” The good ones will say.

“I’m so sorry.” The keepers will say when I tell them, when I say the big scary words that will make a lesser man run in the other direction…“I was raped.”

Some will say, “Wow” or “gee” or just reach across the table and touch my hand while making an apologetic face. Those are also acceptable.

The ones that I want nothing to do with will say, “That happened to my sister once” or “not all guys are like that.” That’s when I ask for the check and go home. Even if they aren’t purposefully douches those guys aren’t ready to deal with the reality of dating and/or sleeping with a survivor in any meaningful way.

Casual sex is usually pretty do-able with some negotiation and discussion of the things that are trigger to avoid. Fuck buddies will gladly dance around those land mines in order to get laid on occasion.  And I've found it empowering at times to get my  brain casually fucked out during the healing process but your mileage my vary.

It’s the friends and longer term dating partners that get complicated. At first it will be great and I’ll think “yay, this is working I don’t have to have a hard talk about consent and rape with this person.” Then the universe reads my mind and shit gets weird.

It happens again and again. I’ll meet a person and we get along swimmingly, we’ll flirt, and maybe even casually sleep together or engage in kinky play. Then one day not to long after I can feel a shift in the universe. I’ll notice they’ve liked things on my Fetlife profile or visited my website. Suddenly the flirtation is no longer there, the hugs get briefer, and the conversations more awkward. And I know...they’ve read about my rape. Shit just got weird.

Sleeping with a rape survivor is scary. I understand. Especially one that refuses to shut up. So I started asking these interesting men that seemed to be pulling away for no other good reason what was going on and I was right. My being vocal on the subject makes things a little weird for my well meaning sexy friends.

I understand, but hot guys of the world, we can still rub yummy parts on one another if you’re into it. Consent is hot and I’ll gladly show you why. So don’t pull away or disappear.  A whole ton of other things, glorious delicious body rocking things have also happened to me. Let’s focus on that stuff!

I’ve already before about what folks can do to support a rape survivor but what can a fella do to make sex and dating less weird when pursuing a person who has been assaulted?

1. Ask before you touch. Not every time but the first couple of times is not only nice but required. There are few things sexier than a guy who grabs the band of my underwear, looks up with eyes full of trouble and lust to ask, “Can I take these off?” It establishes that consent is a thing he understands and that he will ask when in doubt instead of barreling forward. I will go so much farther with a person who asks because I don’t have to stay on alert and worry about him. He gets it, he’s trust worthy.

2. It’s just as important to not withhold sex as it is to not force it. Of course it’s okay to not be in the mood but if you’re not having sex because you think it’s what she needs, that’s not kosher. Rape makes intimacy difficult to trust, and has a tendency to make survivors feel alienated from their bodies. So if she says “fuck me” then by golly fuck her! Don’t do any of this “but if I fuck her I’ll remind her of her rapist and then…” If you can’t trust her enthusiastic fuck yeah consent then take your squishy bits and go home.

3. Remember eventually something will go wrong and that’s okay. It’s just the way things go, no matter how careful you are a boundary will get crossed slightly or someone will get a bit hurt. That’s no reason to avoid whatever activity because it’s kinda extreme or tangentially related to the person’s assault. Tiny mistakes are a learning experience and not in the same neighborhood as a blatant consent violation. So go forth and do all the things both of you are into and communicate like crazy when something weird happens.

4. Rough sex is not equal to rape. Just as being bound is not equal to being held down against your will. When those things were used against me as a form of physical violence it was scary. What makes BDSM hot is the part where I beg you for those things. So there is no reason to tiptoe around stuff if I asked for it, okay?

5. Don’t be afraid to ask her on a date/to play. Just because you may know this intimate thing about her past isn’t a reason to avoid her like a broken toy. If you’re interested, go for it. Survivors already worry about what people think about them so don’t treat her like she’s dirty or fragile.

6. Relax. It’s not a big deal unless one of you makes a big deal out of it. Don’t force her to talk about it. Asking questions to understand is perfectly okay. But if she wants to go into it, let her talk about it on her own terms. And for the love of everything don’t try to be her therapist, she needs to recover from the experience with a professional not her special man friend.

7. Trust her. Your instinct might be that since she hung out with a person who ended up violating her consent that she has shitty taste or instincts. You should protect her from life and especially from new partners, right? Nope! The fucked up thing about psychopaths is that they are super charming right up until they mess up your world, so it wasn’t her lack of instincts it was his being a icky mother fucker that led to the rape.

8. There will be hard days. If she’s ready to be shopping for sex partners/in a relationship then 99% of the time things will be fine. Every once in a while something will come out of nowhere and trigger her into a tiny ball of tears or fury. You can’t fix anything, just stick around and hold her or listen, this too shall pass.  If she’s emotional and having a rough time more like 99% of the time, she has work to do before she’s ready for you. Just stick around until the timing is right or transition into being people who don't rub genitals together.  Friends are something every survivor needs more of, after all she probably lost most of her old "friends" when she outed the asshole who assaulted her because they "didn't want to chose sides." 

9. But she reported her rapists, what’s to stop her from reporting me? Don’t rape her!

Want to know a secret? These are things you should be doing with anyone you’re dating/sleeping with. It’s so easy!

It's the End of the World as We Know It...

If the world is going to end I’m going out in a fit of hedonism.  As the buildings burn around me I want to be surrounded by my favorite naked bodies, rope, wine, chocolate, and after care provided by the finest puppy bellies available. I’ve always known this about myself.

Which is why I spent 9/11 having an orgy and drinking too much sake. The evening of the Bush/Kerry election hooking up with random dudes from the internet.  The weeks leading up to Obama’s first win finalizing my plans to get my tubes tied so I could still have sex even if birth control was somehow outlawed by Republicans.  And last Tuesday smoking pot, drinking great whiskey and having delightful consensual sex with Mr Right.

He wanted to watch the results roll in and get sadder and sadder.  I explained that though I sympathized with this notion, I didn’t share his desire to be depressed.  I wanted to be distracted, especially if this was going to be the last evening we could feel joy without guilt for a good long while.  Besides the tiny part of me that believes sex is magic and perhaps we could fuck some love and hope into the world, wanted to have the greatest sex we’d ever had to send good energy into the universe.

So we fucked one another silly, took one more sip of single malt scotch, hid our phones from one another and passed out in an orgasmic haze, not knowing the results of the election.  I now know this was the only sane thing to do.  We got to live in an unfucked world for one more night.

In the morning we tip toed around as if we were trying to not wake up the 3 million pound orange gorilla in the room.  Mr Right looked at the news first and I knew it wasn’t good.  I read the news next and was glad he’d refused to say the words out loud to me. 

The tears started almost instantly and I was so glad to be somewhere safe, where I could be held and honored.  And I was so glad to have a permanent birth control method and to live in a very progressive city.  And I cried for all the women, queers, and people of color who aren’t as privileged.  And I knew instantly that the violence was going to start that day, the supporters of that evil man wouldn’t even wait a day to celebrate this new society he’d created where it’s okay to hurt people who are different or to rape and assault women.

With this as the new normal, my first instinct was that the things I do—erotica, rope teaching, nude modeling—were frivolous and worthless.  But then I realized that at the most basic level everything I do is about consent and pleasure and connection and beauty.  And all those things are even more important now.  That I need to continue not shutting up, using my white and straight passing privilege to speak where others cannot.

So I’m going to continue to create space for consensual pleasure, especially for us kinky, queer weirdos.  I’m going to revel in talking about and sharing my body with those that honor it.  I’m not going to be quiet or wear frumpy clothes or hide.  I’m here and I’m everything the country just decided to hate. I will find a way to keep myself and anyone who needs me safe. So unfuck the horrible narcissist that will soon be in power, you don’t get to win!

By the same token I likely won't be here blogging as much in the coming months and possibly years.  Publishing political essays and doing activist work seems more important right now.  But I'll always be around being a rope slut, me writing about it here will just be less frequent.  As always, follow me on Instagram or buy my book if you need a dose of my rope shenanigans in the meantime!

Thank you dear readers for your support and stay safe. 


Wiggle Room: Rope Journaling 11-3

It’s been a week of “be careful what you wish for.” In the past I’ve wished Mr Right were a little more switchy and now here I am, two days since we last hung out and I still can't bear to look at my vibrator let alone imagine longing for an orgasm. To be fair it's at least half my fault. I did start it.

See my brain spent all of last Friday distracted and dreaming up ways to torment Mr Right. It was an especially creative day in the naughty section of my brain because it was the sort of day where I was hardcore procrastinating at work. And Mr Right’s butt was the focus of all my creative energy as I avoided doing boring crap like accounting and answering emails. So that by the time Mr Right picked me up from work I had written a dozen bad ideas (well bad for him, great for me) down in my rope notebook and had an evil smile on my face I couldn't hide.

By the time we were ready to retreat to the bed room I was grinning up at him like a creep. “Nope you don't have any ideas.”

He tried to kiss away some of my smugness but it only made my head full of deviousness fuller. My look seemed to be making him a little nervous, which it should have, I was feeling downright cruel. While he was in the bathroom I got to the task of hiding hard points along the length of the sides of his bed frame by tying rope there. He came back just in time to catch me finishing up. “No, no ideas! I'm not in any trouble.”  He promptly walked out of the room.

“Glad you understand. Now, less pants!”  I called out to him.

My hands were grabbing at his ass before he could fully drop his jeans to the floor. Such was my desire for him. I hoped I could resist the urge to fuck him long enough to fuck with his mind.

Once he was naked I fell to my knees admiring his hardness and inwardly reminding myself to not take him in my mouth. Instead I leered up at him while I tied rope lines all up and down both of his legs then lines around his hips and belly and chest. Finishing with the most comfy wrist cuffs I could devise.

“Boy it's a good thing you're not up to anything.”

“Me? Nope just want you to be comfy since you're going to be in this for a while. A long while.”

“Oh really?”

I push him back on the bed, briefly knocking the sass off his face. “Yeap, now scoot to the middle.”

First I bind his wrists spread eagled to the far corners of the head board.  Next I use the rope I’d tied to the bed earlier to snug the ropes around his chest and waist, repeating this on both sides so he’s trapped in the middle of the mattress and can’t move an inch.  I test his confinement by periodically tickling him, if he can still move I tighten the ropes around his torso until he has zero wiggle room.  There comes a moment when it clicks with him, the general idea of what I’m up to and he looks at me like, “Really?  You’re going there?”  To which I just lean into kiss him and whisper, “You’re in a lot of trouble, mister.”

He shyly smiles at me and I return to the work of binding his legs, the entire length of them--not just his ankles--to the bed, so he can’t even wiggle his thighs.  This is the most important part, the part I’m counting on, so many of my plans hinge on being able to torture his exposed thighs and teasing his still hard and unused cock without him being able to turn away from me.  So when I tickle test him again and he can’t move at all, I snicker and leave the room, increasing his vulnerability, in order to retrieve the things I’ll use on him.  “Don’t go anywhere!”  I joke over my shoulder.  

Next comes the blindfold.  He’s seen me gathering most of what I’ll use on him so the general idea of what will happen can’t be a surprise.  And yet this addition always seems to quiet him, making him more compliant as he waits, down his ability to see or move.  So who am I to deny him the pleasure of denying his ability to see.  Plus he looks so cute in my red satin scarf that I use as a blindfold.

Who can remember what order I tease and hurt him in.  There’s ice cubes (especially cruel for the man who hates to be chilly), a pin wheel, clothes pins, tiny rope tied around his cock, a vibrator run along the ropes, and my hands or a cane applied to his thighs with him unable to flinch at the pain.  I occasionally brush his cock with my hands but not sexually, totally denying what he (and let’s face it, I) want.  So that by the time I untie his dick, it absolutely dripping with longing.  I take pity on him, lubing up my hands to stroke him to which he makes the most beautiful sighs and moans, louder and more plentiful than usual to make up for the fact that he can’t move.

Soon I can’t take it anymore, I tie his hands in a more comfortable position, and untie the waist ropes so that I can straddle him.  I take off the blind fold so that he can see I’m naked where I hadn’t been when I started and he can watch me fumble for and apply a condom to him.  The joint relieved sigh that issues from us is incredible and we smile at one another as I continue.  I fuck him until I can’t anymore and have to untie him and insist he take over. 

And yada, yada, yada…sex. 

Flash to the next afternoon, we’re sitting watching something dumb on TV or making a cheese plate or looking at dog pictures…any of those mundane activities we enjoy together when not fucking one another’s brains out, when he looks over at me.  “I have ideas for later.”  It’s said with that gleam in his eyes that I know exactly what he means.  My turn to feel shy, blush a little, and feel that lightening hot flash of lust pass through me right to my cunt.

“Oh really?”  He nods and waggles his eye brows at me.  “Well shit, this is the hazard of teaching you things, now you can use them against me.  Oh darn!”

No enormous surprise that later that night I find myself undressed and tied up much the same way I had tied him the night before.  “Oh gee I wonder what you have in mind.”

“Nothing, nothing.  Totally innocent and virtuous thoughts only.”

He even tosses me in the bed the same as I did to him before tying me to the bed in the same way.  I have to laugh as I resign myself to what’s about to happen, knowing just how screwed I am.  Probably literally.  And there’s the blind fold, and the rattle of the ice maker and the clink of the pin wheel and clothes pins.  He applies them all to me much in the same way I did to him expect meaner because I can take it.

“Is this what you mean when you say you like awkward rope and pain?” he asks at one point as I squeal and admit, “Yes!” 

And he places the evil new vibrator between my legs as an ever present torment and distraction.  Evil because it has settings built into it that are very good at keeping a person just on the edge of orgasm but never vibrating strong enough for release. It’s also surprisingly powerful, and able to drag orgasms out me, orgasms outside of my control, orgasms so powerful I lose the ability to speak or move or function as a human. Something he found out the other night when he helped vibrate me to an orgasm but then refused to stop, holdingme down until I couldn’t move anymore and screamed, “Fuck you, I hate you, shut up, I hate this, you’re terrible.”  Much to his great and endless amusement until he stopped just before I was worried I would pass out.

This in mind, I thought “oh shit” the second he turned that vibrator on and seated it in just the right place between my legs.  I knew exactly what he was up to and I wondered if I’d survive the number of orgasms I’m sure he was plotting. And what felt like an hour and a million and two orgasms later the answer is, just barely.  He did eventually untie me for…yada, yada, yada water, more sex, and oh so much cuddling.

This is how days later I’m pout/grinning about how exhausted my clit still is.

Vulnerable: Rope Journaling 10-26

We’d been at a ropey play party earlier in the day and I’d been under the weather for the proceeding couple weeks, so I’m sure Mr Right knew he was in trouble this particular evening. 

I was just a wee bit pent up.  Like the sort of pent up when it’s been building for so long you sort of forget how in need of release you are because you’ve spent so long tamping down the desire. That desperate tickle in your belly. So at a certain point all it takes is someone running a finger down your arm to make you nearly jump out of your skin.  I was that tightly wound, dangerous and in desperate need of any sort of release.

Rope in hand, I approached Mr Right and undressed him, leaving him standing naked and goose fleshed in front of me. Wanting to keep him wrapped up tightly for a good long while, I started by binding his hands together in a mummy-like position and fashioned what I hoped would be a relatively comfy but secure harness from there.  Once I was sure he couldn’t escape I tossed him into the bed and pointed at where I wanted him to sit, building him a nest of pillows so he’d be sitting relatively up right.

I dumped the rest of his rope out on the bed and began plotting. How to best accomplish what I had in mind without hard points?  Did I have enough rope?  Would he hate what I was about to do?

As we bantered--always the sarcasm and sass, the way we communicate, flirt, and as switches how we encourage whomever has decided to be in charge—I became more sure of myself.  Not long after I got both of his legs frogged in on themselves, he said something that provided all the motivation I’m usually lacking, because I’m a sadist but I don’t want to hurt my sweet man friend.  Sometimes he needs to remind me, he isn’t that sweet.  I don’t remember the words, but I recall the daring look in his eyes as he pushed, seeing how far he could or would go.

I grabbed the blindfold from my bag and secured it around his eyes.  Still there was a snarky smirk on his lips which I wiped away with a kiss before taking the breath from him by tying the rest of the blindfold’s length to the headboard so that he couldn’t loll his head down. He’s often shy with his eyes in the bedroom but I wanted him present now and I wanted to “punish” him by removing his ability to hide his face from me.

The smirk was gone as I continued, pulling first his right and then his left leg up and out to the farthest points of his head board and tying them off.  His legs spread as wide as I thought he could handle and up off the bed so he had to work at holding himself up, no easy comfy position for him to relax into tonight.  Oh no.

He looked so delightfully vulnerable and exposed just then that even without having touched him or him having touched me, I was wet.  But I waited, not giving into my needs just then. Teasing myself just as much as him as I ran the pinwheel along his open thighs, then tracing the ropes around his legs, then his ass and belly.  I laughed cruelly as he whimpered and squirmed, trying to escape but only having a mere couple inches of wiggle room, all he could accomplish was exposing new and more sensitive parts of himself, which I of course teased and tormented.

When he was thoroughly on edge I began interspersing the pin wheel and the smacks with the palm of my hand with tentative movements of my face near his cock.  Not even my mouth, not yet.  Just the soft warmth of my face and perhaps my closed lips to tease him with the proximity, the promise of what would come eventually but not yet.  

Each time I would play at opening my lips to take him in my mouth I would instead pull away and spank or tickle him a new.  When I finally licked at the head of him, the sound he made was like a cry, a pained and grateful mew that had me grinning. 

I teased him with parted lips and tongue for as long as I could before I couldn’t torture myself any longer and finally took him in my mouth.  Again that sound just on the border of pain, so happy to be getting what he wants that the pleasure almost hurts.  I draw that moment out by slowly licking and sucking the length of him. Making even the doling out of pleasure a tease and I’m rewarded with so many more noises.

Soon I sense he can’t hold his legs up any longer so I begin untying them, releasing his legs so that he can stretch them and I can revel in the rope marks they’re decorated in. Before he can become too at ease, I reach into the bedside table.  He’s smart, he knows what comes next. 

I carefully place the condom on him, straddle his legs and tease him with my proximity for only a few moments before climbing on top of him.  It’s my turn to sigh and moan as I ride him, our faces so close that as I enjoy him, it’s relatively soon that the blindfold falls off and we smile at one another.  And as much as I enjoy him bound, I want his hands on me, I want to be tossed around, I want to tangle our bodies together in ways that aren’t possible at the moment.  So as I move against him, I somehow manage to untie his arms, freeing him to touch me. And when my legs tire in this position, I turn to face away from him, rewarding him with his favorite view as I slide up and down the length of him, ass in the air.  

He must roll me onto my back soon after this because I have no memories other than of endless orgasms.  Of vibrating myself to climax and insisting that me fuck me some more, coming on him as I whisper naughty nothings in his ear.  The pleasure so much that I lose track of the events as we try to destroy one another with deliciousness, falling asleep in a sweaty, happy pile.

In the morning we wake to a bedroom floor absolutely covered in rope that takes two days to fully untangle. And it was so worth it.