Rope Journaling 2-18: Old and New

Remember when you and I were only allowed to practice rope?  This was back when my abusive ex was controlling my sex life by not fucking me but making sure no one else could either. I would come over once a week and teach you to tie me up and I’d politely flee as soon as the sexual tension got to be too much.  Remember how well behaved we were and yet it was supposedly partly your fault that my relationship ended?   So of course you were the first one I called when I was ready to roll around naked with someone.  Remember how great our passion was after all that denying ourselves?  How you would fuck me until I was too sore to sit for days, covered in your bite marks and how we added your other partner to our games?  I remember how perfect a distraction you were while I healed.

Now it’s something like two years later, a different hurtful relationship recently ended and here I am walking to your house again.  It’s like a ritual: girl meets boy, you and I drift apart, I break up with the most recent fuckboy, fall into your rope and bed, repeat.  We lose track of one another periodically but never seem to forget the other. 

Two years and everything has changed.  It used to be I knew the bus stop near your place by the abandoned lot with a food cart in it.  The smell of garlic filling the air until I felt welcomed to your neighborhood.  I’d turn pass the cart of sizzling food and walk until I saw your truck.  Now your street is all cookie cutter replicas of the same three-story boxy condos.  But there’s Salt and Straw and the bar we spent that one New Year’s Eve getting tipsy in until we fucked so hard we lost track of the year changing…they’re still on your street.

Even the cat on your porch reminds me how much time as passed, how long we’ve been acquainted.  (I can’t even remember how we first met, can you?)  She used to be a pocket sized playful kitten but she’s a fearsome gargoyle that judges my passage onto your steps now.  Where inside you’ve entangled lives with your latest lady love.  Your house, your life different but recognizable.

Two years and nothing has changed. Our easy banter is there.  The charge between us.  The comfortable way we can just sit and passionately talk consent and politics until you stand and put your hand out to me, “Want to go do rope?”

And in your play space (that’s new too, no more fumbling around on a futon in your spare room) gone is your pretty purple rope, instead simple natural hemp has taken its place.  You wrap a few pieces around me into a chest harness that accentuates my breasts. 

I remember when this was something we ran through a dozen times in an evening until you had it perfect.  Now you don’t even have to think about it, you just tug the lines on my chest tight and well placed and cozy.  You’ve learned so much about tension and control while I’ve been gone from your life.  It makes me smile to see your skills grow.

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But I’ve changed too.  It used to be that you couldn’t dole out enough pain.  Slap me. Choke me. Spank me. Clamp my nipples. Flog me.  Gag me. It was never enough.  There was a hole I was trying to fill with pain given to me with affection by people like you.  That lacuna is at least partially filled with self satisfaction and self love now.  So that I think we’re both surprised I have to ask you to not be so cruel. 

That isn't the only thing. All those months when I wasn’t allowed to have you, all I wanted was your cock in me in any way possible. It was all I could think about at times.  And now when you offer it, I’m oddly dispassionate.  You’re still oh so attractive, the chemistry is still there, it’s just I’m more interested in your friendship and your rope.  My interest in sex has fallen to the side; I can’t manage the immense sluthood I’ve lived the rest of my life under.

So we tussle in rope, hands and mouths on one another but going no farther.  I can sense your disappointment (hell I'm disappointed in myself) but I can’t pretend to be the slut I used to be.  My body longs for embraces and long make outs followed by rope, rope, rope.  Maybe I’m getting old but slapping wet bits together is largely anti climatic for me these days.

But you’re a gentleman, no forcing of the issue, the wine and the words after as we get dressed are a balm against anxiety.  You even ask for another round of rope together soon. Because you're a gentleman. And that's why I keep returning to you. You can be trusted.

And maybe in another life you and I meet when our lives have room for one another. In a different reality we crossed paths when you had time and my life was open enough to fit you. Somewhere I realized your appeal immediately instead of giving you the run around while wasting my time on big sexy narcissists. Who knows what we would be to each other by now in that world.

But in the here and now I call you friend and that's lovely.

Emily BinghamComment