Rope Journaling 4-18: Practice Makes Perfect

It's been some time since I've inhabited the same space with a man for any length of time so I was nervous about the weekend: three days of kinky adventure and a vacation from reality.

Unlike other years, I’d decided to go all in and immerse myself in Kinkfest by getting a hotel room and sharing it with my friend C. This would allow us both to stay in the dungeon late into the evenings rather than trying to bus home to the other side of town in a panic. But these super affordable rooms had only one queen bed. C and I play occasionally but we aren't bed sharing intimate. Until we are.

After a brief negotiation in which we agree we're both all in on the cuddling department, I book the room.  Now I'm both more excited and more nervous about the weekend. Excited because though we aren't dating I expect having C to return to each evening while processing the day's events and curling up to each other would be a huge comfort. The sort of emotional aftercare I've missed having other years at the same event while hurrying home to pass out alone each night before returning to the venue and doing it all over again.

But I was also nervous about that very same togetherness because that's a lot of time to spend with one another. And I don't even do sleep overs with people I'm dating/fucking.

It all starts Friday evening when I tie him into a lovely chest harness. He’s not wearing much else aside from some very cute underwear when I toss him into a chair mid stage in front of hundreds of people. There we act out a filthy story I've written for this event. We're part of the opening performance where I battle my introverted/extroverted divide and C revels, all exhibitionist grins. He doesn't seem nervous at all. He's so low key that only his comforting self is keeping me from vibrating out of my ridiculous shoes, standing there under the bright lights reading to friends and hordes of strangers.

When I look up from my script and make eye contact with C mid story, the deep puppy dog pools of his eyes slay me. I lose my place for a moment and stumble over my words, though I'm the big, scary, strap-on wearing Domme in the words I'm reading out. My insides go funny and quivery. I want to drop to my knees and alternatively lick and bite him. To worship all that exposed and willing skin.


This is something they don’t tell you about topping or maybe you can't believe in it until you experience it a couple dozen times yourself. And that thing is that the bottom is running the show. Or as a friend says “bottoms will fuck you up every time.”

You're busy trying to make a sexy flogging scene happen or act the Domme on stage and your lovely bottom will do something that changes the course of everything. Now you’re a babbling mess. Over taken by the aw of being chosen by this person. Their big sweet trusting eyes full of lust and brattiness take over everything. And suddenly you forget what you had in mind. Forget your name. Forget how to be cruel. Forget sometimes anything other than the desire to leer at the beautiful thing you've tied up there in front of you. This person trusting you when they are at their most vulnerable.


On stage I have the written words in my hand and I get through the performance. Everyone loves it and we’re complimented all weekend; I’d worried for weeks about how it would go, for nothing. But 20 minutes later when we're just friends, not actors, I'm at a loss.  I want to do everything for and to him but don’t know where to start. None of my toys or creative schemes seem a fit to this moment or this man. So I simply bring my body close to his for a while and breath him in. Poke and prod him to hear his sighs, to ride the animal .thrusting of his hips as I straddle his rump.


I wish sometimes I was the sort of asshole I’ve played with so many times in the past. Able to take whatever I want without worry or really caring what the bottom wants. The hell if I go too far, there's a line of willing bottoms out there just waiting to be broken so why be careful with this one? Bottoms are a dime a dozen.  

Instead in reality because I distinctly do everything in my power to never be that sort of horrible Top, I'm timid and ask a lot of questions. C drools, he moans, he enjoys the heck out of himself and so do I, but we don't go very deep. I'm flustered and lacking the confidence I pretended on stage. Next time...I promise myself, I'll rock his world.

C and I go our separate ways after our long languorous scene. I watch him get beaten by someone much meaner than I am and take note of his limits with her...learning about him and trying to absorb the confidence of the tops around me. And he watches my out of town friend stomp and bite and torment me until I'm ugly crying into the carpet and begging to be untied from the leg rope that will leave a bruise that colors my entire thigh. The catharsis leaves me high for a week afterward.

In such a huge flock of kinksters I lose track of C and head back to our room to shower off the sweat and tears. I look at his man things near my things on the bathroom counter and smile. This sweetness of sharing space.  I adore being single but sometimes I long for couplehood. The smell of a man on my pillow, even when he isn’t there to sleep with at night, the way doing mind numbing chores together makes them no longer terrible, the shared plans for a life together. When it works it’s such a joy to marry your life to someone you really can’t get enough of.

But when it doesn't work...oh the pain and cruelty of the ugliness we toss at people we know so well but can’t let g of in a habit we call love.

And with the remembered ugliness of relationships recent but past, a brief moment of panic flashes through me. I left the party without direct communication with C. What if he's waiting for me or worried or, or, or…  But he didn't communicate with me either. It's something like 2am and I want to pass out. What if he comes in all noisy just after I pass out or what if, what if, what if…

I sigh and laugh at myself. It's my former partners--that long line of the self absorbed and narcissist that I’ve only recently realized has been my lifelong type--that I'm concerned with, an old habit I’m still trying to fully break. C and I have made no promises to one another. It’s all easy breezy silly fun. Oh my wandering brain, finding issues where they no longer exist.

I put my weary, well beaten bones to bed. And sure enough C comes in soon after I drift off but he's quiet and respectful and I sleep through his bedtime rituals, unworried and trusting of him in my space while I sleep like I so rarely can with most people. Soon he spoons me and we fall asleep in a tangle. It’s so comforting I'm almost crying again. Because C isn't a narcissist. C isn't someone for me to fear or grow to hate. C isn't going to gas light and torment until I can't trust my own brain . He is a good man like so any of the men I’ve met now that I've divorced myself from the oh so sexy drama of the personality disordered in order to heal and love myself as I birth my book.

It's so fucking easy with men like C.

You know that Florence and the Machine song “Kiss with a Fist”? That's what I'm accustomed to intimate interactions to feeling like. Fraught with drama and emotional violence and ultimately such an utter waste of time. Especially when I could be spending my time hurting or being hurt by people much more interesting and fully consensual ways that end in piles of giggles and warm willing bodies. That's the sort of dramatic energy I vow to feed on. These scenes we kinksters share together as we explore the dark world of pleasureful pain. Screaming out in delight instead of screaming insults.

The rest of the weekend is a blur of beautiful experiences because I've opened myself to the people I adore. I open myself to playing with a new man. I learn. I fall asleep Saturday night wrapped around C smiling into his back and thrilled to wake up to him. Not because I'm in love with C  (except in the Carsie Blanton kind of casual way I'm a little bit in love with many of my friends.  Because life is too short to not be.) But because our weekend shenanigans have reminded me that love and lust are possible. It's out there when I'm ready.

Emily Bingham1 Comment