Living the Dream…A Week of Rope: Rope Journaling 7-11


It starts when Mr Right says “I bought a new chair.”

What could I do but bring my rope and tie him to it as soon as possible.  Especially since it was that brand of sparse Swedish furniture that practically begs to be taken advantage of thusly. Much like he all but called out to be used, ass in the air, arms tied to the back arms of the chair, kneeling on the seat of it as I teased and spanked his available and willing flesh.

It isn’t the most tie-able chair as it turns out but after as we lay sweaty, giggling and exhausted in his bed we count it as a success nonetheless.


The next day after the beach, a picnic, and much cooing at cute dogs I practice on him to prepare for teaching in the upcoming days.  It’s time to part ways. I should put my clothes on and get ready for my evening plans but seeing him vulnerable and smiling in my bed is irresistible.  So our mouths on each other starts a cascade of lust I don’t want to stifle. 

After I look down at his smug grin and say, “You’re a trouble maker.”

“Me? That was all you, I just went with it.  I was surprised. You’re the one that has to ride a bike naked all night long after this.”

“Fair enough.”  And we spoon in swoony happiness until I absolutely have to get up and meet a friend, sad to send away Mr Right.

Hours later at a city park full of naked people I tie my friend Victor into a chest harness and then myself into some semblance of decorative rope as drunk idiots hit us with their bikes.


We pedal down streets free of cars, naked and elated.  Protesting our city’s dependence on cars.  But in the weeks after a cavalcade of ugly news and a shooting that has our queer hearts hurting, this freedom and chance to be literally naked and sharing space with my chosen extended family of weirdoes meant more than it had in past years.

I passed out that night exhausted, bruised, and sore while smiling at the friendships and love I have in my life. 


Later that week I teach a class and my love shows up to be my stunt bottom, smiling and sassy. No drama, no fear, just fun and kisses.


Another night and I’m at a lover’s house.  We flirt over a magnificent meal and drinks.  Hedonistically full of mouth watering sensations we move from the table to the floor where I tie him cruelly, tease him endlessly and he fights me until my hands are rope burned and bruised.  More brat than switch.  I appreciate the play, the power given and taken but I don’t love how much my hands hurt that I have to work so hard to be on top when he keeps asking for me to top him.

We tussle in bed but the chemistry that we’ve shared during play isn’t there when the rope is put away.  It all feels flat and forced.  Literally forced, I say yes but still feel used.  And not in the sexy way. No one did anything wrong but I don’t feel right. I go home wholly dissatisfied and feeling off center.

My pleasure wasn’t on the menu at all.  I didn’t feel seen or honored or wanted as an individual.  I felt like a rope vending machine.  And intimacy was nowhere to be found, that blessed closeness I’ve been reveling in recently with Mr Right. Maybe casual sex doesn’t thrill me like it used to.  When I’ve found someone that fills me with so much joy, there’s little need or room for meaningless (truly utterly meaningless) fucking.


I feel empty and vaguely tarnished.  But I don’t cancel on C.  It’s been too long since we’ve shared space. And he’s one of the truly good men.  Someone I always feel 100% safe, honored, seen and cared for as an equal. No worries about his intentions or boundaries.  He’s very clear about his own and endlessly communicates with me about mine.

He texts me a list of desires for the evening.  My sadist boner grows at “spanking, caning…”  I smile at “include something green…”  And I cry to read “your orgasm…”  C is a stark contrast to the man from the evening before.  He gives a shit.  He wants me there in the moment with him, both of us enjoying and playing off the other.  He looks me in the eye when I’m hurting or pleasuring him, connected by the experience and enjoying it because the other is, making space for the other to get what they need.

By the time he arrives I’m hungry for human touch.  I tickle him until we’re both giddy with happy energy.  This is what play should be, light hearted and connective.  Now I’m out of my head and in the game with him, forgetting the night before.

I tie him to a chair. I tie him to my bed.  I tie myself to him and straddle his back as I come.  Though I trust him I don’t trust myself to be ready to be vulnerable enough for him to help me cross over into pleasure.  So instead I tease him by undulating on his hips as he moans face down into the bed, helpless.  I spank him periodically when I’m not 100% distracted by my orgasm. 

When I release him I return the favor, blown away by his ability to be so vulnerable as to ask for exactly what he wants and to lose himself in his orgasm.  It’s a beautiful moment of bliss to provide the touch he needs, as I stroke him my hands feel like my own again, healed from the bruises of the day before.

As we come down to earth I realize how happy I am to have a handful of friends that remind me that pleasure is wonderful. A basic human right too often denied us.  It’s not casual lust that’s a problem, it’s the lack of affection and closeness that made the night before hurt.


The next night I’m finally with Mr Right again, exhausted with aching hands and a heart longing for his tenderness and kisses.  That night I’m glad he’s not a switch, that there is no struggle for control.  That with him at least the roles are set, even if finding the right activities to perform takes a moment.  But he communicates his desire, that gets easier every time as we settle into a comfort with the body of the other.

I experiment with sensations, enjoying his gasps, moans, sighs, the sharp surprised intake of breath that can either end with a smile or a “that’s too much.”  Then our bodies together.  Oh our bodies together.  Rarely have I been able to let go and enjoy pleasure so easily and consistently.  This is good, he is good, life is good.


While fireworks go off in the mid-day Portland gloom Sock Girl and I close the curtains, drink rose’, flatter her cat, and experiment with rope. Giggling and snarking as we take turns folding the other over with helpless laughter.

“What a week.  If you’re too tired we can go sit in the yard.  We don’t have to do rope.”

“Shut your mouth!  I didn’t come over here with rope to not use it on you.  I haven’t tied you up in forever!”

Shrugging her acquiescence to her fate Sock Girl allows me to put her in some truly fucked up ties. Ones that no one else would ever dream of letting me tie, let alone ask for.  So even though it’s “just practice” we’re both flushed with rope happy by the time I follow my apparent chair obsession by tying her to a lovely vintage metal chair.


I’m too tired to even think of rope or power exchange.  So luckily Mr Right takes the lead.  In the end I ask, “What would you like?”

“This but restrained.” He says.

I don’t even bother moving my body from his.  With him still inside me I reach for the cheesy velco restraints on my headboard and strap him down.  He smiles that smug smile of his and we both proceed to get exactly what we want.