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. 

Somewhere along the way while sharing my rope stories I noticed something I wasn’t expecting started was happening. People kept saying “I trust you.” Or “I know from your reputation that you’re a safe person to explore this.” Or, and this blows my mind every time: “I really want you to be the first one to tie me up.  Like, really tie me up.”

And holy fuck if I don’t smile and beam and giggle and say “oh my god yes I’d be flattered, please come to me and my rope.” But on the inside I’m ugly crying as that broken, hurt part of me that’s been raped and violated and had her trust tattered again and again by shitty rope tops melts.  She gets smaller and less prickly every time someone tells me I’m trustworthy.  That means I’ve done everything right, I’m nothing like that monster who raped me. 

So I gladly put people in my rope and blast them out of this world with intimacy and happy brain chemicals as I wrap them up in my rope and my arms.  But they probably don’t notice me planted firmly on the ground, processing the experience and working every second to make sure they’re safe while they aren’t fully in control of their body.  That’s a heady experience and a lot of work.  But so worth it to show people how beautiful rope and kink can be when there’s trust and a connection. 

The problem with being the safe safest very most safe rope lady is I often can’t mix rope and sex, it gets so confusing since consent is something I never want to violate. I mean I’m all about people feeling pleasantly used and abused at the end of our time together if that’s what they’re into. I like providing that.  Fuck yeah!  But it takes me a long while to believe the person I’m tying up when they say sexy stuff is welcome along with rope, it isn’t something I can do casually. 

Jump to last weekend where I spent a blissfully large amount of time with the new fellow

I’ve been smooching on. Dear reader, it was our third date and we were out in daylight hiking, sharing food and drinks in the sun, then snuggled up in my bed all night participating in the holy and oh so rare for me trinity of rope/sex/cuddling. I can count on one hand the number of people I’ve shared that with!  So I was swooning with happiness.

On our first date he too said some variety of “I’m super curious to experience real rope, from you especially.”  And I almost died of delight. I’ve been looking for someone I like in life and in kink at the same time for a long while…and here he was.  So I was more than happy to tie him up during our second date, adoring the way he melted into the rope and against my body as I timidly bound him and touched and kissed him but not much else before releasing him so we could explore one another as equals.

And during that hike it was him that kept bringing up rope, the cheeky boy. Which made getting through dinner a multi hour tease, during which I was already picturing him naked. In my bedroom it was me that was nervous while I bound him and he calmly rolled around in my lines as I experimented with sensations to see what he might like.  Though his body let me know he was enjoying himself, practically yelling at me to take him, I couldn’t, he was too quiet and I’m too cautious.

So I untied him and we were back to the awkward but sexy fumble of trying to figure one another out with hands, and mouths and eventually merging body parts.  But not finding satisfaction we were at the odd moment of “now what?”

“I liked being in the blindfold while I was tied up.”  He demurred. As in, hint, hint lady tie me up again!

This was new, I’d (no hyperbole) never ever been in bed with someone and had them request more thorough or more frequent rope.  Nope, I’ve always been the one begging for rope time. So you better bet I got up and untangled that mess of rope on the floor and bound him up tight and vulnerable and naked at the center of my bed.  And instantly his body was alert and willing where it had been soft and lovely at rest seconds before.

And this time I trusted him (because that’s a big thing rarely talked about isn’t it, that the trust goes both ways, because I need to trust that my bottom actually wants or can handle what they’ve asked for in addition to them trusting me to not cross boundaries) and tied him so that he was exposed and there for the taking.  It took my breath way to see him there.

So oh did I take! Taking pleasure in pleasuring him, lapping at his body as if he were the cure to something, so tempted to ride that which was exposed to me but deciding to wait until later.  But the knowing I could trust that he would enjoy that taking, that riding, that shared vulnerability was heady.  I trust him in so many ways, rewarding his trust of me by returning it. 

He’s not a monster (not even close) and neither am I.  So it’s okay (more than okay!) if sex and rope and more all happen at the same time.  Now to remind myself of that next time I have him in my rope…