Posts tagged rope
On the Unsexiness of Being Neurodivergent

Depression is an asshole.  It’s full of lies and unnecessary cruelty.  It tries to get you to believe you’re worthless or pathetic or why bother with anything. Might as well just sit in a dark room binge watching True Blood (obviously totally hypothetical example) rather than going out and doing something, anything.  Why bother when everything is hopeless crap?

But Allie Brosh describes depression better than I ever could so go read her hilarious and sadly all too accurate depiction of depression here  and also here.  Especially if you’ve never experienced depression yourself.  Spoiler alert it’s not just being sad and no I can’t just get over it. 

It’s okay I’ll wait and watch dog videos while you go read.

Okay, you back with me?  So that evil depression demon is why I haven’t been writing even though I have more free time than I know what to do with these days. When my brain chemistry was cooperating I dreamed of endless stretches of days to write or practice rope.   But now that I have them I just sit and stare at walls and pretend to be okay whenever my work from home man friend wanders into the same room I’m currently sitting in while I contemplate the worthlessness of my existence.

Haha look at me watching puppy videos!  Let me tell you a funny story about what the neighbors just did!  Would you like to hear a ditty!? See I’m fine, everything is fine!  Fine, fine, fine you can go back to your office now!  (Spoiler alert #2, trying to pretend to be okay for your friends is exhausting as all hell.)

And as soon as I’m unobserved I go back to my black hole, remembering when I used to have interests and hopes and desires and, you know, a sex drive.  And once I realize how much time I’m wasting feeling well nothing I fall into a loop of hating myself for wasting all this time. So I just end up deeper in the hole.  Some days I can drag myself out of the house to see another human or to run an errand that involves speaking to someone and that’s a huge win.  To celebrate I come home and lay in a dark corner (well as dark as I can find, it’s summer in Portland which mean its constantly sunny and 100 degrees which isn’t helping.  It’s like the sun is shaming at me. “Look at all this brightness I made for you!  Remember how you wanted sun instead of rain well you have it, go enjoy it you ungrateful jerk!”) because going outside for a couple minutes has taken up all my energy for an entire week.

So in this weird head space the last thing I want to do is be sexy or think about sexy things.  My libido is in there somewhere, occasionally it will pop up and insist I masturbate furiously to some thought or situation I ordinarily wouldn’t find at all interesting.  It’s as if my body knows I’m in a sex desert and needs to do whatever it can to manipulate the situation to make an orgasm happen however it can.  Sadly these rare burst of lust rarely happen when the man friend is interested or available.  Cue another spiral of angst, I can’t even be a good sexually available girlfriend.

It’s not a fun place to be as an erotica writer.  Somehow it feels like going to a sexy place for inspiration is even harder than writing anything else would be.  So I haven’t been writing or doing anything creative really.  Even practicing rope has felt like a chore. 

That’s where I’ve been, why I haven’t been blogging or showing up to events.  The sadness that started after the election, just never got better, then life happened and the sadness and hopelessness and feeling of why bother when the world is so very fucked turned into legit depression. And I’m not sure how I’ll get out of this hole of ennui but I know I will, I have before and I will again. I’m not sure what the catalyst to start hoping again will be, maybe it will be a kernel of corn under the fridge, but probably not.  But I’ll keep trying to find my old self and hope for the best.

I see little glimpses of my sexy sassy self sometimes.  Like at the small rope party I had for my birthday.  It ended up just being my fella and my two kinky besties but it was perfect.  I didn’t have high hopes for feeling up to tying, I just practiced some things on the man friend and thought that would be that.  But when Sock Girl showed up all smiles and silliness even though her life isn't 100% sunshine and rainbows at the moment either, I got inspired.  Damn the brain weasels, I was going to have a good time and show her a good ropey evening as well!

So I put a boring not very creative TK chest harness and hip harness on her for a mean partial suspension.  Just wanting to enjoy the rare moment of having a hard point to use, not needing to do something new or pretty.  My only goal was to have fun with her and make sure she got something out of the scene.  And since I know she likes mean, I was pretty cruel to her, so much so that in her attempt to hide the leg I was tormenting she turned things into a full suspension. 

I hadn’t planned in that and felt a moment of dread, thinking I’d ruined everything and hurt her.  But instead she was smiling and giggling our rope giggle of “that hurts and I love it you horrible wonderful sadist.”  The rope was perfect, it supported her, I know how to tie if I just had more opportunities to practice suspensions I would know that.

So she dangled there and we laughed at each other.  There she was in a TK suspension.  When we first started doing rope a zillion years ago she couldn’t stay in a TK for long and I was too shy to attempt suspensions.  Now look at us!  Just two gals having a momentary tough time, defying the evil brain chemical liars to have the best rope time ever. 

I’m super grateful to her and that moment.  It gives me hope.  I’ll keep chasing those little moments until maybe everything isn’t hopeless bullshit.

Home Sweet Home: Rope Journaling 6-1

Life for Mr. Right and I became a whirlwind of packing and moving. Shopping for an apartment in Portland’s abysmal rental market. Doing all the honest talking and processing of us deciding to shack up.  So utterly commitment-y!  Especially for the girl who promised to never live with a partner again.  Who baulked at the idea of having a drawer at his place.  Now a year later we’re comfortably ensconced in our shared living space. We seal the deal and shop for a couch…even more commitment-y.  

And after a month so busy we didn’t have time to come up for breath long enough to even celebrate our anniversary, it’s finally a week after we unpacked, hung up the art, and bargained for space on the bookshelves and elbowed one another for kitchen space for our various cooking tchotchkes. We sit on the couch exhausted, bodies aching and realize we don’t have any pressing issues for the first time in a long time.

So I retrieve a too long neglected bag of rope and drag it to the living room and push Mr. Right out of his clothes.  And slowly, savoring every moment, every pull through of the rope over my palm I bind his wrists together and then bend them behind his head, leaving his under arms vulnerable.  I push him back on this commitment couch, heathered grey with a mid-century modern feel and funky chaise lounge style back rest.  His shock of curls, reddened with the even the briefest of Northwestern sun fall against the cushion.

I grin to bind his cock next, already hard and at attention, cinching it tight until it’s even harder, almost shockingly so.  It’s beautiful there poking into air, untouched before him, dancing to beg for attention that I deny it and him as I undress and stand before him.  He looks at me myopically, waiting, taking my blurry form in.

“Ready to break in this couch?”

No answer, just the barest smile which I line my body up with and sit on his face where he gamely licks at me while I tease him with my tongue, giving him just the slightest attention possible, tasting him so that I’m desperate for more.  My hunger for him never allows me to tease him for very long; soon I lift myself from his face and lower my mouth over his cock, taking him in so deeply I’m choking on him, that sweet drool from the back of my throat coating him shamelessly. 

He looks so delicious there, arms and legs bound that I can’t help myself, I know what comes next.  I want this to last, to use him until I can’t use my tired legs any longer.  So I untie his arms from behind his head and replace his still bonded wrists to the far leg of the couch, stretching him across it, leaving him with only tip toes on the bamboo floor, trying to find purchase to raise himself up, hips bucking in the air. 

I can’t help myself; it’s been too long since we’ve had more than the bare minimum brand of sex.  There’s been no time for kink, just naked need and release.  So my desire is so great I have to have him, swinging one leg over each side of him and lowering him slowly inside of me.  We both sigh and close our eyes; a year later and we haven’t tired of one another.  Not even close.  He feels good in his familiarity, his ability to know what I want, what will get me off and vice versa.  So much so I have to remind myself to hold back, to make this last, just because I know how to get him to the finish line doesn’t me I want to visit there post haste.

Raising myself up and down along the length of him, again and again we’re both groaning, but quietly as we’re trying to be polite with the wide open windows and new neighbors.  This double holding back, withholding desires has us wound up tight.  I can’t help it; I want to come so I release his hands from the couch, still bound and guide them between my legs.  A suggestion that he rub my clit which he takes and I redouble my effort bouncing on his cock until I can tell we’re both ready. 

And soon we’re going through the motions of pleasure given and taken, wetly and enthusiastically.  After, spent and sticky with come and sweat we smile sweetly at one another. 

“Well the living room is broken in.  Want to tackle any of the three bathrooms next?”  He rolls his eyes at insatiable me, thinking I’m kidding, where as I’m imaging what I can tie him to in the guest bathroom….  Mmm, next time.