15 Jun Tears and rope
This is an old writing I’m republishing. Gorgone is an amazing rope artist and I will always feel honored she trusted me that evening.
The smoke lingers in the kitchen like the fog of Lutzen. Nina Russ is doing her usual style of Duracell hostess. Duracell mixed with hummingbird. Not before long it is established that I am staying for dinner. I am introduced to Gorgone who is visiting from France, a petite girl that smokes like a chimney and I fan grrl over her rope work. Nina who has been manhandling a big chunk of meat, prepping it for dinner with a knife, turns around with said knife waving at me saying “ You have to tie her!” meaning that I apparently have to tie Gorgone. Those of you who knows me know I have a massive knife phobia. Massive as in; having a history of fainting. But Nina repeats the statement while tearing away at the meat.
I did not expect to tie at all, nor to get dinner. I had just popped over to pick some rope up from Esinem. But we start to talk and I gauge Gorgones interest while checking where I am at. Everything aches. I know my energylevels are well, fickle at best. Suggest a shorter ichi-nawa session, especielly since we have not tied before. But she is after something else. She wants something tough, something that will push her. Strenuous fucked up shit. The sadist in me starts to tick. During our conversations before dinner and during I pick up as much as I can. A no nonsense approach really, and realising she has not been tied ‘properly’ since a couple of months back. She alerts me to a couple of possible reactions that might come up and I make a mental note.
After a severe intake of meat and a food coma later we are good to go. Esinem has borrowed some rope of his. Gorgone put Fever Ray on the playlist and we exchange a couple looks. It has already started, that ‘game’. I want her to come with me, to go with me and the ropes and forget where the ropes end and where she begins.
I can spend the first moments of a scene in eternity and be happy. That place where you start to focus absolutely on your partner and nothing else. Where your first movement that creates the first contact has already been preceded by something that is not necessarily physical. Rope has not happened yet, we are still in a shared space of anticipation. The first fingertips that dances gently over her shoulder moves at a slow pace. A slight shiver and a tension in her right shoulder. I want her to feel safe, to be present. As I start to try to convey that, I know that I have her attention. Gorgone is an experienced rope bottom and a switch and would be able to anticipate movements in the blink of an eye. I’m not here to let her do that. I’m here because we have, thanks to a knife wielding Nina Russ, decided we should do rope, and above all, because we want to. My palm over her chest, on top of her heartbeat. Press her back, towards my chest. A small hesitation, somewhere from her lower back, and then she leans into me. Her right shoulder muscles now relaxing. I make very few big movements. Some of them stronger, but none of them big or quick. Not yet. Not yet.
My right palm pressed against her chest, my left hand slowly wandering towards the pile of ropes. The first sound of the first coil, the first feeling of it, and her whole body reacts. It is as if I have punched her really slowly and she in turn has reacted in slowmotion. I wait the first tremble out, maintaining contact. And now she almost moves towards it. A slow uncoiling of the rope, it falls into her lap, my hands around her, with the ropes, letting it linger close to her face, her neck. Guiding her hands behind her back A moment to breath, then slowly moving, knowing she is crying, not from seeing the tears, but the look of her body, her shoulders. That shiver. There is a fetish on Fetlife saying “Crying does not mean you have to stop” and we had spoken about it. This is where she said she might go, where the rope would push her. I still maintain contact. Anything else, such as removing myself or the rope physically would at this point break it all. Hands tied, the ropes trailing down over her shoulder into her lap. The abandonment. I don’t dry her tears because I want her to stop crying, I dry her tears with the ropes because I wish to show her that they can take it, that what ever she wants to pour into them she can; I won’t stop her tears, nor stop what I am doing. I wish to honour what ever it is that she trusts me with. Salty tears, straight into the ropes.
And we tie. A tough suspension. Waves of pain and relief, strenuous positions mixed with breathers. A strappado running man, transitioning into a twisted guyaku ebi. I lie down beneath her. It is one of my favourite places to be in when tying, beneath a suspension, feeling as if you carry someone ever so lightly, feeling as if they are flying or falling down into you. I push and press my foot into her chest, where the TK is already pushing hard. Oh, the sternum, such a place of wonder for the sadistically inclined. My teeth sink into her thigh, and I imagine the mark that will develop into one of those flowers.
And it goes into the rope, all the pain, all the power, the tears and the passion.
That is where we place ourselves, our trust, our vulnerability and our strengths. That is where there is no other place than honesty, desire, and the wish to be heard and understood.