I was looking forward to being suspended last weekend. And I was really looking forward to what I was sure was going to be a really hot scene after I'd gone up. The fact that we're still having some issues with suspension left me disappointed. It was my fault really. I shoulda known better to anticipate. Things really do work out much better for me if I don't. But despite my better judgment, I'd really been looking forward to the party. And the high I was on with the anticipation was difficult to deal with when it didn't live up to my expectations. You see, even I still make the same mistakes. Even I sometimes just can't figure out how to stuff my disappointment in a drawer and move on. I disconnected and couldn't figure out how to turn it back on. Despite all my talk about one of the skills of a good bottom, sometimes even I can't turn it.
Daddy asked me the other night, if he'd "ruined" rope for me. And last night at dinner, he asked me again if I really disliked rope. I tried to assure him that he'd done nothing to ruin it for me, but that at the moment, rope and me.....let's just say that I'm less than enthused.
I don't like rope for the rope itself. I don't have a fetish for rope. Or ropesters. OK, sure. I like the scratchy feeling of jute, I like the silky feeling of bamboo, I even like the fun colors of mfp. I like the beauty of a well-done tie. I love playing with it, tying knots, and making art of the combination of a human body and the rope. But I don't like rope because it's rope. I like rope because of the feelings I can experience when in rope. The connection is what's important. I've personally never felt anything as wonderful as I can feel in rope.
But without the connection, rope is just as lifeless and dead as a crumbly fall leaf. Without the connection, it's just a thing. Inanimate. Cold. No more than a tube of paint that never is put to a canvas. Throw rope on me without the connection and I am no more than the dining room chair. It's meaningless, and it's unfeeling and uncaring. Or maybe that's just my attitude when I'm wrapped in rope that way. It's like line dancing. Two people may be in the same room, doing the same steps, to the same music....but you could be doing it alone.
But used between two people to begin that connection, rope becomes magical. It quivers, it wraps, it sighs and it hugs. It speaks in a language all it's own. The twisting, the wrapping, the knotting, the power all express without speaking. The dance of rope when it's working right expresses daddy's dominance without even saying a word. It holds me, makes me safe in my vulnerability, and is an extension of the bond that daddy and I share. It becomes our own world, where nothing else exists and creates a bubble or a cocoon where I become completely his. I don't have to think. I just have to feel. I can feel his anger, his annoyance, his distraction....and his love, through the ropes.
Rope relaxes me. It embraces my fears and allows me to experience a place where those fears belong to daddy's trust. And that trust is powerful. It's meaningful, and it calms me in a way that is really too difficult to put into words. It makes me catch my breath, gives me butterflies in my tummy, and makes me feel beautiful. Daddy has said to me that there's a face that I have when I'm "his". Those times when he really knows that I'm enthralled within his power. When nothing and no one else exists within that bubble except for him. That's what rope does to me. It creates a connection with someone that allows me to experience him. It lets me slip in under the bullshit of the day, to that place where there's no possibility of escaping him. The rope is an extension of him, his will, and his power....wrapping me into his world, where I wouldn't want to escape. It's a safe place for me. And one where I'd be quite happy to remain.
Anyone can tie someone. The mechanics of rope are shown in books, on videos, and taught at classes. But what you really can't teach is how to use the rope to connect to another person. Daddy knows how to do that. Far from ruining rope for me, the way Daddy has done that, has ruined me for anyone else's rope.
And maybe that's what I'm so angry about at the moment. I anticipate that feeling when he brings out the rope. My wishful thinking kicks in and I want to feel that way with him. And lately, my wishes have mostly been squashed when I hear the words "I want to practice something". His rope bag has turned from an anticipation of a secret place shared by the two of us to a secret wish crashing in defeat.
I really should remember anticipation is the killjoy of actuality.