“You’re not here with me”.
We were at a party at a friend’s house. That’s how parties are going to be for a while in Boston. Back to hanging with friends. In one way it’s good for me. I usually am much more relaxed at smaller spaces. Less people, less noise, less worries. But in another way, it’s also much more difficult to find something else to do when I’m not really in the mood to begin with. Or should I say, when I’m IN a mood to begin with?
We’d found ourselves plunked between two other rope “scenes”. They were both trying out a new kind of chest harness. Something that they’d learned earlier. Daddy asked me if I’d wanted to try it. He had a hopeful look on his face and rope in his hand. I’d just gotten done telling a friend that I hadn’t really had rope on me since Shibaricon and wasn’t holding out much hope for this being “the scene” for us to start playing with it again. I was hopeful that we’d start using it again. That we’d start together again with it. Hope. The dirtiest four-letter word of all sometimes.
I’d been asking Daddy off and on for a couple of months about playing with rope. But after getting shut down so many times, I’d figured that I’d just fucking blew it with all the bitching I did. Instead of getting my point across about HOW I loved rope when it’s used in certain ways, it came off as how I didn’t like rope when it was used in certain other ways. I got tired of saying that we were lost when it came to rope. Instead, I just laughed it off and told my friends that we just didn’t have time to play with it anymore. But that it was okay. We did other things.
I’m sure that one or two of them couldn’t have felt any sorrier for me. I know I’ve been feeling pretty sorry for myself.
He started to tie the rope around my chest. I leaned back into him, I brought my hand up and touched his face. I smiled at him, I whispered to him, I touched his leg. I leaned forward, trying to catch his attention. Trying desperately to let him know that I wanted his rope. I wanted us to play again. I wanted it to be like it used to be. The connection. The attention. I wanted just something to go right with it.
And got nothing back. I became the diningroom chair. And as diningroom chairs are wont to do, I became useful for a purpose, but not the one which I’d intended. It was like the entire last couple of years of rope was just gone. We'd forgotten how to do something that used to be so simple for us as connecting with rope.
After he’d tied me, we adjusted a few things, moved some rope that was slipping, and got it done. I looked around and focused on Daddy. He was looking at the ropework being done by others. He was paying attention to the rope.
And I lost it. I was too disappointed to speak. I was too upset to talk. And I just wanted out of the damned rope. I’d gone from hopeful, to trying to get him to remember, to just giving up on all of it. And who says rope isn’t amazing?
He’d looked at me and said that I wasn’t here with him. I knew what he was saying, but when I’m that upset, I tend to mouth off. I said that he’d just tied me, where else would I be? His face was different. He was upset. He was trying to figure out what the hell had happened. And he kept asking me about what I was feeling.
Until I finally thought, I’ve already given up on the rope. He might as well know it. And because I was hurt, I said the words that I vowed that I’d never say to him.
I blurted out everything: How I felt like the chair. How he was tying the rope, not the girl. How it used to be different.
He said that I needed to cut him some slack. It had been a while since he’d tied. I know it has. I’m there.
To try to salvage something, I asked him to tie ME. I didn’t care how the rope looked, how pretty it was, how the knots went. All I cared about was HIM tying ME. Both of us, using the rope to relearn how to do something that we’d forgotten how to do. Using the strings to pull each other into our personal space. To use the rope to start to mend us.
I smiled when he grabbed me. I wanted it to be a hot, sexy scene, but instead, I was too happy that he’d actually remembered how to do this, that my laughter got the better of me. And as usual, things devolved into another bout with those unintended consequences. During which all I could think of was one thing:
If you want me there with you, use ROPE!