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 |  a journal in short bursts that might occasionally even rhyme |
Novelty handcuffs are a naughty little dare, a tiny soupçon of spice. You giggle nervously at the tasteful women-friendly sex-shop. It’s a hen-party. Therefore there must be sex toys. Life running its predictable course. You are not into this sort of thing. Of course not. There’s the mildly titillating, and then there’s whatever the hell that leather contraption is. As a bridesmaid, you are here for the ride. That doesn’t stop you from buying the handcuffs. One never knows, right? Not the dildos though. One thing to buy handcuffs – that means you might have a boyfriend (or a girlfriend, you don’t want to be narrow-minded in your thinking). The other implies you’re sitting alone at home masturbating furiously to art house indie movies. Like some kind of sex-crazed, manless (personless?) freak. Which you are pretty sure you might be. There’s no reason to announce it, however. The wedding went off with only minor hitches. That’s where you first see him. A supreme rom-com meet-cute scenario, what with him being a groomsman. You start to think this one is a keeper. Six months in, I-love-you’s are exchanged. At this point, you’ve done all the requisite progressive hip young city couple things and then some. You’ve watched porn together, gone to a swingers party (even if everyone there was middle-aged and you guys went home alone), discussed boundaries and jealousy triggers to death (he doesn’t have any, you have hang-ups). The sex is fulfilling if not exciting. Shyly, because aren’t you always shy about these things, you bring out the handcuffs on a night when you are two sheets past any sort of wind. You mention a movie you saw last week where the man ties the girl up. Inside, your heart pounds. He might think you’re a freak and then where would you be? Instead he’s enthusiastic. He wants to blindfold you, which is one step further than you wanted to go. You figure what the hell, liquid courage and all that. Between the two of you, three bottles of champagne have met their end. By the bottom of the fourth, blindfolding sounds kind of hot, actually. The safeword is magic. Although you will never tell him – what good would it do eight months into the relationship to bring it up – that night is your first partnered orgasm. First three, if you’re being precise. Not that the sex wasn’t good before then. It was, even without a climax. Besides, that’s what masturbation is for. With the blindfold and the cuffs, however, there is just enough guilt and shamefulness to get you off. Residual Catholic guilt. It could have been embarrassing, afterwards. Except he came as many if not more times than you did. It was the blindfold, he explains. Apparently he has a bent for them. Who knew? You start to wonder how far down this rabbit hole goes. The next time you are not quite as drunk. Enough to pretend, as all good girls do, that you cannot possibly be held responsible for all the nasty business going on here. He obliges you kindly. Neither one of you is quite ready to jump out of the closet. Perhaps the secrecy is part of the kink. Tomorrow being Sunday, you can confess it. Not with details. Father Morgan probably doesn’t want to hear that the headboard was not as sturdy as it seemed. After a particularly animated weekend you realize your wrists are red and inflamed. It looks like what it is, allergies and rope burn. There’s probably wool in the fuzz of the handcuffs. Being a modest sort, you wear long sleeves and that ugly heirloom bracelet you inherited from your grandmother until the swelling goes down. Embarrassing but emboldening. You are an adult, after all, free to do as you please. On your one year anniversary he tells you that he’s done some research. About ropes. Thankfully your shirt is dark or that wine you sprayed everywhere would be visible. How could he be talking about this in public? Parts of you sit up and take notice, modesty be damned. Whispering – and how foolish that, in a trendy crowd like this, no one is paying you any mind, not even the wait staff – he explains that a friend of a friend has a gathering of likeminded folk every couple of months. There’s even a word for it – a munch. There’s a man there who’s a bondage expert. He has an invite for the next one. Would you like to go? And that is the question, isn’t it? You find yourself averting your eyes more than once. Some of this stuff is so outlandish you want to laugh. Other parts are frightening. Who would want to be caned on purpose? The ghosts of your ancestors shiver to think it. But you are respectful. You realize your friends would be aghast at the things the two of you get up to. If it’s consensual, who are you to judge? Easy enough to say, but there are perfect strangers running around in dog-collars, half-naked, mostly naked, naked naked and perfectly clothed. This is what a fetish community looks like. You’re not one of them, however, merely a polite observer. Liking to be tied down and blindfolded is a long way from this. Conveniently, you ignore that most everyone in this room felt that way once. In your second-best party dress, that is a fiction you struggle to maintain. That is until your eyes land on a short overweight redhead, trussed up in beautiful, intricate knots. Exactly like when you found your apartment, it is lust at first sight. For the bondage, not the girl. It turns out she’s a human advertisement. What a display too. Not only is this the work of the man you guys are here to meet, he and his model are more than happy to chat with you. By the end of the night, you have names, numbers and the rudimentary basics. They school you: him on some simple knots, some good books and websites, her on what is safe safe, dangerous safe, and just dangerous. There is a lot to think about. By mutual accord, you take a break from kink. Before it was play. You need to decide how much further you want this to go. Weeks pass by in haze. The waiting becomes unbearable. You’ve even started reading bodice-rippers as a way to get your fix. For his birthday you book a six-day trip to Napa Valley. Rather than check a bag, you ship hundreds of dollars’ worth of good quality rope, handmade silk blindfolds, and the new and improved version of the handcuffs to the bed-and-breakfast. You gear yourself up for rejection. He may have decided he likes vanilla sex well enough. As for you, you miss the closeness bondage brought to your relationship. It might even be a deal-breaker. For a change you insisted on blindfolding him. There was no other way to change without him seeing you. Thankfully the lingerie you ordered fits perfectly. You were worried; online purchases can be so dicey. All your toys are laid out on the bed. You are wrapped up in little bits of satin. And a bow, of course. Cheesy, but it is his birthday. When you take the blindfold off him, he gasps in delight. He had been working his way toward asking you to re-up for kink. He worried about your reaction. The innkeeper, nosy but helpful, mentions a place called The Armory in San Francisco. You take your second to last day off from wine-tasting and go into the city. You have to admit it was a spot-on recommendation. It does make you wonder what she saw in you two that made her suggest it. He proposes that night over a bold cabernet and spicy prawns. You say yes only after he has paddled your ass sore. Not that there was any doubt as to your answer. On the plane ride home, you find yourself pondering the finer points of suspension and the glitter of your engagement ring. He asks you how you feel about bringing in other people. It makes you laugh to think how horrified you were at your first swingers party. Bring them on, you say, but after the honeymoon. Neither one of you wants a big wedding. Less than a week after your vacation, you are officially Mr. and Mrs. You figure in the next year or so you’ll have a big reception for your friends and family. In the meantime, there are logistical issues. He wants to stay in his apartment, which is bigger. You want to stay in yours, which has wood-floors, high-ceilings and the beautiful bones of a pre-war. Plus, it’s cheaper. It is your first big fight. The makeup sex is spectacular. You compromise, and go apartment hunting. With two paychecks, you ought to be able to find something really nice. And in a new place, it might be possible, with tweaking, to recreate some of the sets you saw at The Armory at home. |
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