Saturday 2 April 2011

Silence, discomfort and rope

A couple of days ago, I found myself on the way to the seaside, hot, sweaty and nervous. It was the first day of a bank holiday weekend, and time for a first play date. Even though the weekend has since finished and lots of things have happened, one of my clearest memories is sitting in that crowded carriage overlooking the fields and fretting about the trip. On some levels, I wasn't sure it was a good idea.

I wasn't fretting about the play, but something more basic: what we were going to talk about. Shyness has played an unusually large part in the story of our friendship. For years she and I have sat in the corner of parties and talked about nothing except our shyness. Friends have noticed and commented as, bit by bit, we've overcome that shyness together, but I was worried that there might be more awkward moments.

The nervousness that comes with several years of failed small talk probably explains why, when she asked me whether I wanted to spend more time on the beach or go to her flat to play, I chose the latter. She surprised me by how clearly she took the lead in what followed: asking how many clothes I'd like to be wearing, and whether I prefer to be comfortable or uncomfortable when tied up. She asked the questions about diabetes and epilepsy that are important for safety reasons without any awkwardness at all. I let her lead and tried to be a good partner: concentrating on her actions and the feel of the rope, being present, and not directing what she was doing at all. I was trusting that we'd connect.

We played quietly and smiled at each other a lot. She understood why I like discomfort and found positions that it was difficult for me to keep. When I admitted that I was making my life easier by propping myself up on a finger (rather than relying on my abs to keep my torso from falling backwards), she tied up the finger. She wasn't ordering me to sustain anything, but giving me the opportunity to push myself, and letting me know that she liked to watch me struggle. When I was bound on the floor she asked if I was able to get to my knees. For a long time it seemed impossible, however much I rolled around, but then she asked whether she could use a misery stick on me, and promised to keep on using it until I'd managed it. The solution I discovered involved wriggling out of some ropes around my feet. She said it would be okay for me to do that.

We played with rope for a long time, and I fell into a submissive head space slowly and easily. She picked my head up from the ground and the moment of panic that she could drop me onto the hard floor was soon overcome by an awareness of the trust that I'd placed in her. I felt safe. Afterwards we stretched out side by side, a little distance apart, and talked.

In retrospect, there really wasn't any reason to worry at all. Perhaps shyness has left a good legacy. For one thing, we seem comfortable with silence: we've had practice! I'd like more quiet times with her. Also, I'm realising that a lot of the assumptions that I had made about her during our disconnected conversations were wrong. Perhaps this is the chance to get to know someone from scratch.

1 comment:

  1. I enjoyed reading a good explanation of the rope play, a topic which can be hard to make sense of, but you wrote in a touching and clear way that I can see me wanting to share with people who don't know what I'm babbling about sometimes :)

    I'm looking forward to reading more, and that reminds me I should start writing too!

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