Rope in the Red Room

I haven’t had rope in… years. YEARS. At least 4 years. It was my first thing I fell in love with in the kinky world. Long before I loved a man or a woman, I loved rope. It didn’t matter who was on the other end of rope, l felt at peace and alive all at once when rope touched me. Then as the years drifted by and I loved a man and a woman and then I destroyed the person I was to become the woman I am, rope remained. But the years did drift right on by without rope.

Enter Van.

She and I met nearly a year ago. We were in each other’s orbit and she approached me about playing with rope. I hesitated. I have never seen her play with anyone using rope. I gave a vague answer and we continued to orbit each other slowly.

A shared secret, a comforting glance across the room, and slowly the bonds of friendship started and strengthened. I saw her play with a person using rope and I knew I’d be safe with her.

. . . . . . .

We laid a few tapestries down on the hardwood floor and negotiated quickly. I sat in nothing but panties. She wore fishnets and a devilish smile. She blindfolded me and began to slide rope across my skin. I was laid down and the fan hit my sweaty, nervous skin. I tried to slow my breathing but a thousand thoughts bombarded my brain and I started to panic.

*I’m naked and fat there’s scars and sweat what if I’m not a good bottom I don’t want to just lay here while people stare at me she’s probably not going to have any fun I’m the worst I should have never asked her for rope tonight!*

I decide my brain is robbing me of this experience with this beautiful woman. I breathe deeply and slowly let every thought go. I purposefully give myself over to this moment and tune into every sensation. I begin to pay attention to the rope, her hands, the shift of the cloth under me, the way she breathes.

She’s bent my good arm and tied it tightly. I flex my fingers and I can touch my face. I set up a slow repetitive motion with my fingers. I attempt to find her skin with my other hand and I find her leg.

She scratches me down my chest and her nails scrape across my scar. The pain is unfamiliar and white hot. I don’t want to alarm her or scare her by drawing attention to it so I slowly untangle my fingers from her fishnets and cover my scar.

The fan is blowing, I’ve stopped sweating and the air turns from refreshing and cool to cold. I decide that along with the bite of rope, the slide of rope across my skin, the touch of her fingers on my skin, I’m going to just soak this in. I begin to shiver and the rope slices across my thigh hotly.

The dichotomy of sensation is intoxicating. I feel drunk. Moans escape and rope tightens. Over and over she pulls rope across me, I shiver and cry out. She leans over and I feel teeth sink into the top of my thigh.

I want to grip her hair and beg for more. Instead I shiver and hold my breath.

I don’t have a memory of her removing the rope but she’s over me, her red hair looks like sun beams and her voice cuts into the fog.

“I’m not going anywhere”

We relax into each other and our foreheads touch. She smells like a warm fire.

I’m covered in a blanket and fed strawberries. I try to gather myself quickly. But I feel drunk and happy.

I try to help her put her rope back properly but honestly I’m a mess and I feel like the rope all tangled up. A disheveled mess.

Eventually I’m me again and she’s herself again. But for delicious moments we were just skin, rope, moans and fishnets.



Hannah Gadsby quote from “Nanette” “There is nothing stronger than a broken woman who has rebuilt herself.

I watched a beautiful woman with a quiet fire across the table from me. Her brows came together, her eyes closed, she gasps and closed her lips. The tears fell unchecked as she shook her head at the betrayal. She held a strong hand across the table and took a deep breath. The tears were cleared off her face and she nodded her head slightly at the support.

It all happened in a flash. She crumbled a moment when she knew she has support and time to let go. Then she gathered her crumbles back up and squared her shoulders.

Her life is in flux and her family is in crisis and yet she remains steady. Among her chaos she wrote to me this morning “Good morning lovely. I miss you bunches. I hope everything is positive in your life today.”

That’s the thing we take for granted because if you’re a woman in my life, I know how strong you are. People should be in awe of you. Instead its become normal. In fact if you are a woman reading this you probably thought “eh so she’s got a problem, cried at the table, and she’ll deal with it.” Yes. Yes she is. And the problem after that and after that and after that….. but it’s more than working through a problem or tragedy or chaos. It’s more.

And I want to celebrate this woman, these women in my life. They possess a core strength and a light within them that could build cathedrals with the sunlight bathing everything inside it.

My sister has had tragedy heaped on her like dirt filling a tomb. She’s at work right now. Later she will fold laundry and yell at her boys to take the trash out.

My daughters will lay down and stare at the ceiling while they silently fight demons, and then each of them will get up and take a shower and get on with life. Every single day.

Histy will fight every day to stay here. Even when fighting means sliding around and crawling in the bed for a day or two. She will put her shoes on and go see her doctor, come home and make her family dinner. She will battle demons she didn’t create. She will do it dirty or with grace. Whatever it takes.

Dame, too. Goodness this woman! Willow, Alicia, Amanda, Rhonda, Sue, Michelle, Desiree, Tammy, Maria, Amber, Cherish, Audrey, Katie……

But I’m hard pressed to find a woman that isn’t: smart funny strong kind soft sassy compassionate passionate capable in my life.

I want to celebrate these women and every accomplishment. Sometimes after the world beats you down the strongest thing you can do is get up in the morning.

And we are.

War stories

I have written this blog over and over for a month and it is messy and disjointed but here ya go:

These beautiful, strong women have given me permission to use real names and experiences so that’s what I’m going to do.

Katie, Savannah, and I were having lunch together. We were all excited to be spending time together. It was supposed to be a fun day filled with lunch and pedicures. Although fun was had it wasn’t the day any of us had envisioned.

The conversation was one of those meandering ones. And I hadn’t been around girls that wanted to talk to me in so long, I feel like I monopolized much of the conversation. I am working on talking over people but this habit is very hard to break.

So Katie mentioned in passing that her brother abused her. Then she mentions her ex husband hit her casually. Savannah says from the front seat of the car she was 14 when her boyfriend waited until his family had gone and they were all alone….

And how nonchalant these experiences were conveyed was altogether disturbing. It got me to thinking….

Tammy told me that her ex husband would abuse her so often that she no longer kept track of what happened, nor when. She said horrific things in such a matter of fact way.

Michelle said it quietly while she was sitting on her bed, almost as an afterthought.

Alicia spoke in a strong tone, relaying her healing process across the restaurant booth.

My Eldest was going through her clothes, passing things down. She looked up at something Middle had tried on and said “Ewwwe no. That is the romper I was wearing the night I got raped.” Middle shrugged, and the romper went into the give-away pile.

When people, especially women, talk about such vile experiences in a manner that is almost casual, and it isn’t devastating to hear, that is the real tragedy.

Do men know that women sit around at lunch and say “Yeah, my pinkie doesn’t bend that way anymore. Ex-Husband.” “Oh I don’t really remember much from that year, it’s the time I got raped” “Girl, you know I can’t stay too long at my Mom’s house”… do they care that abuse is so wide spread and prevalent that it is no longer shocking?

Its not enough for men to say “I’d never…”. I need men who don’t laugh at sexist jokes and call their buddies out on the “locker room” talk. I need real men to stand up and fucking make it uncomfortable. I need you to make that guy uncomfortable sitting across from you.

Because women are fucking tired of being comfortable sitting around at lunch trading war stories.

Waiting to let you go

This is for you.

Thank you.

I’ve been waiting, watching, and wondering. Did we do the right thing? Could it have happened differently? I think it happened exactly the way it should have.

You’re right. You are a great catch. That was never in doubt. You are kind and soft and beautiful.

I check in because I care. How are you, your son, your mother? You know me, I need to make sure you are okay. I don’t know what I could do if you weren’t okay… but I’d try. Is that dangerous?

Chemistry and connection, pancakes and cuddles. Yes, I remember.

But I’m not relationship girl. I’m not submissive. I’m self destructive, self sabotaging. You wanted a wife-type person. Oh I’m the worst wife/girlfriend, honestly. I can pretend, I can play house for a while. But more often than not, I just suck at long term relationships. I can’t go all in. That isn’t fair to you.

The last time we saw each other, I knew it would be the last. …. can I just say it’s been a rough six months?

I don’t know what happens next. I’ve never said goodbye before.

White knuckles and blue toes

I have gone so long, the longest I’ve ever been.

I hardly ever think about who I used to be.

I stood outside on the back porch watching the bugs crowd around the light.

Those dumb mother fuckers. But if I turn the light off they go away. Do they find other lights?

I think maybe I’ll shave my legs and find a dress that will fit my ever expanding body. What if I don’t refill my meds?

In the grocery store they have plant based milk. Am I doing this again?

Listening to the dogs bark, I paint my toes and squeeze my fat thighs together.

Will anyone notice if I buy a pacifier? Do I care?

What if I give in? What then? It’s never that simple and I’ve come this far.

Is this how Boo felt?

When you stab someone with a sword and then everyone takes sides but me, what side am I on?

Sitting in a cage feels like home. Sitting at home feels like a cage.

I bought the perfect red lipstick and drew on my nipple with it. Then I colored in my favorite book.

Breathing from my feet. Holding my eyes closed with the palms of my hands and I smear my mascara.

I’m happy all by myself. I’m sad all by myself.

I want to count the orgasms like rain drops. Instead I slide chocolate into my mouth and lick my fingers.

Have you ever wondered what standing in one place, waiting for a sign feels like? Do other people have these experiences standing on the back porch watching bugs kill themselves?

Waiting on tomorrow

When you ache and itch.

When the throb becomes pain.

Twisting and turning.

Trying to find the spot where it doesn’t hurt.

Holding your breath. Pressing the desperate places.

Remembering the moments when you didn’t drip with angry need.

Going backwards isn’t an option.

Going forward with the ache deep in your soul.

Wondering if you could dig a knife in far enough to carve out the dark spots.


Zipping up your jeans two sizes too small. Pulling on your shoes.

The front door shuts behind you. You can’t feel your feet and the knife sits in your brain, twirling.

Maybe tomorrow.

I know what I’m about, Son.

A long time ago when I was a different woman I needed someone to take care of me, even if the taking care part wasn’t particularly efficient. I had no faith in myself and would panic when left to figure things out on my own. But I was also stubborn and instead of guidance, I was given the line “I’m just going to let you butt with your own head”. I was expected to fail at whatever I was doing, and more often than not, I did.

As I slowly morphed into this woman I attempted to give my reigns over to someone else here and there or seek counseling from a trusted source. But I’ve had that stubborn streak or untrusting bit of myself always waiting. Eventually I trusted myself enough to not have the urge to hand my reigns over to anyone.

I know I should go to the gym, drink water, and pay my bills. I know my children better than anyone and dont need the obvious “Dont you think Youngest should clean her room?” pointed out to me. I can change my own lightbulbs. Or I can sit in the dark.

Now when I “butt with my own head” I take responsibility for my own actions.

Deep breath

So I don’t identify as submissive. If a man attempted to tell me what I already know, I’d laugh in his face. Keep your mouth shut. Stay in your lane. I know what I’m about, son. I like my messy life just the way it is, else I’d change it.

So the other night The Chocolate Man was in my kitchen with his flashlight peering into my fridge. I said “Hey, if you want to track down a light bulb for that fridge, feel free. I’ve purchased about 7 different bulbs and none of them fit.”

I sat stunned at myself for a moment.

I was cuddling on the couch with The Daddyman and he asked me what I want out of this. I’m resourceful and responsible. I trust myself. I love myself. I don’t need anything. I want fun and easy. I want no pressure. I want just hang out without definitions.

Again after I said these things, I sat stunned at myself.

Let’s not get things twisted. I’m a mess. The difference between now and then is then I used to crave acceptance and help to be less of a mess.


Fuck it.