I spent last night gatecrashing a rope lesson that entailed singing along to Sesame Street videos and descending into hilarity. Even with canes and Wartenberg wheels, it felt like one of the stoner evenings I used to have when I was 25—all fun and absurdity with a complete absence of sighs.
Yesterday afternoon, I also got tied and beaten with a belt. I was told in advance that this was supposed to be a nonsexual scene, to which I replied, “Then I’m keeping my underwear on.” No matter how many times I lecture my vagina, it will not cooperate with your dry-as-a-bone rope session. Sorry. I can only try to fake it if I’m dressed.
Last night’s rope class was my most epic unsexy kink night to date–Epic because of the people involved; unsexy because I wasn’t the one being tied. To me, BDSM and sex are inextricably linked. Rope feels like a million fingers on my skin, and pain is pleasure’s middle name. My vagina will do its best rendition of a nonsexual lady part, but it won’t do it very well. I’ll never be a Rope Class Bunny, primarily because I have all the bendiness of a bamboo cane, but also because I can’t sing Sesame Street songs while being manhandled.
I’m transparent as hell, and so is my vagina. The idea of a nonsexual scene confuses me. Even if I shut my eyes and think of my last walk around the estuary, my body will betray me. While I’m jealous of all the bottoms who can breathe like a late Sunday morning while being caned, this is the body I was born in. It doesn’t know the words to Sesame Street songs, and it can’t take the sex out of kink.