Remember: Rope is edge play. Rope is serious. You can’t fuck around with it, and the practitioners are highly evolved actualized spiritually aware dominants and submissives who always focus on the higher connections enabled by a steady flow of mitochlorions through the aetheric vapors emitted as arousal-induced Reichian flow…
Ok, ok, I can’t keep typing that with straight fingers. The fact is, rope people are silly – some of the silliest I know. For example, at the tail end of my trip, it was my distinct pleasure to teach a private lesson in suspension to four people in D.C. Synix, Calypso, Naiia, and E. all learned various harnesses like the Gunslinger and the Drum Tie and the Mammogram Hammocky Harness and the Really Fucking Hotakote and other very traditional ties. It was a rough class – intelligent, capable, hot rope tops, who caught on quickly, gorgeous naked women with matching panties and painted toenails (my lovely assistant Sam even matched them, true professional that she is), often unable to keep their hands and mouths off of each other long enough for a tie to be completed…there was the standard repartee of Eddie Izzard quotes, bad puns, suggestive banter, and incidentally a helluva lot of rope marks on those fair bodies by the end of the day.
Like I said, it was rough.
And perhaps it is understandable that I left my entire rope bag in their car when they dropped me off in Germantown. Yes, that’s right, every bit of rope that I’d carried on the trip (well, minus some that I’ll talk about in a later entry) got left in the back seat.
No worries though, right? It’s going to be mailed to me, I’m assured:
“So I hope the flight back was comfortable and, I promise, we’ll get your rope bag back to you. I can’t promise all the rope in the bag will make it back, but that’s a really nice bag and I’d hate for you to lose it…”
Like I said – my kind of people. Thanks, you guys, for inviting me into your home.
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