Sex Stories: Restraint by T.A. Burkholder
“The next time it’s soft cuffs, a blindfold”
"Sex Stories" is a regular NAILED column in which all kinds of people write about sex. Read the previous "Sex Stories," here.
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I.
Escape is easy. From every tense Thanksgiving dinner, every boozy late-night show, every new introduction where the unspoken theme is "play nice." Try this: Tuck away most of what is you, bind the too wild and too weird tight to the bone and dive down from the well-lit surface.
Hold your tongue, and your temper, and your breath.
They think they know you, but they don't. They think they're smart but they aren't. They think they'll convince you of something but the truth is, you don't give a fuck. Not that you'll tell them that. Or share what you know. Or show who you are. Offer nothing but a nod and a smile. A modicum. A measure.
Let them agitate. Let them stir, slap and shout. No bother. You'll be down in the steady calm — well-wrapped, well-protected — waiting them out.
II.
The first man and I keep ourselves from kissing to minimize risk. One form of restraint leads to another. He wraps his belt around my naked breasts and arms. Impromptu bondage gear. The next time it's soft cuffs, a blindfold, and a ball gag. I become only breathe and only skin.
The next man ties each limb to a different corner of the bed. I'm held there. I hold there. I hold tight. I am nothing but the open parts of me.
The next man wraps my legs, calf to thigh, in black bondage tape. I am present. I am his present. I am squeezed into myself, all joint and muscle and sigh.
The next man knows knots. They've helped him master rocky cliffs. They'll help him master me. At least, that's the plan. But we're too busy laughing. Then too busy fucking. Then too busy talking. His knots are beautiful but we never use the rope again.
I'm all yours. I tell the next man. Do anything you want.
Anything? he asks.
Anything, I say.
We are not polite. We do not ease into things. We hold onto nothing but each other.
The next man tells me no one has ever said those magic words to him — yours, anything — then later admits not knowing what to do with the offer. Don't worry, I tell him. Me neither. Too many choices makes choice impossible. Lay down some limitations and it all becomes clear. I fall asleep beneath the weight of his long, strong leg. Instead of waking him up or pushing him off I move only once he moves.
The next man has me naked and prone. He moves my hand, palm up, onto my low back and stills me there with his grip. I become a pose made of shoulder blade and spine, tailbone and hip. Held back and holding. Pinned and pinning. This is our theme. This is our frame for all the days in between the days that I'm held this way.
The next man knows Shibari and I say show me. But I have to wait. And I have to not keep saying show me, show me, show me. I'm not a child begging for ice-cream. I'm a woman seeking bliss.
III.
Together, in a light-filled room, we line up north and south and fold around ourselves. We lunge low to the side. My limbs (their limbs, our limbs) buzz as I contort into something sanskrit. Baddha Parsvakonasana. With my shoulder tucked into my shin, I weave my arm between my legs until my hand rests, palm up, on my hip. My free arm reaches up and back and around, until my fingers clasp.
And so I'm bound. And so we are all bound.
In the bind, everything goes still and bright. I'm tied to the earth by the press and pressure. I'm lifted by the angle and twist.
My blood (their blood, our blood). I hear it making us live.
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Header image courtesy of Ashkan Honarvar. To read an interview with the artist, and view more of his work, go here.
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T.A. Burkholder's work has appeared most recently in The Feminist Wire, Clackamas Literary Review and The Cincinnati Review. Her piece, "Proof," was selected as a Notable Essay in The Best American Essays 2013. To read more, please go here.