Rope

We go upstairs, to the apartment he’s letting while he is in San Francisco. A 1920s studio, with wood floors and tile in the bathroom. It is charming.

He offers me wine. And there is a white plate with a gold rim and a cursive, capital letter F in the same gold.

I think, What a sweet coincidence. An F for Francesca.

There is fruit on the plate, raspberries and sliced strawberries. And also cheese. And some nuts and dried fruit.

I think, Oh, this is how to do it. Have some wine, and some snacks.

It feels luxurious to me. There are candles lit. A soft glow.

And then we’re kissing, and touching, and he’s taking my clothes off. And then his clothes come off. And then I’m on his bed, legs wide, he between and dipping his mouth to me, and I feel his breath on me, and he’s tasting me, licking my tender center, and I feel trembly and I ask him if he likes me.

Do you like me?

“Do I like you,” he says. “Is that what you need? To be liked?”

And then I’m telling him about the others — about the one in middle school, and how there was grabbing but not liking, and about how confusing it was for me. And how sad.

And he says, “I like you.”

“I like you, too,” I say.

He comes up and the weight of his body grounds me, and he kisses me and I like tasting myself on his mouth, and he wants to tie me up and he reaches for a thin rope, it’s less than the width of your thumb, and he folds it over so it’s double and he wraps it around my wrists.

I ask him, “Do you have safety scissors?”

In all the workshops and blog posts I know, they say to keep safety scissors on hand in case you need to quickly release her.

He says no. He ties me neatly. I tell him he’s done a good job, and how does he know how to do that?

“Everyone knows how to do this,” he says.

“Maybe in Canada,” I say. He laughs.

I love that he is from Canada. And that he grew up with summers by a lake in a far off place, miles from nowhere, swimming in the lake even though it was so cold. The nature and sun and water have imprinted themselves upon him, and he is close to that world: a world of life and growth, of nature and the scents and movement of all that it knows.

My wrists are tied.

My arms are secured above my head.

He’s pulled me down onto the bed, and my legs are wide again, one leg long and straight on the bed, and the other bent. He has a hand on me, and fingers inside, and he’s rocking his hand forward and back.

“I like you like this,” he says. “I like to feel you. I feel like you’re mine. You can’t get away. I have you, and I posses you. When I feel you get turned on, I know you’re mine.”

“Yes,” I say.

“I can read you like a book,” he says, “I think I’ve got you figured out.”

“Yes,” I say. And it feels so good.

He pulls away from me, shifts his weight, then comes forward onto me. His face is near my face and I turn towards him for a kiss. He grants me a kiss, lightly.

“Are you tired,” he says, “Do you need a break?”

I’m breathless. “Yeah, a little break,” I say.

He kisses me and says, “Well, you’re not in charge right now.”

And he slips down my body and dives into me. I gasp and open, I struggle and I want to badly to release and be obliterated.

My orgasm does not come.

And after a time, he pulls back, and comes close, and unties me. And he lays down beside me, and I curl up with him.

And we sleep.