I was 9 years old, and I couldn't sleep. After sneaking out of bed, I turned on the television quietly and curled up on the couch to watch Nick at Nite until dawn, as I often did in the throes of insomnia. It was The Adventures of Superman, and lucky me, Jimmy Olsen was being kidnapped.
I loved it when Jimmy Olsen was kidnapped. And he was being kidnapped in spectacular fashion. A group of gangsters in pinstriped suits and fedoras wrestled him into the back of a delivery van, their hands clamped over his mouth and pinning his arms into his back. The next time the van door opened, Jimmy was bound and gagged. He had ropes wrapped around his entire body, around his arms at the elbow and the shoulder, his hands tied behind him. Ropes around his knees. Around his ankles. Two white handkerchiefs obscuring his eyes and mouth.
One of the bad guys punched Jimmy in the stomach. Even to me it looked kind of fake, but Jimmy lurched and moaned before the van door was closed again.
I felt a thrill of excitement and anticipation. Anything could happen to Jimmy, he was completely helpless — and not buckled into the car! — but at the same time I knew he would be safe. Superman would come and save him. I knew nothing really bad could happen to Jimmy. Jimmy was always safe, even if he was scared and vulnerable.
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I played kidnapping games with my sisters for a few years. Pirates and princesses sometimes; once in a while we acted out stories with our Barbie dolls. Somebody would be abducted, and then a handsome prince or smiling Ken doll would rescue them.
I didn't think about those games for a long time, not until the first time I went into a sex toy store. I went in out of pure curiosity as a teenager, and there on display was an array of handcuffs and ropes and blindfolds.
And it all clicked for me.
Of course there was a cottage industry in bondage supplies. Because of course people wanted to be tied up. Wanted to tie somebody up. Wanted to play act the illusion of danger, the thrill of helplessness, the moment of uncertainty when maybe Superman wasn't coming to the rescue.
I knew before I became sexually active that what I was really interested was ropes and gags and blindfolds, a little bit of pain and a lot of restraint. The anticipation heightens all the senses, but it's not Superman who saves me. It's the same person who tied me up in the first place.
There's a phrase in the kink world that describes my relationship with bondage — it's called "topping from the bottom." I know exactly what I want, and I have a habit of letting my partner know if he's doing it wrong. That's the delightful thing about bondage — about being wrapped up in ropes and blindfolded and gagged and being made absolutely helpless. I'm not helpless. I've arranged the situation exactly as I know it will titillate me most. I've designed the scene to stimulate my senses and to just plain stimulate. I might be bound and gagged, tossed around and manhandled, but I'm doing it under the terms I've chosen that excite me the most.
Most of my friends know a little about my kink. I don't often speak openly about it, but I'm not ashamed. Everything I do is consensual, enjoyable, and safe. And I feel no reason that I should be ashamed of the activities I enjoy behind closed doors. I am not ashamed of my fantasies or of asking my partner to fulfill them.
My kinky sex life is utterly fulfilling. The sex itself is spectacular, but even more, there is a deepening intimacy that occurs when you unpack your kinks. When you and your partner talk over how they came to be, digging for material for the best possible scene, the most exciting experience.
And that means that sometimes, the most romantic gift he can get me on Valentine's Day isn't a pearl necklace or dinner at a fancy restaurant; sometimes it's a hardware store bag full of rope and a pocket full of handkerchiefs.
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