Meeting with Velvetine avril 2022
Your teapot dribbles a bit when I pour the tea for you. “It always does that – and it rusts”, you say, when I comment that I wish I had a teapot just like that. Beautifully imperfect and flawed, just like these two human beings that happen to have come together in this very moment, drawn together by rope. Cracked yet forming new shimmering layers to cover the brokenness.
This person in front of me feels like someone on the brink of change. In the process of being reborn or shedding old skin. Teetering on the edge. He’s not quite sure which way it’ll land – but certain of change coming. A new leaf.
Now we’re on the tatamis and the first rope is biting into my wrists. You said the way you tie might have changed. Having only seen you tie and not been in your ropes yet, I can’t tell if this is a new way. For me all if it is new. Every movement and rope a surprise. My mind is unfettered by the shapes I already know. With you, I cannot guess the next step.
I see our shadows and think of puppets and that for this moment I’m your puppet to mold into whichever shape you like. I enjoy the way you circle around me. Creating distance and moments of abandonment. Then caresses down my back or face. I want to lean closer for comfort and rest my face against you but I can’t move my immobilised neck. When you move into view I enjoy looking into your eyes that are sometimes filled with deep sadness and such burning intensiveness. My eyes have been sad too for a while these recent months but today mine are clouded in a blissful film of rope high and surrender. Sometimes I can’t look at you for shyness or deference and have to look down.
The way you twist and shape me makes me feel beautiful but shamefully so – I’m aware of my nakedness in a way that would never bother me normally. Now it makes me blush when I feel the wetness of my trapped underwear under my left foot as I tippytoe, arms tied upwards as if in prayer.
Suddenly I’m on your leash. I want to look at your face and in your eyes but I can’t cast my eyes upwards as the rope around my neck is tied to my waist. A pet perhaps but which kind? Later I see it in the photo: I’m a wild pony captured mid-stomp of her ferocious little hooves and now she’s poised like this, again in some sort of prayer. For release, forgiveness or just as a gesture of obedience.
I lose time. Is it quick or slow. It could be 5 minutes or hours.
Your hand restricting my breath feels like kindness. The way you grab my hair tightly is like caresses to me. My hair tied to my toe, my neck impossibly twisted back. I fade into bliss this way. Breathless. I feel like a dying swan.