Rope: A Bondage Story (Prologue—Side B)

dsc_4669© 2016 City of Broken Dreams

Cleanliness leads to godliness leads to loneliness leads to boredom leads to ennui leads to fucking temptation. Everything always leads back to fucking temptation. So what’s a girl to do?

She consistently attends her bi-weekly meetings. She has frequent late-night telephone conversations with Marge—her confidant; her staunch, supportive sponsor. She focuses on her two young daughters; committing herself completely to providing them with the kind of childhood that she herself never had. She closes her eyes tightly, even when sitting in the dark, and pictures herself standing on the threshold of the abyss; willing herself to perch on the brink of Oblivion, but never allowing herself to fall in. She tries to live the most ordinary life that she can, even though she is engaged in a near-constant battle with the most extraordinary of foes: the devil that awaits her, standing just outside the door.

Basically, she tries to survive—and she does a pretty good job at it, too. But no matter how much she busies herself with the mundane minutiae of daily living, with the mechanical motions of the AA rigmarole, with the introspective, pseudo-spiritual battle over her fucked-up, broken little soul, it never seems to be enough. The devil is always knocking, and she lives in constant fear that the day will soon arrive when she will finally open the door.

The true test of her will comes when it’s finally time for her youngest daughter to go off and join her older sister in school. Now that both of her little birds aren’t at home during the day anymore, the nest has become dangerously desolate and empty. Without the children to keep her busy, and without a regular day job (due to her still extant mental fragility) to occupy herself, she justly frets over what she will fill her excessively burdensome free time with. For idle hands are truly the devil’s playthings, and in her case, it appears as if her hands were tailor-made to succumb to and indulge in the devil’s temptation.

She tries hard—to keep it together, to hold it together. But she finds it progressively more and more difficult with the slow and painful passage of time. With each passing day—and in spite of exhausting every single last one of her known coping strategies—she can once again feel herself slowly slipping away—slipping down the sick, slippery slope that leads down to her own potential inevitable downfall. She again feels herself unraveling, becoming undone, and that old familiar pull towards the toxic chemical bonds that once did such a fine job of preventing her from completely falling apart (yet simultaneously managing to tear her apart, as well).

On one particularly challenging day, the fear that she will fall down the rabbit hole to hell becomes so overwhelming that she seemingly regresses back to an earlier stage of development—a much, much earlier stage. Like a scared little girl being chased by the most menacing of monsters in a very bad dream, she seeks out the familiar comfort and relative safety of her own bedroom. Once inside, she flees to the corner of the room; she crouches on the floor, she sits with her back against the wall, she pulls her legs tightly up against her chest. With her chin resting upon her knees, she wraps her arms around the lower part of her body—as tightly as she can—and she huddles in a tight little human ball, hidden away in the corner of her own room.

For whatever reason, she feels a certain kind of comfort in sitting like that: confined and tucked away in the corner, tightly swaddled within herself. The external pressure which she exerts upon her own body not only gives her a feeling of security, but also elicits a highly reinforcing sensory sensation inside herself. She doesn’t understand the mechanism behind her body’s reflex and response to her own self-inflicted ministrations, but she doesn’t really care. For this is the first time since the hunger was put inside of her that she actually feels a modicum of safety and repose in the face of her temptation. And so she decides to stay for a while; to embrace her own embrace; to allow herself to slip away into the cool darkness of her own dark self.

When she returns to the surface of her own tenebrous ocean, hours have passed. She has a quick moment of panic as she fears that she has failed to remember to pick up the girls from school. However, she quickly realizes that it isn’t as late as she had first thought, that there is still time before she must go and meet her daughters in front of the school. But now she experiences an internal conflict: she doesn’t want to leave the safety and comfort of her little corner; to have and let go of the feeling of security that she is now able to provide herself by the simple application of her own physical pressure, while secluded away in the asylum of her own bedroom.

She once again teeters on the edge of panic as the battle between her own sense of self-security and the maternal, altruistic instinct to ensure the well-being of her daughters rages within her. But then something suddenly catches her eye, giving her a moment of pause: underneath the bed, partially hidden by the murk that dwells beneath all beds, she glimpses the end of an old jump rope that one of the children must have carelessly left behind. The rope furtively peeks out from the hidden depths of the domiciliary underworld, revealing itself to her in a manner that is perhaps not unlike how the Serpent first revealed itself to Eve, eons ago, back in the Garden of Eden.

The sight of the rope. It gives her an idea.       


It has been several weeks since that fateful day when the rope first revealed itself to her while in her bedroom. Since that time, she has had plenty of time to fully invest herself to further shaping the once nascent and underdeveloped idea, initially and innocently inspired by the sight of a child’s toy, into a now fully realized and executable stratagem.    

She has spent her time wisely: educating herself on history and technique; researching and purchasing the items necessary to be able to make the rope do what it is that she so desperately requires of the rope to do. And of course, she has been practicing and refining the many ways in which the rope can provide her with all the things that she once sorely lacked, not so long ago: security, comfort, safety … pleasure—and perhaps most importantly, a secret weapon to aid her in the battle against the devil’s temptation.

And so she devotes and submits herself completely to the Way of the Rope, and in return, the rope does exactly what the rope was designed to do:

The rope binds her. The rope holds her together. The rope helps keep her from coming undone.

The rope fucking saves her.

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