Leather bed death

Honey, I’m worried that we’re not having enough sex. Now don’t say a thing. Just listen.

When we first met, it was all about sex, play and playful sex. We didn’t stop for anything. I know we had to sneak around a lot. Maybe most people seemed to disapprove, but when we closed our curtains, did the fun ever start. Remember those glory days?

We were in love with the very idea of the freedom to express the love we shared with someone else. We weren’t alone in the world, finally. We understood for the first time that we weren’t sick, sad, perverted freaks, but regular human beings with dignity and wants and needs and love to give.

Let me remind you about the love, honeybun.

Remember attending an underground Christmas party with 150 of our closest friends, and that fisting scene we did onstage? Remember the face of the poor boi who got dragged into the spotlight to be the lube-squeezer? Yeah, me too.

And that series of private parties we went to, you remember the space, right? The huge dark basement where we might have dodged spiders at times, but we felt free to express our nastiest and darkest desires. Remember the whips cracking and the smell of the steam off naked bodies? Remember seeing that sweet slaveboy kneeling at the feet of his master, his eyes full of adoration and his mouth full of cock?

Where’d the magic go?

Nowadays we’re so worried about what the neighbours will think that we use coy euphemisms when we talk to them about what we do. (Naming it after our leather, fer chrissakes. Lucky we’re not into taffeta.) We present only our most clean, scrubbed and wholesome faces to the world.

Sure, we are starting to flex some muscle in the world-I ain’t knocking the progress we’ve made, or the safety that gives us. But honey, what happened to the sex?

The last leather title event we went to was sweet and engaging and we said all the right political things. But we didn’t talk about sex, did we? Nothing about intense fucking or the heady scent of leather mixed with the hot sting of paddles. We didn’t bring up the reasons we have for standing tall in our black boots, or why we’d be found on our knees in front of them. We didn’t talk about the sweetness of trust and power exchange, or the way it makes us hot and aching, wet or hard, and so damn focused on our love. Our lust. The real reason we’re here.

Let’s not forget the times we had with each other. Let’s rekindle our spark. After all, darling, you’re the only BDSM community I have.

*Elaine Miller has a long memory.