Coming bound, becoming unwound

My Knotty Release

This week’s story is free, despite being intimate, thanks to my new Founding Paid Subscriber. May we all thank him ❤️

I’m not a good girl. I don’t like to brush my hair, for example. This light rebellion carries predictable consequences: knotted strands, a congested scalp, suffocating follicles. Then pain, then itch, then flaking skin, then sores. The progression is biological, inevitable. Some of us learn this trajectory through dutiful prevention, others through willful neglect. I’ve chosen the latter path more than once.

I’ve let parts of myself go to shit.

Last year I abandoned my stretch routine. Time would have been my excuse if asked. But the truth is sometimes I ignore myself until I reach a bottleneck. A clog. A restricted state in which I’m not me. My head hurts. My limbs constricted from their usual boundaries.

I’ve started stretching again. It hurts, but it’s a different pain. It’s a prelude to relief. I push through the knot, then notice how it held me back. Every movement, every moment, an abbreviation of its potential. I stretch and have full range again. I’m unknotted. Unwound. My motion is free.

Some knots are not so easy to reach. Not with a brush nor a stretch.

I’ve felt total-body congestion before. I blamed hormones. When ignoring the problem proved ineffective and destructive, I found myself on an acupuncturist's table. It was painful. Not the needles but the internal unknotting they inspired. I almost tapped out - surrendered to panic. But, alone in that room, I had no choice but to push through. Afterward, I cried from relief, not pain.

The same thing happened during a self-touch meditation (not a euphemism) at home. Ignored pressure suddenly expressed its full sensory self. It built to the point of overwhelm, and then, poof, it was gone, and I was free.

And again, last week, during sex. This time, the knot was only noticed in its release.

Joe made me cum while I stood with my hands bound behind me. My back arched, pelvis pressed into his lips, the sensation nearly lost my balance. Lightheaded, I chose to trust - in him, in myself - and I breathed into it. The orgasm shattered knots I didn’t know I had.

For a moment, discomfort. For much longer, transcendence.

Had I known the plan - had there been one - my rational mind would have discounted the experience. I don’t like standing oral. I don’t like hands-free sex. I prefer control. I usually choose my own knots.

But we weren’t following a script. We were playing.

He suggested I put on something special.

I suggested he put on a pot of coffee.

I was a good girl for Joe. I donned the requested garments - a lacquered leather fixation. He was good for me, too. He finished my buckles and then handed me my mug.

We laughed. We kissed. We came.

Something that was congested now wasn’t. I didn’t even have to learn what happened when it went to shit.

I’m still not a good girl. Sometimes, I’m good to avoid the sores. Sometimes I follow Joe’s lead. For those unused to surrender, feeling good takes effort. But when you finally let go, time belongs to you again.

Soundtrack:

Acknowledgements:

A special thanks to my husband, my family, and all you subscribers for your encouragement. Happy Endings is for love, for each of you, and for myself.