 |
|||
|
|
18 Months, 567 Days Since Jenny’s Disappearance
I am back in London, at a meeting with the Consulting Engineers working with us, on the Cambodian Project. The meeting is to review “strategic opportunities and future development”. I don’t have high hopes for it.
Their offices occupy one of the gracious Georgian terraced buildings which form the sides of Fitzroy Square and the conference room looks into the Square across the gardens, towards what used to be called The Post Office Tower. It’s almost 200 metres tall and was once the tallest building in London.
This is difficult for me. This is where I was, when Jenny disappeared. This is where I had my last sight of her. The room where I made my last call to her. The call which broke up. The call which I could not return. The last time I heard her voice.
I can feel myself starting to break up. It’s always the same way. I can cope with it intellectually but every so often events or places conspire to bring the ghost back. It’s a ghost that I have to exorcise, from here at least, if I’m going to get on with my job. The question is - do I want to? If I can come here, here of all places and not feel “that sweet sorrow of parting”, does that mean she really has left me? Left me physically. Left my imagination. Left even my memory. Left never to come back?
“… So we have commissioned some further detailed studies of the hydrology of the upper Mekong area to have a more accurate understanding of the way water drains into and flows through the river system …”
I remember a friend I had at University. He married quite young but his wife got leukaemia. She went through all the treatment; lost her hair, everything like that. Sometimes she looked quite well. Other times she was very weak; the treatment does that. In the end, after everything they had been through together, she died. He said it took a year to get over it; to get on top of bereavement; to be able to move on, with a clear conscience. That’s what he said, but I know it took him much longer than that.
The loss of Jenny has been like bereavement. She vanished a year and a half ago.
“… There seem to have been climate changes in recent years probably due to global warming. There is at least one NGO carrying out development work near Phnom Penh who has reported that the climate has become significantly drier and it has made for practical difficulties for fish farming projects which they had hoped would provide a source of dietary protein for the subsistence farmers. However, this serves to underline the importance of this suite of projects…..”
It’s the anniversaries and birthdays and Christmas which have been the worst. No card for me to buy her and no card from her to me. No present for my birthday. No surprise for me to plan, for her birthday. Friends have been supportive, having me over at Christmas and so on but then it’s not easy for them, either. We were a couple and now there is just one of us – it must feel to them, as if a friend has turned up with an arm or a leg missing.
I mean, what are they supposed to say? Should they pretend all is well: “you look just great” when it’s quite obvious that their friend has this dreadful injury or do you say “gee you look terrible” and perhaps make it more difficult for the friend to come to terms with the way they have to live now?
“…. And this data serves to underline the importance of the irrigation projects and the care needed to properly integrate these with any hydro-electric generation opportunities. The example to bear in mind is the very modest power generation actually produced by the Moscow-Volga canal scheme compared to the very significant and deleterious environmental impact it made, for example the very low population density of fish in the north Volga river system ….”
I’m staring at the man speaking but my thoughts are miles away. I wonder if I should start dating again? When will I feel I’m not betraying Jenny? When will people be easy about going out with me? If they knew about Jenny and me? And what about me? Would I subconsciously start looking for some who was like Jenny or should I deliberately look for someone who was as different as possible or should I just carry on as I am, and let life take its course?
I keep thinking of Gwenda. She is funny, emotionally strong, lively, beautiful – but that’s just like Jenny. Although, actually, who wouldn’t want a woman like that? On the other hand, Gwenda is, well, earthier, I suppose, than Jenny was. She has a broader sense of humour - Jenny’s was more mischievous, Gwenda’s tends to the more basic. If it wasn’t for her warm broad smile, you might think her vulgar. And she is - how to express it? - bigger. Not just physically bigger – although she is probably 25 pounds heavier than Jenny was at the same height, but everything about Gwenda is big; her hair, her movements and her laugh. And of, course, Gwenda is black and proud of her West Indian background where Jenny was less interested in her origins, although she did feel that being part Scandinavian was a little exotic, I suppose. Was? Surely she still is? I mean, surely she still is alive - or is she?
What would the Palmers think if I started to date other girls? Gwenda, for example? Would they be hurt? Would they think I had washed my hands of their daughter, of Jenny? Or would they understand that life has to go on, that I have to move on?
“… We are now able to use remote sensing from earth resource satellites to observe the day to day weather over the Mekong area and observe the effects of water levels in the river and the effects on the adjacent country in real time ….”
And tomorrow I have put myself down for this bloody course! Well, it was Ylena who told me I ought to go on it. “Shibari,” she said, “it’s precision, an art, exact. It should appeal to an engineer.” And Ylena is a Domme and people are supposed to follow the instructions that Dommes give them.
The only problem is, I am beginning to question what it is I am trying to do. If I am going move on, should I still go on looking for Jenny, in all the things which she enjoyed, trying to “get myself ready” for Jenny coming back? I am beginning to think that it may be a time for realism. To be realistic about Jenny. To accept that she is never coming back.
I don’t know South London very well, but fortunately the course is only about twenty minutes’ walk from one of the Underground stations on the Northern Line. It’s a warm, sunny, Saturday morning so it’s a pleasant walk through late Victorian suburbs with largish houses peeping out from behind over-grown gardens. It’s 10.15am when I arrive.
I ring the door bell. I am greeted by Rick, a lively, relaxed man in his late forties. He welcomes me into his flat and inside the large front room, I find several other people, mostly couples and two other blokes like me – but it seems that other people are expected. Presently everyone who is coming has arrived and the business of the day begins.
Rick sits down in the one armchair that isn’t occupied. “The first thing you have got to know,” he says, “leaning forward towards the group of us, in a way that’s designed to encourage interaction, “is that Shibari is supposed to be fun. Yes, there are technicalities to master but the initial moves are all very simple and success comes from doing simple things, well. The next thing to remember, s that Shibari is also supposed to be sensuous. Your partner should try to turn you on when they tie you and you should return the compliment.”
We watch a couple of illustrative videos. In one a “rigger” places an elaborate rope harness over a squealing laughing girl. The harness is formed from ropes of different colours and whilst she punctuates proceedings with comments about what feels nice, the rigger ploughs on with what he is doing without much regard to what the girl says. At the end, the girl looks aesthetically wonderful but I am left agreeing with Rick, that the demonstration could almost have come from the pages of a guide to Tying Mountaineering Knots!
The second video is an all together different animal. It comes from Japan (where Shibari has been elevated to a Performance Art). A delicate, athletic Japanese girl is restrained, partially stripped, restrained further, stripped completely, suspended and then gently but oh, so thoroughly flogged. She squeals and squeals with pleasure – with ecstasy. The Shibari Master and the girl seem engaged in an erotic ballet where each choreographed move flows effortlessly into the next.
The effect of the videos on this morning’s students is instructive. The first video produces jokes and laughter. The second is received in silent appreciation.
“So let’s learn the first wrap.” Rick breaks the spell. “Shibari is not really all about knots and most of the crucial basic moves are about wrapping the rope smoothly around your partner. Now we always work with the rope doubled in lengths of about six or seven metres. Always try to keep the rope in standard lengths – you can easily join lengths together and I will show you how later …”
As Rick lectures, he has moved around the room to stand by one of the females. He turns to her. “May I?” he asks
“Pardon?” she replies
“Thanks,” he responds, grasping both her hands together but in one of his hands there is a length of doubled rope. He fixes her gaze with his and before she can react further, the coil of rope has snaked around both her wrists twice, changed direction and travelled twice round again between her wrists parallel to her forearms. She is trapped, hopelessly, helplessly. She glances down, open mouthed at the speed and ease of her capture and before she can collect herself further, the ropes are tied! She smiles, then giggles, then smiles broadly – as does her partner.
Rick addresses his audience. “You see: that’s the reaction you want! People like their partner to take control! See how she is laughing? That’s the reaction you are after! Everybody laughs when they get tied. And you will never get that if you are completely absorbed in technicalities. You have got to be practiced so you can effortlessly bind your partner whilst you watch their reaction and play them like an instrument!”
We practice with each other, performing the same wrap. For Rick it’s easy. With the rope in my hands it’s difficult, but all my colleagues share the same difficulties, born of inexperience. With easy and jocular patience, Rick moves through his little group of pupils correcting, advising, encouraging until we can all tie one another’s wrists together.
Then it’s time to move on; to place the wrap around thigh and leg, upper arm and forearm, chair leg and human leg. Each time the basic wrap is the same and the possibilities gradually occur to each of us, how this arcane oriental art can be brought to bear on the game lovers play.
After lunch, we learn the “single arm wrap” or as Rick likes to say in more general terms, the “single column” wrap. It’s surprising but it turns out to be a more difficult proposition. It’s important though; it has a wide application; the human body is, as Rick says, a collection of single columns: single arms, single legs, chests and tummies. We can soon see that there are lots of possibilities - wrists together and brought back over the victim’s head can be attached to a single column wrap wound around your lovers tummy, creating a delightful opportunity to fondle her breasts - the more we explore this, the less I’m sure that ‘victim’ is the right word. Tying your girl’s forearms together behind her back, in combination with single column wraps above and below her breasts makes for an even more delightful presentation. Tie your man’s forearms together and place a single column tie around your man’s cock and balls and he is in real trouble!
It’s turned out to be a fascinating and amusing day. I am glad I turned up, against my better judgment, as I thought yesterday. The only down side is that I am left envious of the couples there, who can go home and practice what they have learned. I am also disappointed with myself, looking back to when I was together with Jenny. How slow I was! How I let the opportunities for laughter, for ecstasy pass us by, unexploited, and unheeded.
By five thirty, the course is over and alone once more, I retrace my steps. My mind is filled with the possibilities I have glimpsed today. I imagine slowly, deliciously tying Jenny, her legs captive: lower limbs to thighs; right and left limbs tied open; vulva exposed, wet, and vulnerable. My head slides towards it. I put out my tongue. Lick her labia left and right, left and right. She is very wet. Drooling. Crying with pleasure. Her taste is heavy, musky sensual. Her smell says “Fuck Me!” I strip. I draw closer My cock springs out hard, rampant, throbbing. I kneel closer. She is so wet, I slip inside so easily.
“Hey!” she says, “You’re bareback!” – I should have gagged her. I know I shall fuck her bare-back. It’s what she wants. She wriggles, gasps, writhes but she never tells me to stop. My mouth is on hers. Our tongues explore each other’s mouths. She sucks mine, drawing me into her; my prick pressing into her, deep surrounded by her intimate wetness. In my daydream she is suddenly free of all her bindings. She rolls on her back and I follow her over. She spreads her legs and wraps them round me. We buck and squeeze and thrust together, united, in concert, intimate until we both orgasm in a sweaty churning seething duo and there we lay, in each others arms. Her voice is deep, soft exotic. “I want you Joe,” she says. I glance up into her eyes and take in her sweet, soft, strong dark–skinned body. In my dream, Jenny has become Gwenda. I have fucked Gwenda. Yes: I finally admit it to myself. I want to fuck Gwenda and in that moment I know that I will fuck Gwenda - if she will have me.
There is a cool, fresh, evening beeze as I walk down the side of Kennington Park. I think again about Jenny: it’s time to let her go. To thank her in my mind for all the happy times we had together. To wish her well and apologise for being such an unadventurous husband and lover but above all to let her go and move on. In my mind’s eye we meet and stand on the street corner. The London traffic booms and roars past us. She takes my hand and I take hers. We embrace one last time. We kiss - and we part. She turns, and walks east, until her image is lost amongst those of the other passersby. I turn and descend into the Underground, resolved but also resigned, to start my life over.
..............................................................................................................................................
Footnotes.
Visit www.esinem.com to learn more about Shibari and maybe sign on for a Shibari courses in London?
More tales at……
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
© Phil Lane & Freddie Clegg 2010
All characters fictitious
No reposting without permission.
|
|
|