Bound For Stardom

‘Tis the jolly season in some places, but these are somber days here as I work the kinks in my muscles and raw skin on my wrists. While few who know me have accused me of being a trusting soul, there is a certain allowance one must make when introducing friends into the home. After all, this is your Last Stand, the tiny hole in which you’ve stashed all material possessions and a few beta porn tapes, sleeping on a bed that could blackmail you if it spoke. Without company, the stiff towels and stained underpants require neither hiding nor explanation. But when inviting people into your humble abode, especially female persons, there are certain prices you are expected to pay, among which are included putting any stray firearms in their proper places, spraying down the toilet seat with industrial strength disinfectant, and putting forth that extra effort to ensure any traces of previous lady guests are out of sight. So after sweeping up all the broken fingernails and scouring the sheets for curly hairs, I thought my little crib ready for another festive evening in College Town.

True to form, however, I once again underestimated my quarry.

You see, the dreaded finals week has just come to a close here, unleashing a horde of young twenty-somethings into the local pubs with only two sordid intentions: Get Drunk, and Get Laid. Now while some would argue this practice is strictly a male tradition, the more versed of us have long since learned the truly fearsome adversary sports tits and scrunchies. So, as the clock slowly listed starboard and the mating ritual began, I waited patiently in the tall grass at the end of the bar, watching for stragglers to fall away from the herd. And fall away they did, the fatties and uglies from which even a prison parolee might have turned away. With such slim pickins, my good right hand was sounding like a viable alternative when I caught glimpse of the quiet mouse yonder, sitting alone with her watery rum and Coke. Perhaps out of sympathy, or my own fragile ego requiring even the most superficial sort of validation, I made my advance.

Right into a fucking spider web.

But instead of silken threads from which I might break away, this web was woven from green nylon rope and silly neckties, lashing my drunken frame to my bedposts. Elated by this young woman’s apparent lack of conversational skills, good looks, and self-esteem, I had left my guard at the bar with my cash. So in the midst of a heated tongue-sucking session, my unsuspecting courtesan withdrew and asked that fated question: Have you ever been tied up? Come to think of it, no, not properly, anyway. In past discussions regarding bondage, I had simply referred to my many incarcerations as reference to being unwillingly cuffed and carted away, but perhaps it was time to explore uncharted territory. Do you have any rope? Well, certainly.

If any of you bastards were wondering where I’ve been hiding since my last appearance on this fine blog, I would like to issue a sincere Fuck You for checking after my wellbeing. With this sort of interest in my health and whereabouts, I loathe to think what state my corpse would be in before discovery. Anyway, two orgasms and three days later, I was finally able to chew through 3/8” of plastic and free myself, at which point I scrubbed all the dried blood and urine off my abdomen before chain-smoking a pack of cigarettes and formulating excuses to the higher-ups for my extended absence. Somehow, as attractive as the truth sounded, I wasn’t sure if my boss would believe me without photographic evidence. I mean, who would have thought that a nice innocent girl like that would hogtie me, anally ravage herself on my manhood, and leave me to the vultures? Perhaps one more stone has been removed from my Karmic scale, as payback for all the times I tied a woman up and passed out drunk on top of her, oblivious to her screams and fitful shitting in my bed.

Sadly, even if I were to run into that harpie again, Jim Beam erased that section of my memory tape with her face on it, and I might just end up bound to the kitchen table in Saran Wrap and bagties.