Jungle gym . . .I so love bondage. I have loved bondage since I was a kid swinging on jungle gyms that had those plastic loops you could put your hands into. I’d loop my third-grade-wrists into them, and hang, and feel a profound warmth and rightness come over me. My lover says I go wild when he binds me . . . I go crazy but I also relax, deeply, contentedly. I can feel that.

I wasn’t thinking about bondage at all walking down the street tonight, in the mid-winter dark, laden down by bags of groceries as my city prepares for a snowstorm. I was, in fact, thinking about hats. I didn’t have one. That was fine with me; I hate hats. I especially hate when people tell me I should wear a hat because “You lose most of your heat through your head.” (To me, it don’t make any sense, and that’s why I think it’s not true.)

Er, anyway. So yeah, I was feeling bitter about people (that would be: my lover–this seems to be turning into a bitchfest about my lover, although he is my favorite person in the world) telling me to wear a hat. As a matter of fact, I HATE things on my head. The one thing I can’t stand having restricted is my head. I hate having it confined.

Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiight.

Head bondage, anyone? Hoods? Hoods with gags, blindfolds, earplugs? These feature in his fantasies.

I suppose I will adapt . . . eventually.