Free Eighty Days Blue by Vina Jackson

Clitterhouse a blatant reminder of a time when the streets bore witness to lewdness on every corner, when bawdy houses overflowed with petticoated courtesans, salacious strumpets and perverse politicians, lords and ladies of the night exuberant in their quest to quench appetites of every nature.
    More puritan times had reigned since, and some of the ruder place names had been changed to reflect the social mores of the modern day, but London remained a city with desire soaked into its very streets. If the stones could talk, I thought, they’d cheer at the sight of each passing corruption. London was on my side.
    That day, New York felt like the company of a disapproving sister.
    I was a few minutes late for that evening’s rehearsal and Simón gave me a searching look as I slipped into my seat. I played on autopilot, with none of my usual flourishes, hoping that my distraction and the machinelike torpor of my bow hand were not too evident.
    That night, I slept with a heavy heart.
    I woke up at 3 a.m., the time of morning that troubles come home to roost, and sent Dominik a text message:
    â€˜I miss you.’
    I fell asleep feeling guilty, because I wasn’t really sure if I did.
    The next day, I decided to take matters into my own hands and look around for some kind of kink scene in New York. Every city was bound to have something, I figured. Regardless of yesterday’s temporary depression, I knew from my adventures in London that other people in the world thought and behaved the same way I did. I just needed to find them.
    A quick Google search wasn’t a great deal of use. Perhaps things were a bit harder here for fetish folk. I had heard that in some places, cops took a poor view of public nudity and consensual violence. Or possibly this was just the style of New Yorkers; maybe they were more discreet about their proclivities and you needed to know people to find out where scenes were held. There were a few venues advertising events, but none that caught my eye. A couple of cabaret nights, a foot-fetish party, a men’s spanking society.
    Eventually, I found an introductory rope-bondage workshop, advertised for noon the following Saturday. I hadn’t had much experience of rope, but the pictures certainly appealed, and if my response to the constriction of the corset and the hold-up stockings that Dominik had tied round my wrists was anything to go by, it would be right up my street. Attending an introductory class also virtually eliminated the risk that I might bump into Victor or any of his associates, which was a definite possibility at a club night.
    The address wasn’t listed for privacy reasons. I sent an email, stating that I was new in town and would be interested in attending, to the info address on the website.
    I received a response almost immediately, an email from a Cherry Bangs, her ‘scene name’, no doubt. She wrote that she helped to facilitate the event and that I was welcome to come along as a ‘rope bunny’, a volunteer who would be tied by those learning the art of shibari, and that I wouldn’t be expected to have a go with the rope if I didn’t want to. She suggested meeting for a coffee, as I was new to the New York scene, and we arranged a date for Saturday morning, a couple of hours before the workshop began.
    With a potential kink outlet sorted for the weekend, I went to rehearsal that day with a happy heart and a spring in my step. My good mood was apparent in the music and by the end of the session I felt invigorated. I still missed Dominik but was learning to get by without him. Everything was beginning to click into place.
    â€˜You played well tonight,’ Simón said, not so much a compliment as a statement of fact, but I flushed with pride all the same. His brown eyes shone in the light, still full of adrenaline from the evening’s performance.
    â€˜Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I thought you were great