Teen Self Bondage

Teen Self Bondage

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Not if you want to walk, no. *squeak*
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I have had a lot of dumb ideas— traipsing around in a red-carpet gown for a week, watching Sex and the City for the first time , mixing a bunch of lipsticks together to match five uber-lipsticks —but this has got to be the worst. By far.
As with certain current events , it all started with Taylor Swift. After the video for "Bad Blood" was released and I read about from whence the wardrobe department sourced those slinky tops , I was like, "Pssssshh. You know what would be harder than wearing bondage to fire missile launchers at your enemies? Wearing bondage to work ." Then I immediately regretted it, because my boss was like "YES YOU SHOULD TRY IT."
Then I regretted it more when I checked the forecast and saw temperatures in the 90s.
So that I would not suffer alone/more of the MarieClaire.com team could suffer together, my editor roped Lauren Valenti into joining me on the photo-shoot part of this journey of near-constant discomfort. [Editor's note: MWAHAHAHHAHAHAA.] We went on Syren.com for authenticity and picked out enough rubber to wallpaper Christian Grey's playroom twice over.
Lauren looks very naughty librarian, no? Blouse, Syren; glasses, William Morris Black Label; hair and makeup: Glamsquad.
When you make the grave mistake of doing a fetish-clothing story in July, you receive a free education in the laws of fluid dynamics. The sweat doesn't absorb then dry like it does when you wear other fabrics—it collects, traveling in sheets like those that circulate along the walls of Slurpee machines or the ones they have at Shake Shack that stir lemonade so the pulp doesn't settle. I learned this after walking 30 blocks in a racer-front latex crop top and almost keeling over from heatstroke/dehydration because 80 percent of the liquid in my body had pooled on my back.
This is me trying not to melt. Top, Syren; jacket, Nasty Gal; jeans, H&M.
Besides the problem of releasing the equivalent of Victoria Falls every time you peel your top away from your skin, there's the noise—a creak when you walk, a wet-sounding squelch when you uncross your legs—and the smell, which lingers for approximately two days after you've unrolled that cursed jet-black sausage casing from your talc-dusted limbs for the day. (The baby powder is supposed to reduce the friction so that it only takes 15 minutes to put on a catsuit instead of 30. This is not an exaggeration.)
Doing some very important mapping. Catsuit, Syren; jacket, Aritzia; sneakers, Nike.
With the excessive sweating and the squeaking and the claustrophobia of stretching an inches-wide shirt opening to fit over your abnormally large head, I can't say *I* personally find latex sexy, which made it much easier to wear in our admittedly anything-goes office. IRL, too, nobody really reacted, probably because 1) this is New York, and 2) I was so sweaty they were scared striking up a conversation might send me into cardiac arrest.
There's something awesomely scary about this. I would do whatever she says. Corset, Syren; dress, Aritzia; shoes, Stuart Weitzman The Excite Bootie (opens in new tab) .
This time , I'm okay with not being approached. Latex, by nature, is insular—it literally sucks everything in—and pulling it off also depends on the interior. I'm not suggesting you repeat this challenge in your own workplace, but from my own experience, all you would need to make it, or any other risky outfit, a success is some confidence. But who knows? If you *were* to try it, you might like how it made you lose some most of your water weight in the process.
Chelsea Peng is a writer and editor who was formerly the assistant editor at MarieClaire.com. She's also worked for The Strategist and Refinery29, and is a graduate of Northwestern University. On her tombstone, she would like a GIF of herself that's better than the one that already exists on the Internet and a free fro-yo machine. Besides frozen dairy products, she's into pirates, carbs, Balzac, and snacking so hard she has to go lie down.

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Having never been a boy, I had no idea about all the weird shit boys do to get off. Even though I had a big brother, I wasn’t privy to the vast array of strange self-satisfying tools and tricks teenage boys have up their sleeves. That is, until I met my husband and he told me a hilarious story about why he loved climbing the pole at school.
“At first,” he explained, “I just climbed because I liked to see how fast I could get to the top. But one day when I climbed something weird happened. It felt really good. Like, so good I would make sure to climb that pole every morning and every lunch.”
Even as my own sons grew, I didn’t understand just how resourceful boys could be, until I questioned my then-12-year-old about why he had a giant box of condoms in his bedroom.
His hesitation should have been my first clue.
“Well, umm,” he said. “I use them to, uh, you know…”
“To what?” I asked. I had no idea what he was trying to say.
“Oh. Oh, well, OK,” was all I managed to say.
A week later, while out for drinks with my girlfriends, who also had teen boys, I asked if that was normal.
“I don’t know about condoms,” my friend Tammy said, “but I found out my son Charlie was using socks.”
“Socks?” I had never heard of boys sexualizing slippers.
“Yeah, socks. Your boys don’t do that?” Tammy asked. “Well, Charlie does. I swear I won’t even touch his laundry anymore. All it took was one time grabbing a sock that was hard as a rock and I was done. It was nasty!”
Learning about socks, and laughing my ass off watching the Bridesmaids scene where a mom describes cracking her son’s comforter, made me curious about what other means boys employ to get their (pun intended) socks off.
Naturally, I first turned to my husband and sons to learn more. I was in for a surprise with their answers.
Like machine gun fire, my eldest son listed his favorite masturbation props.
“Let’s see, there’s good old wadded-up toilet paper, towels, even shirts. Heck, I’ll use dirty laundry if it’s there. Whatever is within reach, really,” he shared. As he spoke, my younger son nodded his head emphatically.
“Anything else?” I asked. I was all business. Hey, who was I to judge? As a teen, I’d had an amorous moment or two with my favorite bottle of perfume, Love’s Baby Soft, which, if anyone remembers, was totally shaped like a dildo.
“OK, don’t laugh, but one time I put my penis in the vacuum hose,” my youngest said.
“While it was on?” I asked. I’d lost my deadpan expression the moment I picture my son losing his penis in a vacuuming accident.
“Yeah, but it was on low, don’t worry,” he reassured me. “It didn’t feel that good, so I only did it once.”
“Oh, what about paper towel rolls?” my oldest added. “And that time I used the cantaloupe?”
Even my husband was shocked at the cantaloupe revelation. Fruit. Really? I thought that was only a thing women in prison did.
“And the trash can,” my youngest said. Was nothing sacred?
By the end of our conversation, I had the idea that my sons, and probably all teenage boys, used anything and everything at their disposal to masturbate.
With my curiosity quelled, I had to wonder if my quest for knowledge was a worthy endeavor. Honestly, I’ll probably never look at a cantaloupe the same way again, but I am grateful I had this awkward, yet illuminating, discussion with my kids.
They felt confident enough to be real, knowing full well I would write this information and share it with the world. It may seem like too much for some parents, but talks like these let me know that my sons can truly be open with me about any subject, no matter how uncomfortable. Like, penis-in-a-vacuum uncomfortable. Ouch.
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We sat on the judo mats in a small studio in downtown San Francisco surrounded by 20 other strangers in yoga clothes. Over the last few months, my husband and I had been exploring different ways of connecting physically and this class in Shibari, an ancient Japanese form of rope bondage, seemed full of possibilities.
Sep 21, 2015, 02:51 PM EDT | Updated Dec 6, 2017
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We sat on the judo mats in a small studio in downtown San Francisco surrounded by 20 other strangers in yoga clothes. Over the last few months, my husband and I had been exploring different ways of connecting physically and this class in Shibari, an ancient Japanese form of rope bondage, seemed full of possibilities.
After we settled in, the couple leading the class began with a short demonstration of him tying her arms together behind her back. It turns out there are certain places one might not want rope burn, so he emphasized the importance of pulling the rope slowly. He also talked about holding it with intention as rope under tension has better energy. The couple was the absolute picture of harmony with her receiving his adoration with all of her being, and him doling out his love in measured and deliberate motions.
Then it was our turn. With some seductive music floating through the studio, I sat with my legs crossed as my husband began the process of learning how to tie a hitch knot. I'm not going to sugar-coat this kiddos... we were NOT the picture of harmony. I tried to provide helpful feedback, "pull the rope more slowly here" or "hold it less taut there", but the more direction I gave, the more frazzled he became.
It may be clear at this point in the story that trust in others is not one of my strengths. My default state is to plan, organize and direct in a very detailed way. I write down the exact brand and fat percentage of the ground turkey that I put on my grocery list. The concept of giving control to others or sitting back and receiving is not comfortable territory for me. Yet that was what I was being asked to do.
Fortunately for my frazzled husband, the instructors ended the exercise, telling us it was time for another demonstration. This was a free-form exploration where he worked rope after rope around her body, binding together various limbs with her torso. After she was fully bound, he reversed the process, with the same measured movements, slowly and beautifully unbinding her from her colorful cocoon.
Again, it was our turn to practice. This time, I tried to keep my mouth shut and trust that my partner could learn this new skill without my verbal feedback. Unexpectedly, it turned into a meditative experience for me. Since I was no longer talking, I was able to shut down the thinking part of my brain and tune into the music and the physical connection between myself, the rope and my husband.
Along the way, as I began to place trust in his actions, my husband seemed to be able to tune into my body and adjust accordingly. For instance, a small squirm from unpleasant tightness in the rope would result in loosening. A purr would result in a pleasant tightening. It felt counter-intuitive that by trusting him and providing less direct feedback that I was actually providing even better feedback, yet there we were.
In the months since our Shibari lesson, I've been able to notice when my control-freak self is getting in the way of some otherwise tantalizing scenes and can pause in that moment and ask myself "What if I were to let him continue on exactly the way he is right now?" And though I'm still demanding as ever in my grocery list, sometimes it now has things on it like 20 feet of red rope.
"Wait, that's it?" Transformation takes time, so I'm intentionally sharing in bite-sized doses that reflect my experience over the last year. I'd love to hear your questions and thoughts, let's continue the conversation in the comments section below. Or visit my blog at downtothere.com

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