A friend of mine reports that she's developing a liking for leather, and I'm not too surprised... whether it's a slap or a sting, leather is a touch – wood is a collision. Leather persuades – sometimes it insists – while wood is a shouted order. Leather is a woman – even at its hardest it is not rigid. It warms to you, it adapts, it moulds its shape to your shape. Wood is a man – rigid, solid, unyielding. Oh yes, it can be dependable, it can be counted on, it can provide security and shelter – but under its own terms. You can't shape wood – you merely try to remove the parts you don't want or like, quickly with a blade or through the slow, persistent process of abrasion.
The great tragedy is that a man wants a woman to never change, and she does; a woman wants a man to change and he doesn't. A wooden ruler is the same after years of use while a leather belt has softened and curled and knows your shape, even if it still restrains you - or restrains you better or at least more comfortably.
Leather is warm and good for cold weather; it encases you, trapping you with yourself. And it gets to be too much when things get hot and active and when things are done you want it off of you. Wood is there and then it's gone though often you remember it well. It doesn't care if you're sweaty. The memory of wood is a clear, contained memory. The memory of leather is long, holistic, blurred – when did it start? When did it end? How intense did it ever really get? How much was the strap and how much was me?
Leather stings with a lover's bite – sharp, intense, stimulating, even unbearable. Wood bites to injure, and much be taught not to, hacked and sanded and kept under control.
Leather requires care, and expects it. Cleaned, oiled, not to wet, not too dry, not bent or folded or even ignored too long. Wood, you throw it in the corner and when you want it it's there – and bending or folding is not even a question. But if you hurt it, it develops a nasty bite and if patient smoothing – more removal – doesn't work, you may even have to get rid of it.
Both have their purpose. We fantasize about wood, we imagine control, inarguable orders that must be followed. And then we discover that what we want is the idea of control, the image in our mind that never fails us, combined with the caress of our body in slower, persuasive, tailored strokes – the slowly building fire that coaxes our physical responses, that gives us time to react and absorb.
And sometimes we need more – early and after. Sometimes our bodies have to be pushed rudely into matching our mental state, sometimes they have to be controlled and directed. Sometimes we want the lasting undeniable physical memory of deep soreness, of sharp renewed pain. And sometimes we're too sensitive for that.
Wood reminds us when we move, when we act, when we try to do something. Leather reminds us when we stop, when we relax, when we try to do nothing.
How can we be expected to choose?
The great tragedy is that a man wants a woman to never change, and she does; a woman wants a man to change and he doesn't. A wooden ruler is the same after years of use while a leather belt has softened and curled and knows your shape, even if it still restrains you - or restrains you better or at least more comfortably.
Leather is warm and good for cold weather; it encases you, trapping you with yourself. And it gets to be too much when things get hot and active and when things are done you want it off of you. Wood is there and then it's gone though often you remember it well. It doesn't care if you're sweaty. The memory of wood is a clear, contained memory. The memory of leather is long, holistic, blurred – when did it start? When did it end? How intense did it ever really get? How much was the strap and how much was me?
Leather stings with a lover's bite – sharp, intense, stimulating, even unbearable. Wood bites to injure, and much be taught not to, hacked and sanded and kept under control.
Leather requires care, and expects it. Cleaned, oiled, not to wet, not too dry, not bent or folded or even ignored too long. Wood, you throw it in the corner and when you want it it's there – and bending or folding is not even a question. But if you hurt it, it develops a nasty bite and if patient smoothing – more removal – doesn't work, you may even have to get rid of it.
Both have their purpose. We fantasize about wood, we imagine control, inarguable orders that must be followed. And then we discover that what we want is the idea of control, the image in our mind that never fails us, combined with the caress of our body in slower, persuasive, tailored strokes – the slowly building fire that coaxes our physical responses, that gives us time to react and absorb.
And sometimes we need more – early and after. Sometimes our bodies have to be pushed rudely into matching our mental state, sometimes they have to be controlled and directed. Sometimes we want the lasting undeniable physical memory of deep soreness, of sharp renewed pain. And sometimes we're too sensitive for that.
Wood reminds us when we move, when we act, when we try to do something. Leather reminds us when we stop, when we relax, when we try to do nothing.
How can we be expected to choose?
