Holiday ties
On a cold December Saturday morning, I waited for Colleen under the awning of a butcher shop. We'd been going out since the beginning of summer, to neighborhood handball courts, swimming, the zoo, anywhere we wouldn't be seen by anyone we knew and wouldn't get jumped. On the block or at school, she moved like a boy, leaning against the wall, foot up, shoulders slouched, but tense. Some girls gossiped she was a dyke, but I knew it was a front to keep boys from messing with her.
A tap on my shoulder, and when I turned Colleen sang and danced “Wah Wa-tusi, wah, wah” so I swung and turned with her. “Wanna go see the Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center?” I asked.
“Yeah,” with her eyes lit up. Back then, Brooklyn working class kids connected with Manhattan glitter the same way the rest of the country did—TV.
Just before we reached the subway station I asked,” Can I tie your hands under your coat? I'll do everything for ya.”
“I'm gonna wanna slice or somethin'.”
“I'll feed ya, and a soda, too.”
“What if I gotta pee?”
When I was stumped, she laughed. “Okay.”
I led her down some stairs to a basement apartment doorway. I pulled the string-tie from my hoodie while she removed her coat. I tied her hands behind her back, put her coat on, buttoned it, and stuck the empty sleeves in the pockets. Then I kissed her all over her face.
“Hey, no fair.” She pretended to struggle to get away, then returned my kiss.
On the train I led her to the platform between cars. I put my arms around her and we spread our feet to keep our balance as the cars rocked and jounced, lights flashing by, steel wheels clacking and squealing a couple feet under us. At the sharp turn after Downtown Brooklyn, I shouted, “No!” and fell against the chains separating the cars. Colleen screamed. When she saw I'd done it on purpose she got angry, yanking at the string that tied her hands.
I held her tight and apologized like mad. “I just wanted to rescue and hug you.”
“I should smash your nose!”
She'd threatened to head-butt me the first time we'd been together. That time she'd ended up kissing me hard. [my other true stories of Colleen, “Captivated,” “Wrestling, a leather belt, and Colleen,” and String-tied at Coney Island.”] She put up with me because she recognized I was more than my book-nerd image and accepted her as deeper than a tough bitch. I challenged her to come up with new put downs. “You're so full of shit, when you cough you overflow,” she'd say, then I'd kiss her on the lips. Put down, kiss, all through the tunnel under the East River.
Getting out at Herald Square, the sidewalks were packed with mothers and kids looking at the Macy's window displays of waving elves and Santas. In the toy department, kids ran through the aisles, bells jingling, a line to sit on Santa's lap. Colleen liked the electric train running through a model town, but I resented the women with TV hair-dos ordering swing-sets and basketball hoops for their suburban backyards.
Back outside, I showed Colleen the small New York license plates I'd boosted—“Colleen” and “Terry.” Neither of us had a bike, but I asked, “Anyplace you can hang these where your sister won't snitch you out?”
“I got a lock on my diary,” she said. “I can paste them inside the cover.”
I was surprised. “Do you write about me?”
“If I told, it wouldn't be a diary.”
But I could tell by the soft tone in her voice she did.
Walking up Fifth Avenue, I could see the slight V Colleen's arms made under the back of her coat, but in Manhattan people walk fast paying no attention. At some food carts I bought hot dogs, sodas, and a hot pretzel with mustard. Under the stone archway of the Public Library, I fed her hot dog to her with my right hand, eating mine with my left. We chewed down the pretzel from opposite ends, kissing and laughing when we met.
“Wipe my face,” she said.
I kissed her lips clean of mustard and red-sauce, reaching around to hold her hands. They felt cold, and I asked, “How your hands feel?”
“They don't.”
“They're numb?” I led her into the front vestibule of an apartment building, untied her hands and rubbed them, pressing them against my cheek. When their color returned, Colleen gave me a tender kiss. I don't think she was used to someone showing her much concern. My hand was on the doorknob when she turned around and put her hands behind her. I tied her wrists, but palm to palm and loose so they'd stay warm.
Looking back, Colleen didn't get excited about a tie-up like I did. At school and on the block, she fought for respect with glares, words, and sometimes fists, so exploring the city with me with her hands tied felt safe.
I took her west of Times Square to a bargain clothing place open to the street with stuff piled in cardboard boxes. I'd planned to slip the knit gloves under my jacket, but the security guard was watching me like a hawk, so I paid for them. Back outside, in a building doorway, I worked the gloves onto her bound hands.
We walked uptown, past the line of tourists for the Rockettes at Radio City, to the mall-way at Rockefeller Center. The bare trees were decorated with lights, and while the two-day old snow on our block was sooty and streaked with dog pee, in the raised planter boxes it was crystal white. I scooped some on my finger and ate it.
“Give me some,” Colleen said.
I scooped two fingers of snow. “What flavor?” I asked.
“Chocolate.”
I waved my hand and whispered over the snow like an incantation, “Chocolate with sprinkles.” She stuck her tongue out in a scoop shape and I dropped the snow on. She tilted her head back and let the snow melt into her mouth.
With Christmas music playing, the big tree lit with different color globes, we watched the rich people skating on the rink below. I stood behind Colleen, warming her hands in mine, my cheek against her hair, and kissed her ear. On the block, Colleen treated me same as the other guys, never letting anyone think we were boy and girlfriend. At 14, I didn't know what love and passion were, but I wanted more than to be her escape, rewarded with gentle, playful kisses.
“What's that big church we passed?” Colleen asked.
“St. Patrick's. You wanna go in?”
We crossed Fifth Avenue, up the stairs and through the heavy bronze double doors of the cathedral. I removed her beanie and my hood. There was no mass, just a few people sitting silently or praying. I'd decided when I was twelve I didn't believe in sin or hell and refused to go to church. My mother whupped me a few Sundays until she gave up and went alone to pray for my soul. But you never lose that feeling of awe standing in front of an altar, stone archways and stain glass pointing to the heavens.
“Let's light a candle,” Colleen said.
“For us?”
“Okay.”
At the rack of candles, I dropped a quarter in the box and lit a votive candle with a splint. I reached under the back of Colleen's coat and put my hand in hers. “Close your eyes and think of something good for us.”
First, I thought of Colleen saying, “I love you,” but that was too much even to pray for. I asked for a sign she had special feelings for me, crossing myself to make it official.
Outside on the steps I put Colleen's beanie on and tucked a strand of hair in. A few flakes of snow swirled and fell, landing on her head and shoulders. No tough girl wariness in her expression; she looked happy and beautiful.
I led her around the corner to an arched niche over a side entrance. We kissed. I reached around her, untied her hands, and she wrapped me in a tight embrace.
I said, “I trust you, Colleen.”
“You're sweet.” She nodded slowly. “I like you. A lot.”
We kissed, soft like usual, then she put her hand on the back of my neck and kissed me hard, like an answered prayer.
Holiday ties m/f
I love your stories. They make us travel back in time with you...
Back in the day, kids were less knowledgeable, more naive about tie up games and bondage, and the adult world more judgmental and harsh. New York City was our playground.
It's great to see you bringing your stories back, CalebTras! They're very well told and fun to read.
My favorite of yours was always "My Damsel in Distress." It would really make my Christmas if you bring that one back!
My favorite of yours was always "My Damsel in Distress." It would really make my Christmas if you bring that one back!
Thanks. I remember my friends I'm calling Sheila and Sean, our tie-up games, and I can reconstruct the story.
It's a nice story. I like the way you told it. You took your time. It wasn't rushed. You could've structured it a little bit better with some spaces in between but that's just a little annotation.
