The first time I was whipped, a playmate shared his first whip, a David Morgan signal whip. All my housemates were out except for him, so we played in the dark living room of the shared Craftsman home in Portland, Oregon. I had been caned by him before and enjoyed myself so I was keen to try whipping next. Not quite six months later he gave me the whip, telling me about the time in his life when he bought it. He demonstrated a few different strokes and told me about accuracy games he played with it. I would spend the next couple of months practicing every day, propping up pillows against a wall or in a chair, each strike leaving impact lines in the microfiber covers to track my accuracy.
Later that year I was homeless for a second time, making just enough money to cover rent for a room, but not enough to cover the additional costs of a new lease. I kept the whip coiled up in my laptop bag as I cycled around Portland to the next odd job, client session, fetish shoot or couch I’d sleep on for a night. There were times when I would pull the whip out of my bags and consider trying to sell it. Every time I talked myself out of it. It was my first and only quality BDSM tool at the time, with a history and emotional value not only for myself but a close friend that was the closest to a mentor in topping I have had. I wasn’t about to give it up for a lease that may or may not work out long enough for me to get some savings together.
Ultimately I am glad I have held onto the whip, which still hangs on the back of my closet door. I get to enjoy the memories it brings, and add to the whip’s history. It serves as a reminder of my character, of the power I have to gain through continuous learning and practice. It is a reminder of what I hold dear, even in uncertain times.