Over a decade ago, after I catastrophically “came out” to my Gospodzha, I started buying a few entry-level bits of paraphernalia. What it was doesn’t really matter, but it was my first time actually holding physical manifestations of my kink in my own two hands. As I think back to the promise of that period before things came crashing down, I recall a few moments of just sitting alone and practising with rope.
Those moments are crucial memories for me, and they give me a painful sense of nostalgia. It seemed like Tyler Durden and Jack were finally on speaking terms and about to know peace, and the collapse of that détente was the shock that created Gospodin.
Gospodin slowly collected and accumulated small items to add to this collection. He began to write, and won a story contest that included a gift certificate for a fetish boutique. The little bag of tricks went with him from home to home, through our wedding and several moves.
At one point Gospodzha asked why it had followed like that. I don’t remember how I responded, but I think I just avoided answering. It hurt too much, and I didn’t have the words to tell her why. It was only much later that I realised that the reason I couldn’t get rid of it was that it is a part of who I am.
Recent circumstances made the privacy afforded by a simple bag insufficient, and I knew I needed to get something more secure. And so when I saw a set of metal locking suitcases on sale, in just the right size, I knew I had to buy one. I needed to be sure that I control who has access to this stuff, precisely because of how much it means to me.
But I couldn’t bring myself to buy one for weeks, because it felt like I was buying Gospodin a coffin. Here I was, a grown and married man, and Gospodin is still just the frightened adolescent he never got the chance to grow out of–it felt like burying a child. But eventually I did it, and fortunately the feeling of that key on my keyring is more reassuring than I’d expected
But now I have that new name: hope chest. It’s a much better way of thinking of the whole thing. It’s still a little tragic in some ways, highlighting how one part of my identity is still stuck back in its youth waiting to be rescued, but it also captures how therapeutic planning for that fairy-tale future can feel. It helps keep me from thinking of it as this horrible vice I keep returning to in the closet, or a terrible secret I’m keeping from my loved ones.
No, it’s just a chest of hope, however futile.
