The rope, she sings to me.

"I just don't understand the appeal of it," he said to me as his powerful shoulders echo the confused scrunch of his brow, "the whole ascetic, I just does not sing to me..."

I hear those words, spoken to me at a party recently, and they just make me confused.
Confused, yes. Why you ask? Because his words are right now getting drown out by the siren's call of the rope to me. I handle the stuff all day, my hands scared and stained from the caress of raw hemp, but still the rope sings to me. Calling to me like a warm lover, still in bed, on one of those golden Sunday mornings that seem to last forever.
Right now its song is one of longing, to come play. No performances, no demonstrations, just to put rope in hand and follow the curves of a warm body. No destination, save the exhausted sighs of release when finished. The rope knows where to go, my hands just need to follow it's song... wrap after wrap against skin. Till that song is drown out by the rush of blood in my ears.
I love my toys, my sharp steel razors, wicked single tails and other devious devices. Alas, these are just tools, extensions of my skills and hands. I enjoy them, they bring me great pleasure, but they in the end are just tools, objects to be cleaned, sharpened, and stored for another day.
My rope? My rope is my lover, my sex, my ego and frailty all tightly woven into thick, soft coils... longing to be unfurled and run along skin.
I must answer the siren's call, soon.