The Case of the Fuzzy Ropes

My name is Horatio Boulez. Yes, it’s a ridiculous name, but it’s the one I got. As you can infer, there’s French ethnicity in my family. Grandpa arrived in America in the 1950s, and blah, blah, blah.  Everybody thought that, being “French”, I would be an expert in romance. But I couldn’t care less about sweet words, passionate dancing and all that crap. From a very early age, I changed the “Oh, mon amour!” BS for ropes and knots. I like Shibari. And that gave me the key to solve what I call “the case of the fuzzy ropes”.

I was at a party at Miss Cunningham’s apartment. It was her birthday, and she had invited all her fellow teachers from the school. By the way, I coach the soccer team. (I admire Zidane more than any other French person in history.) 

The party was a disaster, and we were all bored to death, even those who were playing some silly board game with our host, and pretended to be having a good time. I excused myself and said I was going to the bathroom. But, instead, I entered Ms. Cunningham’s bedroom. (Blame the dirty little French inside of me for that.) I didn’t find anything interesting there, except for some little pieces of fuzz on the floor that I immediately recognized.

I made sure to be the last person to leave the party. And, when there was nobody in the place except Ms. Cunningham and me, I whispered in her ear: “I know about the ropes.” She blushed in a flash and couldn’t articulate a word. Before leaving, I added: “Don’t worry.”

And it was true, she didn’t have to worry. I didn’t tell anyone at school that the Chemistry teacher, who seemed so old-fashioned and vanilla, was actually kinky and a bondage enthusiast.

The following week, Ms. Cunningham invited me to have “tea” on Saturday morning. 

And that was the end of “The Case of the Fuzzy Ropes.”