Souvenir

It is difficult when different women gather for the funeral of the same man. But then again, Jerry was always a difficult man. Fortunately or unfortunately, I was the last one. That means I was his fourth wife, the ninth woman he lived with, and his thirtieth-something lover. I know what you’re thinking, but hey, don’t judge him. He was nice to all of us. Moreover, he was honest enough to tell each one of us about the rest. So when we all gathered for the funeral, we already more or less knew each other. What we didn’t know, however, is that he had left a souvenir for each one of the women in his life.

We all knew that Jerry loved bondage. And we all agreed that he was an artist. Maybe that’s why we all forgave him for his shortcomings. We knew the wonderful things he could do with ropes and a model who loved him. (He never called us models; we were his “muses.”) I know that sounds like the typical artist cliché, but it was true in the case of Jerry.

Something that made things easier for us is that there was nothing to inherit from Jerry. He firmly believed in living only for today, so he never kept a dollar for a whole week. And yet, in his final moments, he kept talking about a souvenir he was going to give to each one of us as a memory.

After they lowered the casket, I approached his grave and threw down, not a flower or a fistful of earth, but a piece of the rope he had used to tie me when we had our wonderful scenes. Imagine my surprise when each of the women in his life threw a similar piece of rope that Jerry had given them when they had been his muses.

We all understood that was the souvenir he had been talking about before passing away. More importantly, we all understood that we were bound together. So we promised to gather from time to time and remember Jerry and the marvelous time he gave to each of us. This is his Shibari story.