I’d known rope all my life, yet for so long I failed to comprehend its depth and symbolism.
I mastered rope long ago – understanding its structures, its varieties, its strengths and weaknesses. I learned the importance of protecting it, respecting it, and how to take care of it. I learned to predict its behaviour, how it would stand up to pressure, and when it was likely to break.
I have trusted my life to it, and saved other lives with it, yet I always remain vigilant of its tendency to take life and limbs without warning. I know too well the pain it can inflict: I’ve felt it cut, burn, bruise, and even puncture my skin shedding splinters that would become part of my body for years to follow. I’ve felt the despair and dismay when it has let me down unexpectedly. I’ve watched it bare its innermost core just before it succumbed to the tension. I’ve even faced the terror of rogue rope attempting to choke or drown me.
From the beginning I appreciated the beauty of rope, but only in part. I became intrigued with knots, their purposes, and their commonalities. I mastered knots whose purpose is long obsolete because I found beauty in their structure. I learned to whip and braid both for form and function, and experienced the meditative state that accompanies the act of tying for the sake of art.
Despite all this, I failed to grasp the affinity between rope and people. I still remember the day my partner came home from her first ladies’ play party, excited to share her discovery of Shibari. I think it was the excitement of a novel and somewhat taboo experience that thrilled her – despite her enthusiasm to tell me about it, she showed no interest in exploring it further. Or maybe it was because I didn’t seem excited when she shared this with me? After so many years together we had begun making too many assumptions about each other to really know what was going on. Sure I liked the visual appearance of a beautifully tied figure, but how would this bring us any closer together?
Only when I discovered the exquisite pleasure gained through submission did rope finally make sense. I observed the sense of safety and protection of entrusting your body to the rigger and their rope, coloured perhaps with a tinge fo excitement or anxiety about how they may choose to tease or handle you while you are in their control. I also sensed the revelry of feeling that at least for the moment, you are the centre of the rigger’s universe and hold their absolute, undivided attention. I discovered the energy play between rigger and bunny: how positioning and posture amplify a sense of security or uncertainty, and how the tension of the rope and quality of the rigger’s touch guide the bunny’s emotions while they are powerless to do anything except feel the sensations he offers.
Now I understand. I also recognise that look when I mention Shibari on a date, and my “vanilla” companion lights up at the prospect of expressing her desire without fear of judgement. But the most rewarding look is the far off droopy-eyed gaze of a bunny as she surrenders to the sensations of the rope that constricts and caresses her skin, as she escapes her thoughts and worries to just experience a few moments of simply feeling.
I’ve always known rope was for connecting, but I came to understand it can connect us to each other in a profound way. There is a special honour of having someone place their trust in you to tie them and to protect them. The physical connection of the rope reflects an even more beautiful human connection which persists even after the last knot has been been released.
Who would have thought rope could be so deep?