I thought about ten different starts to this post but they all sounded like a justification to my lack of words, which usually comes just from a lack of understanding of what I want to talk about, or out of fear of judgement. I know, my dear reader, that you are not here to judge but to find words to justify your feelings.
Many rope bottoms before me expressed their own sub feelings, perhaps better than I could ever do in any language, but I am me and this is my rope language.
And the fact that this is a language to begin with is insane, it really doesn’t sit in my brain and I can’t switch off. The only time I am not me, that I am none of my thousands of brain voices, is when I’m tied up and suffering. The rope and I fight like crazy and my whole system is overloaded and I forget why the fuck I agreed to this, and it all happens in a fraction of a second.
And then.
Nothing. The void. Silence. I am me again.
I am aroused beyond sexual and I remember that it is not the rope I am fighting but my top, and I don’t want to be against them, I want to embrace them and feel every little change and twitch and breath, and be able to capture their facial expressions. I want them to be happy and I can’t fulfil that if I am against them. So... I let go.
I tense my muscles and let the rope dig deeper into my flesh; I do to myself what no one else could ever do, I accept the rope and I want it to disintegrate me. I look at my top and I am begging to kill me, slowly, painfully, so that we both regret nothing and touch the very inside of our darkest secrets we will never find the words for. We are safe. This is the language we now speak. I know what’s coming, they know how to inflict the pain and push my limits.
I can hang in pain for a very long time, I breathe in and I am pain, I travel through my veins, I attack my nerves and I talk to my brain in a form of consciousness: “I know this is painful, I want this, now... stop the impulse.” And the pain stops, I am on the other side, completely in control of my own body, the king of my brain.
When I cannot breathe properly - perhaps the rope is too tight around my chest and diaphragm, or some other times it’s the weight of my own body upside down, or the combination of all these things, - is when I acknowledge and grasp the very fact that one day I will die, and it might as well be today. And I am ok with that.
When I’m tied up and suspended nothing fucking matters, only I do because some part of my brain is convinced we are fighting for survival and another part knows we are going to make it no matter what, we are creating our own patterns and recover from trauma by re-writing our own history. We are strong. We are powerful. We don’t need control because none of this is real, only we are real, only what we think and command to our body.
To me rope is sacred and I struggle to understand the purely decorative shibari, or purely sexual play because to me rope is like a religion, a safe space where sufferance and fight and death and eros are allowed in a raw form; it’s an element beyond physical pleasure; I feel the bond with my top in our soul, something impossible to grasp and touch and dismantle; something that can only happen if we unlock our bodies and connect but that dissipates if we only focus on the physical dimension. A wonderful paradox.
Rope reminds me of why I am in this body and on this planet. Pretty intense, I don’t fuck with it and I am very intolerant of who does. Of course it doesn’t always have to be that deep, but then... why rope? Of course it is exploratory and it’s so much fun to learn and discover new knots and ties and sensations, that all is amazing... But when you tie someone and see the effect every little movement and shift in weight has on your sub; when they scream and moan in pain and tiredness; when they are barely breathing and beginning you to bring them down but you just keep them there a little bit longer because you believe in their strength (and because you’re a fucking sadist, let me tell you) and you can read someone so well; how can you not respect and cherish this incredibly powerful tool that can fuck up both of you to the point of a new existence?
Using rope for pretty decorative tie, or to just immobilise someone for a fuck, and for that only, is like driving the latest model of Tesla to the supermarket down the road... for a pack of middle class snacks. Sacrilege.
And so it begins, my ascend to the old school elitist pretentious community of sado-masochists. You’re welcome. I am very ok with that because I am happy.
Are you?
From my rope session with Conor James