Rope

I spent a recent Saturday with a handful of rope lovers. In my group were mostly rope Tops, but we all took turns getting ourselves hung, bound, and wrapped in rope. I noted the bite of the strands into my hips in an inverted suspension and considered how I might counteract that burn when I’m doing the rigging. Talking, sharing with other riggers made me realize both how much I’ve learned about rope in the past few years … as well as how far I still have to go in my journey.

A few days later, I started the process of conditioning a fresh batch of rope for my studio. It takes almost a week to boil, soak, wash, dry, singe, wall knot, and oil.

Most rope players I know find the labor intensiveness of rope conditioning just too much. Me, ever since I got into rope, I’ve made my own. I love the process of softening the rope, the air steamed with the scent of hemp, loamish and damp. I love pulling the warm rope through my hands and over the gas jet, burning off the twiny splinters and fuzz. Then I lightly dress a cloth with mineral oil (I’m not picky about the oil type myself) and pass the rope through my hands again.

It’s such a sensory experience: the steam and smoke scents, the raspy-to-softening texture as handle it in each stage, seeing it transform from its rough, raw spool into the slick, measured coils. There’s love in my ropes, my effort and intention. “When I bind you,” I tell my partner, “it’s like it’s actually me embracing you. My energy is what presses against your skin, holding you up, holding you tight.”

A few days later, one of my favorite rope bottoms came in to visit. At first, all I wanted to do was dress and bind him in leather: arm sleeves, CBT parachute, a rigid spreader bar. I attached him to the anchor point just high enough that he was forced to his tiptoes. But then that put too much of a stretch on his balls, which were tied to the spreader bar around his ankles. When he’d relax and flatten his feet, I had sharp pricker pads underneath his soles, waiting for him. That was fun.

But then came the rope. Single column ties at each wrist and ankle, I stretched each limb to one of the four points of the suspension rig. More rope wrapped around his biceps and connected to his thighs. Another skein bound a vibrating bullet to his cock and stretched his genitals upwards towards the ceiling. A blindfold and gag as well. Of course. Four points (five if you count the cock) stretched and held. Formulated, sprawling, pinned and wriggling on the floor.

Stretched on the floor beside him, I whispered, “I’m going to leave you here to wrestle with my ropes alone.”

Then I rose and walked away.