Pruning Time
Why do we practice Shibari — even in a pandemic?
The last time I was tied up with rope was in Texas at a rope class and jam in a private home before the pandemic turned such homes into fortresses. My rigger was a young man who had learned rope through a local rope group, and via online videos. We were guided through the arm-free chest harness being demonstrated that evening by two lovely young women in the cramped living room full of people, plants, and bookshelves packed with books on Buddhism, bondage, and laden with tchotchkes reflecting the international flair of the hosts. Then we went onto the back deck and tested the tie on the suspension points rigged up over the wooden porch.
No shit there I was. Upside down and twirling in the Texas humidity, legs loosely tied just to get them off the ground, ropes everywhere; beams overhead dripping from the rains that drenched the city just hours before.
I was back in the wild west of my militant youth, hovering over an abyss of an unknown future. Suspension of all activity — rope or otherwise — ensued shortly thereafter. All my meticulously laid plans for the next few months suddenly hurled aside, like a coup of nature.
I can’t say much about the American rope scene, as that was my only encounter so far. The diverse, queer, tattooed, friendly, funky, highly educated…
