It is halfway through Shibaricon, and I’ve run into Cannon in the practice room. He is now holding me by the neck, leading me through the corridors of the convention space. When he grabbed me by the neck, I knew where we were, but since then I lost all sense of spatial orientation, closing my eyes and just following his hand, pressures from his fingers telling me in what direction to move and how fast. Bodies, moving.
We are searching for a space to play in, a space for rope. Which, to be honest, means that we have the whole convention space really to choose from, except that some of the classes are still ongoing. Cannon let go of my neck, I open my eyes, and finding myself following, yet again, making sure not to run into him, but to not be too far away, paying close attention to his body language. One of the classes are wrapping up, there is a far corner that he decide is where we need to be. I ask how much undress is required and then take off what he wants. He hands me one of the white sheets that are used to cover the floor, and I start spreading it, something which can be rather tricky when only using two hands. This is the second time during the weekend I ‘have to make it work’, although this time I actually have my hands free to do it. He is waiting for me to spread out the sheet, I try to be as effective as possible, feeling his eyes burn in my neck, while on the floor, grabbing corner after corner of the unruly sheet, even it out, almost feeling like the preparation is a metaphor for how my body is in rope. The white sheet on the ground, unused, a tabula rasa, a base line for the scene. But the thing is, I’m not there yet, I am filled with longings, with aches and needs and wants and cannot pretend like they are not there. Despite the focus, despite the need and want to obey and follow, I am still worried, slightly anxious about not being enough, capable, strong, expressive, submissive enough. It is not uncommon for me to have these feelings, especially when playing with new people. But the thing is, when you are there in that moment, where the person touch you and start, that is the time when those doubts starts to evaporate.
And they do for every strand of rope he ties, the worries, the fears, the anxiety, it evaporates. But it is not just the rope itself, it is him, being right there, present, and focussed, a bubble of perceiving senses in which we focus on each other. I can’t say that I remember much of the tying itself in terms of what shapes he tied, but I do remember Cannon’s movement, precision and presence, his communication. And I fall into it, follow,listen, express. I don’t speak very much when being tied, very rarely I can hear what the top is saying, but at one point I asked him to hurt me. Cue slightly hilarious linguistical misunderstanding; he hugs me, because he has heard me saying ‘hug’ instead of ‘hurt’, the British accent of mine got in the way. I smile, but the smile only lasts as long, because the hug goes turns from a hug into hurt. The pain is precise, but still feeling it everywhere, it travels through my body like a wildfire, forcing the last barriers down, I am nothing but feeling flesh, there is nothing but here and now; a knee kicking into my crotch, hard pinches, punches, beating hands, beating heart. From the beginning, the rope was wrapped around my eyes, but as it is taken off, I still keep my eyes closed, unless once in a while I look into his eyes when he tells me to do so. I don’t speak (as far as I remember) but as always, processing pain is a vocal affair…
Something pointy made of metal is traced over my skin and somewhere in the back of my mind, the knifephobia is set off, but I can’t say it, I just can’t say it, just letting my body shiver while my mind turns into a red light of warning. I don’t mind Cannon taking me there, to that place of fear. One which he notices, asks me out loud if knifes are a problem, I nod or say yes, don’t remember. With words and action he state that fear is not what he intends with this session, and instead show me little stick of metal which is not a knife at all. Despite the relief, I almost want to make myself understood; to say that if he wanted to go to the place of fear, I would gladly go there with him. Instead the barrage of stimuli continues, and somehow, I loose myself in this, remembering details become irrelevant, instead, my self and body is dismantled by him, his hands, his rope, his presence. Every inch of me is right there, in that moment. It is a mix of intense stimuli, energy and everything else that means I finally enter that state, a coming undone, a nothing but that moment in time. It is then I think that the tears start, slowly, in the back of the eyelids, not like the night before, the tears are not the ultimate release, because all is already released, they just come, trickling down. If getting tied up means the self coming undone, untying means being put together again, and his body is warm as he moves with knowing hands, pulls the rope, letting it linger, tracing it slowly over skin or quickly pulling it. It is not just the rope, it is his whole being, allowing the pieces to come together again- and there it is again, there I am but I am more me than ever, becoming more me than before the session started. I can feel, but no anxiety, just feeling what is there, in that moment.
Coming undone, being put together again, a leap of trust and to feel yourself, not through anything else but through the hands, the eyes and the rope of another person. After being put together again, I am everything and nothing, a tabula rasa. A white sheet, which incidentally is now crinkled underneath us on the floor.