On rope as a space beyond language

A couple of months ago, I got tied by Conor – here’s some documentation of that beautiful scene. It was the first time we met, and two hours later I was hanging upside down by my hips – something only possible with a lot of care, a lot of skill, a lot of incredible energy.

I have previously written about my relationship with rope as a beautiful gateway kink (read here). But what I love about rope, or any kink, is that it’s not only difficult to describe – but it’s also constantly evolving and changing. There are recurring questions about rope scenes: Is it uncomfortable? Does it hurt? Does it have to involve sex? There aren’t right or wrong answers, because everyone’s rope space is different. I like trying to describe mine because it’s incredibly ephemeral – beyond the moment it probably only truly exists in the embodied memory of my skin and joints and nerve endings. There are no words to describe this experience – and yet I really like to try and fail.

Rope feels like playing with forces beyond your control. Not just giving up power – altering the space. The air gets thick. The slight thuds of rope on the floor, the other person’s breathing, the sense of where they are in the space before they put their hands on you. 

Rope is a power exchange, and it’s endlessly erotic – but there are also times when it feels detached from either of you. Having your breath extracted from your body. In a strappado tie, I can feel how gradually the blood drains from my arms and they get numb. It scares me, and then I come in terms with it. The suspension line digs into my waist, I hear my own moan like it’s something external from me. 

There is stress, there is compression, there is a release which is so pleasurable. Sometimes it’s just pure bliss of being absolutely totally held by the ropes. The person tying always drifts in and out of focus – same as my sense of self. It’s comforting to be in someone’s hands – it’s hot being watched from the darkness. 

In suspension, there is extreme tension – then joy. A powerful release that also comes with pain, with the feeling of weightlessness but also heaviness. Up there, it happens, that space of no language. It rinses everything from me. Like a wave hitting rocks. You ask yourself whether you can handle it. There is fear, there is doubt. And then there is nothing. And then it’s just silence. 

I can feel the experience in my body for a few days after, sometimes rising to the surface as an emotion, a strange thought, an ache in my shoulders. Our perception of the body is often limited – a fine-tuned vehicle for our minds. Truly, it’s hard to say where bodies end and we begin. In rope space, it feels like there is knowledge bigger than my ego. There is something that my body knows that I don’t know – how to deal with pain, the unknown, and the void. This is the knowledge you can briefly touch and then forget when the scene ends – but for a moment it’s nice to have it. 

Rope and photography by Conor