Taken after waking at 5AM buzzing with energy from my first ever porn shoot.
[This is an expanded and illustrated version of a recent post I made on Fet-Life]
One of the things I sometimes say when explaining my geekish enthusiasm (or enthusiastic geeking) for frope is that any numpty can buckle a cuff; rope is different. It’s a skill, its a form of expression. In a world where the mainstream is becoming more adn more obsessed with everything digital rope is something in my life that’s analogue, so analogue.
The great thing about it being so analogue is that you can take what you want from it. The basiscs of tying someone, or even just using a length in our hends to hold someone is immediate; but there’s more there if you want it. There’s the history, different styles, theory and aesthetics; and also there’s the ropes themselves.
My first every rope was some kind of nylon bought off the internet in 2006. Then when I first started getting serious about rope I bought some lengths of sash cord, then upgraded to three lengths of 6mm hemp from Esinem. Those three lengths were with me for best part of a year, had a lot of good energy go into them and ultimately were passed on to some very good friends of mine who were just starting out on their own rope journey (sorry, did I mention this post was going to be pretentious as fuck? Oh well, too late). I’ve moved on to having larger sets of dedicated rope, and have spent a good chunk of the last fortnight processing and dying a new set that’ll be making its way to some ropey events in the near future (also meaning I’ll get full use of my shower back… huzzah!). It’s fascinating stuff and, as time goes on, I can see myself on the dark and slippery slope that may well ultimately end in trying to make my own rope. But for now let me talk a little about my current ropes, what they are and how I’ve processed them. This is still a voyage of discovery and I’m likely to change my approach in the future, but this is a snapshot of where I’m at currently.
I like thick hemp. The smell is intoxicating, and the simple solid weight and bulk in my hand screams “ROPE!” where thinner lines and especially jute ones just whimper “string”. Yes, I’m a cave man, forgive me.
My current set was manufactured at the historic Chatham Dockyards where they have a working rope museum. The 6mm hemp is still made today on the hundred-plus year old rope walk. It’s soft, heavy and beautiful.
I started by pulling off enough rope from the coil to make my set of ropes. Unlike previous sets, I’ve done this based upon arm stretches rather than a precise measurement. My thinking is that four full arm stretches is basically the most I can pull-through, so my lengths are a little over that (but probably around the seven meter mark).
I broke the entire hundred(ish) meter length over a carabiner. This really pushed out a huge amount of twist that had been stored in the coil.
Then I bought a camping stove (because I have an electric hob in my flat) and set about singing the fluff off it.
Photos don’t quite do it justice, but the Chatham hemp is super fluffy and singing it makes it go through a miraculous transformation into something that looks like rope, like proper rope that proper rope people use. The downside was it was then slightly sooty (even after a quick wipe with a wet cloth) and smelled of smoke, although the smell began to dissipate after a few days.
After singeing I cut it to lengths (eight ‘standard’ lengths, four short ones and an extra long one) and went dye shopping. My previous set had been dyed a dark red and a deep purple. It’s pretty as fuck, but this time I wanted a starker contrast between the two shades. After much deliberation I opted for green and yellow. There’s a reason for this choice of colours and if you ask nicely in person I’ll tell you.
I dyed the rope using Dyelon’s hand-dye sachets, using a large salad bowl, warm water and a shitload of salt. I doubled the ropes over two or three times to make loose manageable bundles, and then put one half into the dye mix for the yellow ends.
It took about an hour then I let them dry hanging over the lip of a bucket for a couple of days. I then repeated the process with the other ends and the green dye.
Then I tied the lengths into magic-rope bundles and put them in the washing machine for a quick and cool spin to remove any excess dye.
Next comes the fun bit. By which I mean the fucking infuriating bit. I’m currently able to dry three ropes at a time under tension. I’m doing this using three 12 litre buckets of water hanging from my shower rail.
Getting the ropes up and down is a maddening exercise in carefully not dropping half a length into a bucket of water. But the 12 litres seems to offer enough tension to dry the ropes nicely without them becoming too weirdly slack and bunchy (the Chatham hemp has a tendency to do this). I came home a little drunk the other day to a very wet bathroom floor. At first I thought that my shower rail had given way, nope, instead it just turns out the lengths I’m processing stretched more than I expected them to… note to self, have the buckets at least a foot off the floor.
Once dry I’m currently oiling them with Jojoba oil (Thanks Jin for the recommendation). I’m oiling them fairly lightly because I ended up over-oiling my purple set and I figure that if they still feel too dry after a few days I can always add more. I oiled my previous set with almond oil, which works well, but the smell had started to go a bit off recently.
Incidentally, part of my recent rope working has been to singe, wash, dry and re-oil my purple set. One other thing I did was add some more twist. The strands of the rope can begin to unspiral over time and with use. To re-twist I tied one end of the rope to the window latch in my bedroom and then traipsed the rest of the length through my flat to the front door… It wasn’t quite enough distance, but close enough to ‘fudge’ it. I twisted the end of the rope around a hundred times, then pulled on the rope, leaning my body weight into it, before releasing. The rope untwisted a little but most of the new twist stayed. I repeated the pull and release a few times.
The last thing I’m doing with the new set is putting the new processed oiled ropes in a plastic bag with the remaining unprocessed hemp to help bring out that glorious hemp smell (thanks again Jin for the tips).
So, within the next few days I’ll have the new set good to go, and I’ll be able to take a shower without ducking between pendulously hanging buckets… I’ll call that a win.
At about ten minutes past one in the afternoon on Saturday I pulled myself into the air. 24 hours later the last person came down. in between at least one person was in the air at all times. The Oxford charity Rope-a-thon was a mammoth undertaking that saw an unbroken chain of 115 suspensions with 12 riggers, 24 models and nowhere near enough sleep (numbers are “ish” as switches and self-suspenders, including YT, were involved).
Originally scheduled to start at midday, trouble with public transport meant that the start of proceedings were delayed by a little over an hour. It was only once we began that the true scale of the challenge hit home. For the first couple of hours we were chronically short-handed, more in need of riggers than bunnies and, to make matters worse, we didn’t have much of a game plan. Some of the first handful of suspensions lasted only a few minutes. We quickly ended up having several riggers in hip-harnesses ready to get themselves off the ground at short notice and a couple of ill-advised suspension strategies (including dangling from a single foot… naming no names…) led to both quick change-overs and mutters cries of “just give me thirty seconds!” At times it was like an earth-bound kinkier version of an episode of Star Trek… where everyone was Scotty… and the dilithium crystals were my biceps.
I’m a little reluctant when it comes to suspensions; I describe myself as someone who does it for practice rather than play, certainly for the time-being. I’m happy to self-suspend and that was my focus for the first few hours, meaning that I quickly developed some rather tasty (though unfortunately not visible) bruises in all the places I’d normally want to put ropes. Ultimately, however, I did start rigging others and the experience of suspending a variety of different people, under pressure and against the clock (“I’ll be airborne in two minutes!”) was one hell of a challenge. But I’m happy to take at least some credit for managing to put together a series of suspensions that were tolerably comfortable, helped no doubt by the awesome, communicative not-at-all-masochistic people I had the pleasure of rigging with. As time went on, I slipped into a steady routine that focused on comfort, support and reproducibility, all important things when everyone in the room is fighting a physical and mental marathon.
Sometime after midnight reinforcements arrived from London in the shape of Jack the Whipper and FaerieWillow and I slipped into an overcrowded bedroom for some much-needed kip before rising a few hours later for the dawn patrol. I couldn’t make it all the way through to the end (I had to be in town for… reasons) but the 24 hour mark was reached with no major injuries, much stress and energy and over £800 raised for Oxford sexual abuse and rape crisis centre.
What did I gain from the experience? Well I learned that I can suspend, comfortably and (somewhat) reliably. The experience also reaffirmed how important communication is and showed me how even slight adjustments to fly lines can make the difference between “I can hold this for ten minutes” and “just leave me here indefinitely and I’ll have a nap.” But most of all I felt part of something crazy and difficult and special, and part of a group, a rope family working, playing, laughing, struggling and hurting together.
I recently saw an extended fan trailer for the upcoming Captain America: Civil War film:
It’s actually does a pretty good job of highlighting how the Civil War storyline isn’t just something being plucked out of thin air for the sake of fanboy nerdgasms but rather taps into a consistent thread of development for the main protagonists. Also, it had me welling up, which I think is another example of how my emotional processing is maybe a little fucked up on occasion.
One line in particular that struck me was a quote from Tony Stark:
“I saw that I had become part of a system that is comfortable with zero accountability.”
I listen to that line and watch the cinematic brilliance of horrible yet weirdly impersonal destruction being waged on CGI cities, you know, with everything zoomed out enough that you don’t see individual people suffering. I watched this and I thought of a discussion held at Eurix, about breaking down the taboo of talking about accidents.
I’ll save my opinion of that particular discussion for face-to-face conversations, but what I will say is that the one thing that I really took home from it was this; taboos are really, really fucking hard to break down. And on occasions such as this, they can be extremely damaging both for individuals and the community as a whole.
I’m lucky in that I’ve experienced relatively few accidents and these have been pretty minor. Note I use the word “lucky” and the word “few” these are important, I’m not perfect and I’m pretty sure nobody else is, and I don’t think it’s simply a matter of experience and skill. Accidents happen; it’s how we respond to them that makes all the difference.
“You start with something pure, something exciting. Then come the mistakes, the compromises.”
And on that front I realise that I’m part of the problem too; because I may have hurt people and not know it, because we’ve created a culture in which it’s hard to tell somebody that they did something, even accidentally, that harmed you. I know because I’ve done it; I’ve been tied in ways that left me with nerve pain in my arms and shoulders and I said nothing. Why? Because it was minor; because I didn’t want to hurt the other person’s feelings; because I felt responsible for thinking they were somehow telepathic and I didn’t want what we were doing to suddenly stop.
If you want any more evidence of how difficult it is to break down these taboos, have a look over this blog post; the vague platitudes, the blurry acknowledgements of personal guilt without getting into specifics, the implication that it’s a little bit me, but mostly everyone else. That’s the problem.
There are a miriad of subtle thigns that influence your choices. And not just yours, mine and everyone else’s too. Yes we all think that it’s the big and important information that dictates what we choose but study after study points to how readily little changes in the way things are put to us can dramatically alter our perceptions. If you’re looking for proof of this, I’ll just mention that in 2010 David Cameron established a unit to look at these subtle influences and ways that they can be implemented.
They call them “nudges”, and in addition to deliberate ones, there are also countless nudges that aren;t necessarily there through malicious intent but just through people’s action or inaction propagate. Case in point, rope and body shapes.
I just got back (well, a week ago, but seriously, drop’s a fucker! What do you want from me?) from Eurix in Berlin. My companion for this trip was a perfectly normal sized person by uk standards (at least according to me with my not exactly critical eye… seriously, I usually have to be prompted to notice that someone is/isn’t wearing makeup… even if their eyelids are sparkly), but, amongst the attendees (ok, specifically, among the bottoms/models/bunnies) she was suddenly far from representative. There was a range of body shapes and types present, but it was skewed, like a dog running through a park excitedly carrying half a tree in its jaws.
The bias towards the skinny and bendy is frustrating. Yes there’s an unhealthy focus on skinny and bendy in the media presentations of rope bondage, and yes I think it’s absolutely fucking ridiculous that apparently some riggers say that larger people can’t be suspended (says fourteen stone of enthusiastic self-suspender who’ll do an inversion from a single wrap waistline). But it goes beyond that to unspoken assumptions and little nuances in the way things are presented.
For example, there was a workshop on an arm tie that is physically quite demanding and for lots of people, impossible. You wouldn’t have known that to listen to the first part of the workshop. There was an acknowledgment that this won’t work for all people and to focus on finding fun thigns that you can do, but this only came right at the end, i.e. at the point where anyone who couldn’t push their arms into the right position would have completely mentally checked out. Then there were the workshops where everythign was gendered; not meliciously, but just in a way that everyone quietly assumed that the top in a scene will be male and the bottom a female. It wasn’t that this couldn’t be challenged, it was that it had to be challenged in the first place.
Like I say, subtle things… or maybe not. To quote a friend of mine “What the fuck do you mean subtle? This is screaming loud and clear!”
You’ve seen Hot Fuzz right? If not, go away and watch it because, if nothing else, it’ll give you some insight into my childhood in a very dull rural village. Anyway, one of the allusions in the film is to a moment in Bad Boys II where one of the characters goes, “Shit just got real!” It’s a cool moment that’s made cooler for not having the rest of that car-crash of a film to screw it up (possibly the most painfully bad Will Smith comedy since “The Pursuit of Happyness”). It’s four words that bring home a terrifying, visceral realisation, that whatever mental barriers we normally put in place, sometimes things matter, sometimes things break through this fourth wall to slap you across the face. This isn’t a blog post about that (sorry to tease), this is a post about shit getting normal.
I recently had an old university friend get in touch. We were close once (I may have had teensy bit of a crush at one point) but time, career, relationships and temperament led to us taking rather different paths. He knows that I’m kinky after a rather awkward conversation in a pub and, after not seeing each other for a year or so we’ve been trying to arrange a meet up.
“I can’t do next week, I’m in Berlin for a rope conference” I texted.
“I don’t even want to know what that means.” he replied.
This took me aback rather, not because I thought that deep down he wanted to know, but that in the grand scheme of my kink life, Eurix is, to my mind, pretty vanilla. I mean, yes, ok, it is a week of near constant rope and, yes, alright, some sexy shenanigans have a tendency to happen and, yes, alright, it was at Eurix last year that I first ended up asking myself the question “how many people need to be having sex in a room for it to count as an orgy” but, you now, on the whole it’s pretty tame stuff right. Right?
That’s the real shock moment, not when shit gets real, but when shit gets mundane, when shit gets normal.
Note: this is based upon an advance review copy of the book. The final version may have changes… like page numbers… and a cover… There’s also exciting book launch stuff over at GOTN’s website 🙂 Enjoy.
To say I’ve been anticipating this book would be an understatement; as in I literally, upon meeting the author at Eroticon last year, asked her about when she was going to do a sequel to “My Not-So Shameful Sex Secrets“. The answer was about nine months and the result of which is a rather different beast to the first book.
That’s kind of to be expected seeing as book 1 (as I shall call it) covers everything from childhood to somewhere in the twenties, it’s kind of inevitable that book 2 will have rather different material to work with. I would be tempted to say it feels like it lacks direction on occasion, but that doesn’t do justice to the excellent job it does of painting a picture of a life, a relationship and a partner that is so well drawn through the pages of this book I feel like I know him without ever having met him.
One thing that book 2 does is focus less on sex, but what it loses in sexy fin times it makes up for in a gut-wrenching depiction of life in a modern anxiety-fuelled career. It is powerful stuff and contains moments that took me back to a very unhappy phase in my life and left me I had to take a moment before carrying on. But sweaty palms and trembling fingers aside, its heart-wrenching stuff and, even in the dark places, GOTN’s characteristic humour shines through.
Overall it was funny, heart-warming, gut wrenching, borderline traumatising but in the best possible way. It’s not the lightest of reads, but it doesn’t get lost in the darkness either.
I’m not a hero. If life has taught me one very clear lesson it’s that I am most definitely not a hero. Certainly in terms of narrative I could never be a hero; heroes are the scary ones that come at you with their perfect teeth and smug happiness and you know they’re going to win despite everything. Even the role of protagonist never sits entirely comfortably with me. To be a narrator, a lead, necessitates being something of a blank canvas. Morally impeccable with only the blandest of character traits, you know, ones that pretty much anyone can identify with like being a bit awkward, or clumsy, or sleeping with your mother and taking your eyes out with pins… Sorry, lost my train of thought there.
I always see myself as much more of a supporting character. Now don’t get me wrong, I don’t see this as a bad thing, it’s not that I don’t think I’m worthy of my own story. Rather, it’s the feeling that supporting characters actually get to be somebody, they’re given the freedom to have actual personalities and flaws and hopes that go beyond avenging a ransacked village or being yet another fucking chosen one. Think of the characters who are really compelling, the ones that have nuance and subtlety and inner conflict. I’ll list a few that leap to mind from popular franchises: Arya Stark; Han Solo, Severus Snape; Kara Thrace (Starbuck); Felice Landry. I don’t want to be the one saving the day from the dark overlord or on a quest for the great maguffin. Way too much drama. I’d much rather be me; be the cool one that comes out with devastating one liners and who you never entirely know you can count on in the big fight.
Of course there are some days where it doesn’t quite work like that. There are days when you think it’s all about you and you’ve isolated the reverse power coupling and you’re oh-so excited, only to realise you’re the fucking comic relief.
Fuck it; some days you turn around and realise you’re Hawk Eye!
Those days really fucking suck.
Photo Credit Michael Pollack.
Or: Why does bigotry keep getting into my porn?
Like so many people in the modern world I have a Tumblr account. It’s not a particularly well curated one. If you want to see mine, well, all you’ll really get is very sporadic reblogs of collections of gifs that probably give you waaay too much insight into what turns me on. Tumblr is not my chosen form of self-expression.
It is, however, an excellent platform for creating a carefully tailored near-infinite stream of porn. It’s fantastic, the perfect thing for single-handed laptop or smartphone browsing except…excpet, there’s this one thing.
People on Tumblr are awful. Not in the horrible trolling abuse sort of way but more like those people you occasionally meet at parties. They say hello and you get chatting and they seem reasonably affable. The evening wears on and you find yourself engaging with them and enjoying their company. There’s the occasional slightly odd moment but hey, that’s fine, you probably just mis-heard… And then it all suddenly changes. The conversation shifts or they quietly confide in you that actually they voted UKIP at the last election. And that’s it, they’ve got you. It’s the worst kind of honey trap. You feel soiled, tainted. No matter how quickly you extricate yourself or how vocally express your non-endorsement of their political world view they’ve got you. It stings, deep inside, because you, for a while at least, liked them.
So it goes with Tumblr. The really hot blog you found that delivers just the right sort of filth comes through, except every now and then there’ll be something… else.
For example, I like me some femdom porn. Lot’s of it is very sexy stuff, and I kind of like some of the things that have captions, little stories or ideas that make the head go *poof* in just the right way. Except sometimes it won’t come out like that. Instead of sexy and dangerous it shoots off into a monologue extolling how all men are inherently inferior worms. Then I’m suddenly not aroused anymore I’m lost somewhere between angry and pitying.
But at least it’s better than when my feed is pouring casual racism onto me. I mean, I guess I can understand why there’s a bit of an overlap between cuckold fetishes and interracial fetishes. And I’m not going to say there’s anything wrong with either (a fantasy is a fantasy) it’s just not for me. And I’m sorry if this means I judge you, fellow tumblr user, but I’ll admit, those moments are not me at my best, most placid, accepting and non-judgmental. I judge the shit right then, but mostly I judge me.
Despite what it sounds like I’m really not setting out to criticise anyone’s kink. Just express that weird discomfort where you find yourself agreeing with an affable bigot at a party… and by agreeing I mean coming… and by dinner party I mean… you get the idea.
Photo credit: “On Top of The World” by Jeffrey
So today, for reasons best not gone into, I stumbled across this article at work demanding (according to the title at least) “an adult debate about exploiting sex robots”
First up, I’m going to put my knackers on the line and say that exploiting robots is not really an issue. No until we get to truly human-like AIs behind everything. I’m not saying it isn’t going to happen, but just that we really don’t need to worry about that just yet.
The opening lines of the actual article didn’t do much better in terms of presenting a coherent argument:
“Imagine a world where you were the centre of the Universe! Where only your thoughts and feelings mattered! You could have the type of sex you wanted with another human being without any consideration of their subjectivity! You could in fact turn off your “human switch”! Does this world sound like a nightmare to you or a state of bliss? Well, you can already do this. You can do this if you buy sex.”
I’d like to say that this paragraph was just poorly phrased but no, the article goes on to repeatedly offer a monolithically depressing view that sex work is concomitant with basically not identifying a sex worker as a human being. O…K…
In fact that article also has some choice words about the term sex worker:
“By being called sex work, the selling and buying of sex can be fitted neatly into the consumer market, along with waitressing, banking and the educational and medical professions. After all, we’re all selling our labour, right? However, let’s think about this for a moment. There is no profession in the service sector where you’re allowed to enter another human body for your own pleasure.”
At its heart this article puts forward a rather twisted world view where sex, by which it strictly means penetration is INHERENTLY intimate in a way that, say, having a massage presumably isn’t. But at the same time makes it clear that if money is involved then there are NO EMOTIONS and that anyone visiting a sex worker has SWITCHED OFF THEIR EMPATHY. Then, in the closing paragraphs asks, “Do we want to encourage more of this by extending this lack of empathy to robots?”
This is a pretty appalling piece that lurches from half-thought out and frankly unfounded assumptions through to a knee-jerk foregone conclusion. Let’s make like an early noughties indie band and break it down:
The first assumption of the piece, that “Johns” have no empathy for sex workers, that they don’t even identify them as human beings is without any support. I’m not saying this isn’t the case some, or even most of the time, but not all.
I’ve visited a sex worker (I’ll also add that I’m using the term beyond the Wired article’s painful narrow definition of sex work being only about sex i.e. penetration i.e. PIV) and the main thing I got from the experience wasn’t physical sensation, it was a sense of intimacy, of a real human connection.
The article asserts that penetration is fundamentally intimate (I wonder if the author would use the same line with a rape survivor?) but can’t seem to accept that something like, say, a full body massage, might have elements of intimacy to it. No, because putting your penis in someone or something is special. So special that nothing else can possibly compare.
The last bit, the bit where it actually talks about robots, is almost throwaway in its lack of thought or actual discussion. Never mind that using robot pets is being explored as a way of helping socially isolated people, nope let’s jump straight to the idea that if we have sex work now, and that’s (apparently) bad, that it will also be bad when we bring in robots.
Why? Surely if you’re turning off your emotions then it’s better to do that with a robot?
I’d actually be very much up for an adult conversation about sex work, robots, intimacy and society. It just would’ve been nice if this article had even vaguely stumbled somewhere in the direction of having one.
Photo Credit: Hobvlas Sudonelghm