Hogtied

Hogtied
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We sat on the judo mats in a small studio in downtown San Francisco surrounded by 20 other strangers in yoga clothes. Over the last few months, my husband and I had been exploring different ways of connecting physically and this class in Shibari, an ancient Japanese form of rope bondage, seemed full of possibilities.
Sep 21, 2015, 02:51 PM EDT | Updated Dec 6, 2017
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We sat on the judo mats in a small studio in downtown San Francisco surrounded by 20 other strangers in yoga clothes. Over the last few months, my husband and I had been exploring different ways of connecting physically and this class in Shibari, an ancient Japanese form of rope bondage, seemed full of possibilities.
After we settled in, the couple leading the class began with a short demonstration of him tying her arms together behind her back. It turns out there are certain places one might not want rope burn, so he emphasized the importance of pulling the rope slowly. He also talked about holding it with intention as rope under tension has better energy. The couple was the absolute picture of harmony with her receiving his adoration with all of her being, and him doling out his love in measured and deliberate motions.
Then it was our turn. With some seductive music floating through the studio, I sat with my legs crossed as my husband began the process of learning how to tie a hitch knot. I'm not going to sugar-coat this kiddos... we were NOT the picture of harmony. I tried to provide helpful feedback, "pull the rope more slowly here" or "hold it less taut there", but the more direction I gave, the more frazzled he became.
It may be clear at this point in the story that trust in others is not one of my strengths. My default state is to plan, organize and direct in a very detailed way. I write down the exact brand and fat percentage of the ground turkey that I put on my grocery list. The concept of giving control to others or sitting back and receiving is not comfortable territory for me. Yet that was what I was being asked to do.
Fortunately for my frazzled husband, the instructors ended the exercise, telling us it was time for another demonstration. This was a free-form exploration where he worked rope after rope around her body, binding together various limbs with her torso. After she was fully bound, he reversed the process, with the same measured movements, slowly and beautifully unbinding her from her colorful cocoon.
Again, it was our turn to practice. This time, I tried to keep my mouth shut and trust that my partner could learn this new skill without my verbal feedback. Unexpectedly, it turned into a meditative experience for me. Since I was no longer talking, I was able to shut down the thinking part of my brain and tune into the music and the physical connection between myself, the rope and my husband.
Along the way, as I began to place trust in his actions, my husband seemed to be able to tune into my body and adjust accordingly. For instance, a small squirm from unpleasant tightness in the rope would result in loosening. A purr would result in a pleasant tightening. It felt counter-intuitive that by trusting him and providing less direct feedback that I was actually providing even better feedback, yet there we were.
In the months since our Shibari lesson, I've been able to notice when my control-freak self is getting in the way of some otherwise tantalizing scenes and can pause in that moment and ask myself "What if I were to let him continue on exactly the way he is right now?" And though I'm still demanding as ever in my grocery list, sometimes it now has things on it like 20 feet of red rope.
"Wait, that's it?" Transformation takes time, so I'm intentionally sharing in bite-sized doses that reflect my experience over the last year. I'd love to hear your questions and thoughts, let's continue the conversation in the comments section below. Or visit my blog at downtothere.com

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The exquisite torture of paying for your own customized kidnap experience
Be careful what you wish for – the future may have teeth. I was sitting in my living room with Brock Enright, a twenty-six-year-old New York artist who plans, executes and videotapes kidnappings for hire. We were strategizing my abduction. “I’m sort of a control freak,”I found myself confessing to the handsome but boyishly creepy Enright. “So I’m looking to confront my fear of chaos. I’m thinking maybe the kidnappers’ indecision and lack of organization are what imperil me.”
“I like that,”Enright said. He gave me a questionnaire that asked me to list my greatest fears: I listed “suffocation,” “drowning,” “slipping in vomit.”He asked if there were any other specific elements I wanted to include. I said it might be “very dramatic” if I were initially approached on the street at an unspecified time and, while held at gunpoint, forced to mask my terror while led through crowded streets. Enright asked if I wanted the pressure of the gun on my back to be theatrical or realistic. I said, “realistic.” And how did I want my ordeal to end, Enright asked. “Well, I don’t need my ear to be mailed to a major metropolitan daily,” I thought aloud. “But it might be cool to have Aaron, this guy I’ve been dating for two months, find me in a duffel bag and rescue me.”
Our scenario now had a beginning and an end; but what about the middle? Many of Enright’s kidnappings have a sexual component; Enright claims that none of the twenty-nine people he’s abducted in the past ten years has ever asked for sex with a stranger, preferring it to be with someone they already know. He asked me, “Do you want to specify anything sexually, or do you want to leave it vague?” I admitted, “I don’t want to work too – as they say in show business – blue. But, that said, I’m generally made very uncomfortable by the presence of an enormous black dildo.”
“I think it could lend a note of interest.”
Among the ways to tell the world “I’m really, really special,” planning your own kidnapping is one of the more elaborate; it makes slashing your wrists and bleeding all over your parents’ bathroom sink look improvisatory and blithe. Six hours after our first meeting. Enright called me to schedule a second meeting and to ask the question that plagues pornographers everywhere (“The black dildo: Is it still a green light?”). Enright and two of his crew members – some of the people who work for Enright are buddies he grew up with in Virginia Beach, Virginia; as early as age fifteen, they used to playfully “kidnap” other schoolmates – came to my apartment with a video camera the night before the abduction. They had me sign a liability waiver and then read it aloud on camera. They also had me designate a code word (“Hibernia”) and a physical gesture (foot shaking), which, during the kidnapping, I could invoke in order to stop all action.
The day of the kidnapping, I tried to go about my daily activities without anxiety. But I was walking amid 8 million potential captors. When I saw a piece of torn newspaper in a recycling bin, I thought, “Ransom note.” I saw a chicken bone on the sidewalk and thought, “Lindbergh baby.”
My first detection of Enright’s presence occurred at 2 p.m., when I saw, a pool of “vomit” at the bottom of the steps; I neatly dodged this lurid calling card, my inner theater critic making a mental note that the vomit’s day-glo fuchsia hue seemed rather vaudevillian. Two hours later, as I left the New York University gym, a man put his left arm around my neck tightly; his right hand, obscured by a jacket, pressed a gun into my back. “Put your arm around me like we’re lovers!” he hissed. Suddenly I was scared. My throat constricted. I was unable to look the gunman in the face. It dawned on me: Not only have I given a group of strangers permission to kidnap me, but I have encouraged them to do it ineptly, and to use a gun while doing it. What wouldn’t Enright do? As a teen, the aspiring cinéaste snuck up on his aunt one day and filmed her while she was sitting on the toilet. Suddenly I was Enright’s aunt, and New York was my toilet.
The gunman guided me into the back of a van, where five masked individuals threw icy-cold water at me, pushed me onto the van’s floor and wrapped my mouth and eyes in duct tape. While binding my feet, one of the kidnappers positioned his posterior directly onto my face; a little voice inside my head said, “I can’t believe I’m paying $1,500 for this.” They stuffed me into a duffel bag. We drove for about thirty minutes, whence I was decanted from the duffel bag and deposited onto a mattress on the floor of a dark, dusty, fifteen-by-twenty-foot basement chamber whose location, per my request, was unknown to me.
The next six hours were very possibly the most frightening six hours of my life. That I could shut down this production at any moment merely by employing my code word didn’t matter. I had suspended my disbelief, I was in the game. After being repeatedly blindfolded and re-bound and gagged by the masked men, I was stripped to my underwear and sub-jected to surprise showers of a variety of liquids – water, beer and maple syrup. A man whom I would come to think of as the Depilator pulled hairs out of my chest. Footage of CNN fashion com-mentator Elsa Klensch vaporting on about Princess Di was played on a loop. ‘A malodorous skinhead licked me. I had to pee into Dixie cups. I was slapped once and manhandled frequently. Some of my bruises would last for a week.
I, like my captors, was oddly silent throughout much of the proceedings, mostly expressing myself through grunting and screaming; however, I did see fit to write two notes (the seminal “Blood circulation. Untie hands,” and the more lyrical “Headache. Head circulation”) and to scream. “Do not put any more fucking duct tape in my hair!” By the end of the evening. I had cried three times. My one ally was a captor – I was quite certain that it was Enright beneath the mask – who spoke in a high-pitched Teletubby-type voice; in a strange reversal of Stock-holm syndrome, this fellow had eyes for me . At one point he lay his body on top of mine, hump-style. At another, he told me, “I’ll do anything you ask me to.”He told me he had fallen in love with me. (“If you really loved me,” I finally told him, “you’d get a washcloth and wipe the maple syrup off my body.”) That Enright, who’d seemed nervous and slightly formal in my apartment, could transform himself into this character did not wholly surprise me; as with most actors you meet, you sense that there are two parts to Enright’s being: a large, warm pool of sentient, moral humanity; and a billboard on a highway reading, simply, WILLING. At one point, an aggressive captor, for reasons unclear to me, screamed at me, “A secret got out tonight!” and then pushed on the swivel chair I’d just been taped to; the chair and I tipped over backward, and my head hit the floor with a thud. Shortly thereafter, I wrote a note to Teletubby/Enright, saying. “This is too intense for me,” and he wrote back, “What part?” I answered, “The violence.”
The next morning, two masked kidnappers and a maskless Enright appeared in my chamber. Enright claimed that he usually “isn’t around” for the kidnappings – clearly a lie – but that something had “gone wrong” (the chair tipping over) the night before. Enright said, “You’re kind of a different client for us because you’re such a bitch: “‘No more tape in the hair!'” I countered that I thought I was going to be kidnapped, not tortured. “You guys are like kidnappers with way too much time on their hands,” “I wheezed. “It’s like being kidnapped by Martha Stewart.” Strangely, even thought I had just passed the most harrowing night of my life, I didn’t like criticizing Enright in front of his crew; he’s formed a kind of family with these sociopaths – a situation seemingly underlined by the fact that Enright wears the Movado watch that his largely absent father was wearing when he jumped to his death last year – and I didn’t want to undermine his authority. But, that said, the repeated tearing of duct tape from my hair the evening before had made me pig-biting mad.
When Enright departed, he left behind a shopping bag; inside was a heavy seventeen-inch-long black dildo called the Rambone. Frantic at the thought of what my captors might do with it, I unraveled the three kinds of tape that bound my now-fifthy pants to my ankles, dragged a cinder block across the room, stood on it and hid the Rambone in the ventilating duct.
That day, the theme of the proceedings seemed to shift from terror to humilition. A highly strained kidnapper wearing a truss of electrical tape hurled the swivel chair against the wall and badgered me into dancing with him. Another cut my underwear off me with scissors while seven other captors applauded and videotaped me. Post-trauma as I was, I mindlessly obliged these gentlemen. Like a senior citizen, I was simply keeping busy.
Earlier that week, the newspapers had been full of stories about a heroic seven-year-old kidnapee who’d chewed through her duct tape and escaped. The idea of trying to escape, and possibly further enraging my captors, struck me as preposterous. Tha
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