I move to the floor, where Sparks is
going to tie me. White Horse Slave had a
passage that perfectly describes my
feelings now I’m about to turn into a
“bunny”: “anxious, nervous, tingling,
adventurous, naughty and scared.”
Sparks courteously checks in – am I OK
with neck ropes and potential brushing
against the breast as he ties my torso? I
feel safe and respected (thanks for ask-
ing) and decide not to put any caveats on
whatever happens next. All in! As he
loops the rope above and below my
breasts and nudges my body into vari-
ous positions in continual, fluid motion,
I realise how hands-on this will get.
The ropes tighten. I know from
White Horse Slave that when the body
becomes constricted, it triggers a
fight-or-flight response that dumps
endorphins and assorted yummy chem-icals into the bloodstream. “Something
happens between a top and a bottom
when they’re in a scene,” the book says.
“It’s called subspace and domspace.”
As the brain chemicals begin
making me feel light-headed, I start to
see why descriptions of shibari tend
to sound like a rapturous medieval
saint’s LinkedIn page. Shibari looks
scary-beautiful on the outside, but
actually feels unexpectedly nurturing.
As Sparks’ powerful arms encircle me,
guns flexed, and my head involuntarily
sinks into his chest, I can hear his
heartbeat and smell clean laundry and
the zing of citrus aftershave wafting of
his skin. Being truly held, with the add-
ed sensory stimulation of the rough
hemp rope lightly brushing along skin,
feels so bloody intimate! Plus, guns.
Holy shit. I think I’m “subspacing”.
The cocktail of nervous hyperaware-
ness and floaty euphoria lies somewhere
between a diet-be-damned chocolate
binge and 4am at Sydney Mardi Gras.
Then I see Sparks suspend Emerald
and it’s sexy as hell. She becomes a limp
rag doll with a beatific expression as his
hummingbird hands craft the knots,
constructing a net that pulls her high
into the air like a spider. Clearly, we
are at the loved-up end of the shibari
spectrum. “I think it’s more intimate
than sex,” says Emerald. “I had to
explain to my family that it’s not some
weird porno thing.” But
we’re in the ballpark. The
adrenaline fizzing in
the system, soul-to-soul
stares and “catch me, I’m
falling” trust all feel
intensely erotic – to
experience and witness.
A kind of flushed,
dizzy camaraderie bub-
bles over afterwards as
we all laugh and chat.
Even though technically
nothing R-rated has oc-
curred, a kind of ecstasy
has – it feels ludicrous to
revert to small talk. “The
rope community become family pretty
quickly,” says Emerald. “We go away
with each other and celebrate birth-
days; they’re coming to our wedding.”
Although most students wait
months before trying the more hardcore
suspension experience, where you’resuspended rather than merely tied, the
next stop on my fast-tracked adventure
is with Melbourne-based rope artist
“Avalon” (civilian name Paolo), who has
studied with Japanese masters, been ty-
ing and performing around the world
for 15 years and recently created an
enormous desert installation at Burning
Man with 17kms of rope.
On the surface, Avalon doesn’t fit
the clichés of a dominant master at all.
Gracious, softly spoken and articulate,
when we first meet he is solicitous and
focused on my pleasure as the model.
I address the elephant in the room- which would be me. I’m a six-foot
redhead in ballet chifon, and although
Miss Piggy is an idol of mine, I’d rather
not look like her midair. But Avalon is
reassuring. “It’s not about anybody else
but you today,” he tells me. “The real
challenge is how much you are happy or
willing to let go. That’s when your real
inner beauty comes out.”
Fears slightly allayed, I get ready
to be hoisted. “There is a big mental
component,” reveals Avalon before our
“scene” begins. “Your tie is not going to
start in 10 minutes – it started a couple
of weeks ago when I said I was going to
tie you. Because that’s when you started
thinking about it.”
It’s this level of intensity – Obi-Wan
Kenobi with a dash of “have the lambs
stopped screaming, Clarice?” – that
hints at how addictive the
undertow of shibari could
become to an ex-convent
girl. The hushed, ritualis-
tic reverence; the risk
and high-octane bonding.
“It sounds a bit creepy,”
Avalon admits, “but when
I am tying someone, I am
actually madly in love
with the person.”
As the moment of
suspension arrives, how-
ever, the time to let go and
truly trust a man – albeit
a highly trained one –
brings on my full-blown
panic attack (with a side serve of
meltdown), which suggests that shibari
isn’t just a spice rack for your sex life;
it’s a mirror. I may fantasise about
emotional intimacy, but I am still
shit-scared of it. And that’s enough to
get a girl all tied up in knots.
Cleo feeling more
restrained than usual.marieclaire.com.au 55PHOTOGRAPHY BY REUBEN GATES. HAIR AND MAKE-UP BY ASHLEIGH CARPENTER/VIVIEN’S CREATIVE.
She becomes
a limp rag doll
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the knots,
constructing
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