Untying Shibari

The art of Japanese rope bondage.
by Lesley Bargar
Shibari and Photographs c. Master “K”

I’m running in circles on the lobby floor of Little Tokyo’s New Otani Hotel. I’m late, my shoes are too loud, and I’m sick-to-my-stomach nervous. Making my third round past the front desk, the briefcase I haven’t used in nine months slapping at my side, I wonder for the 18,000th time how the hell I ended up here, and why the hell I haven’t backed out already.

What I’m late for is a meeting with one of the nation’s experts on the erotic art of Japanese rope bondage known to me at this point as Shiburi [sic]-in five minutes I will know it as Shibari (to bind), or Kinbaku (to bind tightly). This expert goes by the name of Master “K”-a fact that alone has caused me extreme anxiety as I go over and over the casual meeting scenario in my head, and whether I should address him coolly as just  “Master” or “K.” Both make me uneasy.

I am not a bondage person. I am not an S&M person. Well, I guess I don’t really know… I suppose I could be a bondage person. The closest I’ve ever come to being restricted was making love under a rather heavy quilt-which was really more cozy than torture. See, I even use the term “making love.” How the hell did I get here?

I suppose it began in an editorial meeting where tossing around ideas for a “sex” issue with a bunch of 20-something writer-types led to a lot of dead ends, adolescent giggles, and shouts of “Prudes!” from the advertising department down the hall. Finally, we stumbled upon a recent issue of Vanity Fair that had a photograph of actor Peter Sarsgaard tied-up in a series of intricate knots of rope, hanging from a metal rigging. The caption underneath provided only that he was “in Japanese-style rope bondage.” The fetish seemed intriguing, and obviously churning in the underground enough to warrant an appearance in Vanity Fair.

I took the initiative to poke around online where I stumbled upon what appeared to be a thriving fad-dozens of websites dedicated to photographs of women bent over, spread eagle, curled up, stretched open, hanging down and getting-off (maybe) all while bound tightly in wrapped cords of rope. At the time it looked like any other, new-ish breed of BDSM pornography, just kinky enough to attract readers without scaring them off. Bingo.

I figured I’d pawn the actual story off onto a kinky, dangerous, hyper-sexed, dirty, daring writer already immersed in the sexual underbelly of Los Angeles and at ease meeting with people who go by the title of “Master.” But as time passed I was the only one doing any sort of “research” for the story, I realized it would be me struggling wide-eyed to untie the knots of Shibari.

What you find on the Internet is about 98 percent hardcore porn, 2 percent traditional Shibari, and the difference is slight but important. I found words flying around my computer screen like “14th Century,” “Samurai warriors,” “Shogun” and “Click here to win!” I stared at paintings dating back hundreds of years that illustrated roughly the same poses and ties I’d seen so graphically displayed on Hustler-esque sex sites.

Now, I’m not quite naïve enough to believe that S&M-style sexual activity is a modern invention. And it wasn’t so much the fact it existed centuries ago that began to fascinate me, but more the respect with which it was talked about. There was no hushed tone, vulgar language or grimy residue accompanying most of the credible information I found about Shibari. And even if the photographs seemed shocking, they were also tasteful. Enough attention was paid to the quality of the pictures themselves-clean focus, gorgeous lighting, revealing expressions-that it seemed as much as Shibari is about the sexual dynamics of pleasure and pain, it’s equally about artistic exploration. Ideally, anyway.

The connection of L.A. to this Japanese erotic tradition is as sketchy and disparate as anything in this city, and not surprisingly it bubbles up somewhat questionably in the Hollywood dungeons of the entertainment industry. The most common practitioners are photographers, not Shibari masters-let’s call them pornographers. Then there are the self-styled experts who find most of their work as consultants for shoots, films and porn sets. Take the Vanity Fair article-the tying was done by a local woman named Claire Adams who works alongside a self-proclaimed “rope artisan” named Damon Pierce. Not only were they both pretty hesitant to speak with me, but it turns out Adams is first and foremost a professional bondage model who boasts being able to make herself cum in 11 different ways (one of which is being punched repeatedly in the pectoral muscles). This didn’t exactly seem like the right path to tread in order to really understand Shibari as more than just another fetish. Or a 12th way to cum.

Hours of site-searching-and more than a few “yuck”s-led me to Master “K,” perhaps the only real Shibari Nawashi (one who ties) on the west coast, who took pity on-and I’d like to think an altruistic interest in-me. K went to Japan as a young student where he fell in love with the culture. He began studying Shibari at a Japanese dojo 35 years ago and moved back to the United States, followed by his Japanese teacher. K himself began taking students 15 years ago, has taught intensively in his own dojo for 10 years now, has published a limited edition, out-of-print art book entitled Shibari, the Art of Japanese Bondage, and is in the process of publishing his second, The Beauty of Kinbaku. He has given countless academic lectures on the practice’s history and evolution, is hailed worldwide as a Shibari master, and is meeting me for lunch on a sunny Wednesday afternoon. This is when the fear kicks in.

The elevator doors open and I’m greeted by an eagerly polite Japanese man asking if he can help me. “Do you want to do a two-hour interview with the king of L.A.’s exotic bondage underworld for me?” I plead internally. Instead, I tell him I’m meeting somebody for lunch. He begins to walk away, abandoning me to my duck-duck-goose reading of every man in the room. What does a Shibari master look like? In my imagination he wears some combination of a black Friar’s robe and leather chaps-neither of which seem to be present in the dining room. I take a deep breath, listen for a moment to the trickling waterfall as a symbol of my impending descent into darkness, when suddenly the friendly Maitre’D spins around on his heels and declares, “Ah, yes, I think I know!” I follow him toward a series of private tatami rooms.

In front of me-on one of the three wooden steps leading up to the closed sliding paper door of what will soon be my tatami room-are two pairs of shoes. Both are casual, one small and lady-like, the other large and dark with laces. I wouldn’t have thought laces. As the Japanese man begins to slide open the door, I slip off my own shoes. Pointed, flat, with a pink cartoon kitty on the toe. I sooo don’t belong here.

The next five minutes are a blur. Door opens, a middle-aged man and a young women stand up, firm handshakes, thank-yous, blushing, tea, fidgeting to sit comfortably on the floor, blushing, reading the menu, ordering, breathing, calm.

Yes, I’m finally somewhat calm. No thanks to my own poise, mind you, but rather because once the introductory whirr of nervousness subsides, I notice that the people sitting across from me in this Zen-like room are not draped in robes or leather, are not frighteningly stern nor some sort of tattooed monsters. I have found myself, rather, in the midst of a comfortable conversation about one of the world’s most bizarre and fascinating erotic art forms, and-leaning forward on my elbows-listening intently to a very relaxed, sophisticated man tell me the story of its exotic birth.

“Japanese-style bonding, which has evolved into an erotic art form of great beauty and precision and skill, began life centuries ago when the Koreans and Chinese imported some of the basics into Japan,” says Master “K,” in a soothing, hypnotic tone that somehow explains how people trust him to suspend them from the ceiling with rope.

“Shibari has evolved into its own unique form because of the isolation Japan was in for hundreds of years. It’s also a peculiarity of the Japanese sensibility to refine what is beautiful and what is precise and make it better. I mean, there’s a reason Toyota overtook GM, you know?”

Beyond his abilities to exquisitely tie up nude women, K has a sense of humor, and speaks more like he’s holding office hours than a torture session.

The earliest known record of the distinct Japanese-style of rope bonding comes from the 1300s, he explains. Japan had no formal Bronze  or Iron-Age-hence the rope.

“Japan is a tying society,” he says. “If you look at the Japanese samurai armor, it’s tied on. If you’ve ever received a Japanese gift, it’s an exquisite thing.”

During the Sengoku period (1492-1560), the feudal warring years when warlords fought for control of the country, the martial art of Hojojutsu was created for capturing and restraining prisoners. Hojojutsu, an early relative of Shibari tying, became part of the
Samurai’s training. When the  Tokugawa Shogunate-a military dictatorship that replaced the Emperor as practical rulers of Japan-took over, the Tokugawas inaugurated 250 years of peace and isolation in Japan, but had so many internal enemies that in 1740 they created a list of edicts of their law enforcement system called “Punishment Edicts” dictating how to punish traitors and enemies.

“Several of these [rope ties]-Ebi zemi and Tsuri zemi-both have to do with rope Shibari, and these were torture techniques,” says K. “Very effective and very complex.”

The third ingredient in modern Shibari, according to K, was Kabuki theater: the popular theatrical presentations that replaced the older Noh theater in the public’s imagination. Included in these stage performances were stories with scenes of artful binding with wide ropes-for theatrical effect-that mimicked the methods of Hojojutso and the samurai.

This history lesson was give to me in-no shit-a non-stop, 15-minute chunk of information spouting from K’s painfully empty mouth (there was an untouched platter of the most exquisite Japanese cuisine sitting inches from his hands). I, on the other hand, was shoving stick-fuls of Maguro, Unagi and rice between my lips as I nodded in false-agreement at words like “Tokogawa” and “Ieyasu” and “Tsuri zemi.” At this point I am no longer nervous, I’m intimidated.

How does something with so many hundreds of years behind it, and with-as K shows me-such a firmly rooted place in Japanese culture, become a part of underground American BDSM? And more importantly, where exactly is the line that separates a sort of performance art from a sexual act? Or is there one?

But before I can pose these questions, K opens a case and takes out a strand of rope. The rope. The only rope.

“In Japan we don’t call it rope, of course, we call it nawa,” he explains. “And this is a very specific kind of rope. You can’t get it in the United States. Traditionally, it’s only done with one kind of rope, and there’s a reason. It’s a safety reason. It’s because this particular type of Japanese hemp, asanawa, does not stretch; it does not pull. It stays locked in place.” He hands the rope to me, which usually comes in 7-meter strands for various practical reasons, including it being equal to the length around two tatami mats and the wingspan of your average person. Despite all this art and history talk, I feel a bit dirty touching it. At this point in the conversation-and due to subtle inflections in his voice-this piece of rope has been elevated to relic status. It’s something powerful to be respected, feared and protected. I’m surprised by how soft it is, and K urges me to smell it. This is one of those instances where your mother’s voice pops in your head and asks, “Do you know where that’s been?” Here, the answer is yes. But on the floor in a tatami room across from Master K and his assistant, I lean in and smell. “It has a slightly earthy smell,” he says. I nod. “And since it’s an organic and living thing, it actually breathes with the person. So it actually can be like a great big hug!”

Before I can even raise an eyebrow, I hand the rope back to K quickly as the waitress comes into the room escorting even more green tea. I’m not quite sure why I threw it back so suddenly. It’s rope. Just rope. But then again, I’m not sure how prevalent this practice is within today’s Japanese culture. Or how taboo. To the Japanese, is this piece of rope as revealing as a pair of leopard-print handcuffs to me? Or is it-as it was for me an hour ago-just rope?

“Hey, they’re very understanding,” says K of the restaurant’s attentive waitstaff. “But at the same time, this certainly isn’t for everyone. I would never say it is.” Well then, who is it for?

Master “K” asserts I’d be surprised by the level of power, influence and confidence in each of his clients and students. I’m not. In this day and age, the “overly dominant businessman by day, spank-victim by night” is almost a Hollywood stereotype. But, even knowing as little as I do at this point, it does seem there’s a universe of difference between vinyl straps with a blindfold and these intricate, centuries-old patterns of organic rope.

“Rope is a much different sensation from leather or any of the others,” pipes in Faviola, K’s sweet, soft-spoken assistant. And by assistant, I do not mean she just does clerical work. “It’s a much more intimate sensation, it’s a more personal sensation to me, and especially when you add the aesthetic aspects into it, it becomes a very powerful sensation. I tend to like Kinbaku because of the torture elements of where it comes from. A lot of people, they want the ‘floating’ feeling, they want the ‘hug.’ I tend to like the torture aspect.” It’s unfortunate I can’t completely convey the innocent, pre-teen-like tone to Faviola’s voice as she sits with her hands delicately folded, smiling, talking about how she enjoys being tortured. But, of course, this isn’t a rare fetish. Vincilagnia-the more academic term for people aroused by bondage-is one of the most popular fetishes worldwide in all its forms. And that’s definitely one big appeal of Shibari.

Despite its prevalence, I personally have never felt significantly drawn to the idea of being tied up. “It’s just not me,” I explain, laughing. “I’m so high strung!” At this, K feels it’s time to explain a second reason people enjoy Shibari.

“Shibari may be perfect for you,” he says, “because one of the arousal aspects is that control is taken away, and that’s a great thing.” Okay, now I’m nervous again, mostly because I sense he’s right. As a self-confessed control freak, I can imagine the relief and the attraction to the idea of having absolutely no control. Of course, I’m also partially suspicious that it’s the ultimate plan of this paper’s editorial staff to, by the end of this article, have me suspended from the ceiling naked. I now suspect K may be in on their plan.

Paranoia aside, there is another reason why people get tied up in Shibari and Kinbaku (pun intended), and it’s really the reason that drew me out of my self-imposed shell of naiveté and into this rather bizarre luncheon. “The people who I teach fall into three categories,” explains K. “Couples who want to enjoy their own sexuality better, people who enjoy the feelings of being tied up in these very exotic ways, and those who are fascinated with the history of Japan.” It’s this last reason that, to me, really solidifies the difference between Shibari and other forms of the bondage fetish, and why-not being a fetish-lover myself-I have nevertheless been completely mesmerized by this art form.

This is not to say, of course, that this is just an art form. It is, first and foremost, an act of physical stimulation that often involves ropes strung through the crotch, with various knots creating pressure points, patterns causing the restriction and the violent rush of blood, nerve stimulation, trance-like states, and ultimately (though not always) orgasm. K boasts he’s helped spur not a small number of pregnancies among his client couples, and looking at the expressions on his subject’s faces in photos, that’s not surprising.

But just like how origami folding or bonsai pruning are so much more than the mere physical acts of manipulating paper or cutting leaves, so Shibari is given significance beyond the act of tying rope around a naked body because of its rich history and exotic cultural background. Japan places a ritualistic weightiness on everyday acts-a talent our own culture lacks-and can turn almost anything, including a fetish, into art.

“How do you take something that was intended to kill and make it exciting and beautiful and wonderful?” asks K. Well, while the chronological history of its transformation is wrapped up in the Meiji’s outlawing of the Samurai class, Ukiyo-e painting, western Europe, Van Gogh, men’s magazines and more, the aesthetic beauty of the rope patterns on a woman’s silhouette kind of speaks for itself. It’s more than just hot, it’s dazzling.

But then the question becomes, why is it taboo at all? To the Japanese, it isn’t really. Neither of the two main religions in Japan-Shinto and Buddhism-carries as much of the Judeo-Christian guilt about being sexual. K explains that in Japan there’s a wonderful phrase that says, “Everything is permissible in the mind,” which is illustrated in the prevalence of Shunga (depictions of sexual acts) paintings within the upper echelons of Japanese culture.

Of course, here in the good old USA, not everything is permissible, whether it’s in the mind or on the side of a city bus. Our culture was founded on Puritan ideals, and honestly I’m surprised the American sexual landscape has evolved as much as it has. But because of our particular insistence on keeping anything beyond the missionary position buried deep in the sexual underground, Shibari’s reputation has become polluted. We see it as foreign, and we cast it aside as a fetish.

“A fetish usually involves a thing,” explains K. “This is not a thing. This is a practice. So I would say there is very little line between the art and the practice. The line is blurred when it’s done properly. When it’s done to sell pictures and to sell Internet dollars, badly or unsafely, it’s pornography. When it’s done beautifully, it can be the foundation for an appreciation of something that, in practice, extends into the physical and the emotional.”

By this point I’m full of new appreciation, as well as fish, tea, information and respect, and am sad to see the check arrive.  The young Japanese waitress enters and asks me if I need my parking validated-a jarring request that shatters this fantastical world of rope and Samurai. I’m handed my stamped yellow ticket, say my goodbyes in a whir of emotion similar to the one in which I arrived, and leave K and Faviola behind to discuss some sort of “business,” unsure if I’ll ever see them again. I step back into the elevator, my mind still swirling with questions. I feel enigmatic, mysterious and hesitant to return to my office to explain all of what just happened to my coworkers. Will they sense my secret excitement?  But what do I have to be embarrassed about? I just ate some tuna with the man, right? Right. But somehow, it was a lot more.

It’s a week later and Master “K,” Faviola and one of K’s students arrive on the curb in front of a friend’s house. Standing on the bus-ridden corner of a residential neighborhood doesn’t suit the group. They belong back in the tatami suite, infused with salty aromas and paper-diffused light. I’m miraculously not nervous as I greet K with an almost awkward familiarity. We enter the Craftsman-style house together, wood floors creaking as we step into the living room where K sets down a duffle bag on a chair. He and the gang are here for a demonstration in order to further help me with the article that has now been dominating my life for the past month. Our meeting and my personal exploration of Shibari has been the subject of nearly every conversation-including a bizarre one with my mom-since our lunch together. K opens the bag that’s brimming with coil after coil of that strong, precious asanawa rope, a fact that has not been lost on the string-hungry family cat loitering around us.

Over the next 45 minutes, K slowly and deliberately wraps Faviola in three different jaw-dropping arrangements of rope, skin and limbs. It’s as beautiful as I’d hoped it would be in person, and much more gentle. And as his student begins to untie the third design, K asks if I’d perhaps like to see one more. In agreement, I stand up and stick my arms out in front of my body. With the long tails of rope piling on the floor behind me, Master “K” begins to tie. As the rope creeps its way up my arms, I’m amazed at how not tight, but sturdy the binding becomes. It’s not about being constrained or squeezed, it’s about being immobile. And as I start to relinquish a bit of my precious control to this man I hardly know, I can feel my pupils dilating, my heart rate increasing, and-most primarily-the soothing, sensual rigidity of the rope.   LAA