CraigJustCraig

Tag: life

  • Accountability is messy.

    Anyone who tells you it’s simple probably hasn’t lived through the complexity of it. The truth is, two people can live through the same exact moment and walk away with two completely different truths. And , both of them are real.

    harm doesn’t care about intent. It doesn’t wait for your perspective to catch up. And the second you start defending instead of listening, you close the door to the one thing that could have saved everyone: curiosity.

    we builds walls where bridges could’ve been.

    That lack of curiosity escalated everything.

    People’s feelings are real.
    Their pain is real.
    Even if it came from a misunderstanding.
    Even if it came from perception.
    Even if it came from something I didn’t know I did.

    When someone says they’re hurt by you, you have three choices:

    1. Get defensive.
    2. Get dismissive.
    3. Get curious.

    There are only a few possibilities when someone says you hurt them:

    • You did, whether you meant to or not.
    • They misunderstood something you said or did.
    • Something got lost in translation, emotionally or otherwise.
    • Someone influenced how they saw you, fairly or not.

    But in all cases, their pain is still real. And you can’t brain your way into a matter of the heart

    I used to think that my intent should carry more weight. That if I meant well, I couldn’t possibly be the villain in someone’s story. But that’s not how harm works. That’s not how people work.

    When someone is in pain, your job is to stop talking and start listening. Because until their pain is acknowledged, they will not — cannot — hear you.

    Impact is the measure. Not intent.

    leading with curiosity,

    don’t define yourself by my worst moment. But do let it teach you .
    hope others can learn from it, too.

    When someone says you’ve caused harm

    Get curious.
    Ask questions.
    Open your heart.
    Because even if you disagree, even if you feel falsely accused, even if you don’t understand — that curiosity might save everything

    We can’t always fix what’s broken. But we can stop breaking more.
    We can show up differently next time.
    And if we’re lucky, we’ll be given a second chance.

    But sometimes, you only get one.

  • We Forgot How to Be Real

    I’m not trying to be mean. I’m not here to hurt anybody’s feelings. But somebody’s gotta say it — a lot of us aren’t real anymore. Not really.

    We’ve become slogans. Talking points. Hashtags. We’ve wrapped ourselves so tightly in the cloth of ideology that we’ve forgotten how to be people. Not activists, not archetypes, not “representations” — people. I’m not talking about politics here, not really. I’m talking about the erosion of soul in favor of a curated identity.

    I meet someone and instead of Bob or Susan, I’m introduced to a checklist. “I’m a queer, trans, Black, anti-capitalist feminist.” Or “I’m a proud white libertarian Christian.” And that’s it. That’s the intro, the middle, and the end. No room for contradiction, for complexity, for curiosity. Just one long sentence with a period stamped on the end like a warning sign: Do Not Question.

    And when you do try to ask something deeper? You get canned answers, like you triggered the wrong part of a flowchart. Not “let me think about that.” Not “I’m not sure.” Just a regurgitated article, a preloaded defense, or worse — silence followed by distance.

    Where did we go?

    Where’s the part of us that used to hunger for connection and not just agreement? When did winning the conversation become more important than being in it?

    We have brought identity politics into everything we do, and while yes, identity matters — we forgot that people are more than their politics. More than their trauma. More than their aesthetics. And when we make identity the only lens, we stop listening. We stop seeing. We stop being curious. It’s like we’re all standing on podiums yelling bullet points at each other instead of sitting down and learning how to live with one another.

    And I get it. The world is terrifying and messy. Simplicity feels safe. Certainty feels like safety. But what we’re calling safety is just a padded cell of groupthink. No questions allowed. No nuance allowed. No discomfort allowed. No realness allowed.

    Some of us are so out of touch with ourselves that we can’t even ask ourselves questions. That’s the saddest part. If you can’t turn inward and say, “Do I still believe this?” or “What am I afraid of?” or even just “What do I need today?” — you’re not free. You’re not awake. You’re following a script and pretending it’s a personality.

    And we’re losing everything because of it.

    We lost love — because love requires vulnerability and contradiction.
    We lost spirituality — because that requires surrender and wonder, not certainty.
    We lost homes — because everything is politicized, even our doorways.
    We lost family — because nuance died, and with it, compassion.
    We lost community — because listening was replaced with sorting: “You’re in. You’re out.”
    We lost self — because if you are only what you believe, what happens when your beliefs shift?

    And we are still losing more.

    We’ve mistaken performance for purpose we see it with faceless accounts online. We’ve mistaken being right for being real. And in doing so, we’ve made ourselves emotionally, socially, spiritually homeless.

    And yes — the media feeds this. The internet thrives on digestible characters and simplified stories. It encourages this flattening. It wants you to say, “I read the first paragraph, I know all I need to know.” It wants you to scroll, not sit. Swipe, not see.

    But we don’t have to keep playing the game.

    You can step back. You can stop reading your identity like a resume. You can stop policing every word for alignment with your brand. You can be messy. You can be wrong. You can be real. You can say, “I don’t know.” You can say, “That hurts.” You can say, “I changed.” You can be more than the talking points.

    Because if we don’t reclaim our humanness, we are going to lose everything that makes life worth living. The joy. The mystery. The awkwardness. The tension. The moments where you look someone in the eyes and realize, Oh. You’re a whole world.

    So this is your invitation — to be a whole world again.

    Not a headline.
    Not a hashtag.
    Not a symbol.

    Just you. Messy, contradictory, curious, breathing you.

    Let’s bring that back. Before it’s too late.

  • Sometimes Leaders Make It Worse

    the ones meant to protect—end up causing even more damage.

    So let’s talk about it.

    Let’s talk about the fact that, in a lot of cases, it’s not random community members who are fumbling the ball—it’s the leaders. And when they fumble, it’s not a dropped ball. It’s people’s lives.

    We’ve all heard it before: “Listen to the victim.”
    Sounds good. Feels right. But what happens when the people we’re supposed to turn to were never trained to hold those stories? What happens when leadership is built on logistics, not care? When someone can throw a good party, but can’t hold space for someone’s pain?

    most leaders didn’t sign up to be therapists, mediators, or emergency responders. They signed up to run events. To teach classes. To build spaces. And over time, the community starts expecting them to do more , make decisions, take sides.

    But many of them aren’t ready. when someone unprepared tries to carry something that heavy, people get crushed underneath.

    Right now, we’ve got “leaders” who don’t listen. Who jump to conclusions before even sitting down with the people involved.

    Who ban folks from learning or growing. Who confuse neutrality with silence, and silence with safety. Who perform justice publicly, not to repair, but to prove something—to their peers, their audiences, or their egos.

    Some of it’s ignorance. Some of it’s pressure. Some of it is absolutely intentional.

    Being an event host doesn’t make you qualified to handle trauma.
    It means you had the time and energy to plan something. That’s it. That’s not a credential. That’s not a qualification.

    But because people don’t know where else to go, they go to the ones with the mic or the clipboard. And when those people aren’t trained or supported, they end up hurting the very people they claim to care about.

    Worse—some leaders are scared.
    Scared of being sued. Scared of losing clout. Scared of losing access to their favorite violators. And so they scramble. They cover their asses. They ignore the problem or slap a band-aid on a bullet wound.

    I’ve seen leaders spread misinformation.
    I’ve seen them silence people.
    I’ve seen them protect abusers, ostracize victims, escalate situations, and weaponize their influence like a damn sword.

    They say they care, but what they really care about is control.

    They call it safety.
    But it’s safety for them, not for the people who are hurting.

    Let’s be real. Not all leaders are built the same.

    Some want the title. Some want the power.
    But some actually want to be of service—and they’ve done the work.

    leaders ask questions. They pause.
    They know that gossip is not truth.
    They understand that harm and healing are complex.
    They’re not scared to admit when they’re wrong.
    They make space—for the victim, for the context, for the process.

    They don’t just punish.
    They repair.
    They educate.
    They act with care, not spectacle.

    They don’t need to blast everything on the internet to prove they’re “doing something.” They do the work in quiet ways, and the community feels the difference. In those spaces, people aren’t walking on eggshells. They’re walking toward something better.

    Not Everyone Is Built like that

    that’s okay. Not everyone should be mediating conflicts.
    This isn’t about forcing people into roles they’re not built for.
    But if you’re not built for it—say that. Be honest.

    Don’t pretend you’ve got it covered while secretly ducking behind a wall of favoritism, silence, or shame.

    Most leaders are volunteers.
    And a lot of y’all are trying your best with no support and no backup. I get that.

    But that means we need to stop pretending that all leaders are qualified.
    We need to stop handing our deepest wounds to people just because they made a event.

    Questions to Sit With

    If you’re in leadership right now, ask yourself:

    • Who do you actually trust to hold your truth?
    • If someone disclosed harm to you tomorrow, would you know what to do?
    • Have you trained for that?
    • Do you have support for that?
    • Are you willing to hold that weight, or are you just hoping it never lands on your lap?

    And for the rest of us:

    • Are we vetting our leaders like we vet our play partners?
    • Are we asking the right questions?
    • Are we just assuming safety, or are we building it?

    This isn’t about blame. This is about maturity. About integrity.
    About knowing when to lead—and when to step aside.

    If this made you uncomfortable, that’s good. Sit with it. That discomfort might be the door to something

    Let’s stop letting fear dictate our leadership.

    Let’s stop mistaking silence for neutrality, and spectacle for justice.

    Let’s stop acting like harm is something we can ignore, manage, or gossip our way around.

    And let’s start asking the harder questions.

  • How I Learned to Mitigate the Risk of Consent Incidents (The Hard Way)

    This is my story of how I learned the painful, exhausting, and sometimes devastating lessons around mitigating the risk of being involved in a consent incident. Not from the outside looking in, but from the center of the storm.

    This is for tops, bottoms, switches, educators, and anyone who chooses to step into kink, rope, or any play rooted in trust and vulnerability. You need to know that even when your heart is open, your art is honest, and your purpose is righteous, harm can still happen. And when it does, it hits hard.

    Consent culture is evolving. But too often, I watched people jump into scenes without trust, relying on vibes and shared kinks instead of real connection. I used to be one of them. I thought, “We’re all adults, we can make our own decisions. We’re responsible for ourselves.”

    I ignored the murmurs in the background. I saw how white men treated Black women—cold, clinical, dehumanized. I watched Black men reach for liberation through rope but wrap anything unfamiliar in layers of homophobia or queerphobia. I scrolled through images of kink online and rarely saw anyone who looked like me. So I opened myself up. I made space. I became the safe one, the one people came to when they wanted to feel beauty in rope.

    I didn’t have mentors. I didn’t have a blueprint. But I created something anyway—a community that centered Blackness, queerness, pleasure, and power. I saw how the gatekeepers hoarded knowledge, access, opportunity. I saw how Black folks were made to feel like they were too big, too loud, too broken to belong. And I said, “Fuck that.” I made a space where they could be everything.

    At first, we were unstoppable. Ten of us. Then twenty. Then hundreds. We showed up in numbers, in cloaks and rope, wild with freedom. People called us a cult. We laughed.

    Then the rumors came. Orgies. Drugs. Chaos. We ignored them. We were building something real. But I made a mistake. The first time I was accused of a consent violation, it stunned me. They said I touched them in a way we hadn’t agreed to. But I had witnesses who backed me up. It didn’t matter. I was banned anyway.

    We brushed it off. Moved on. Months later, I got an apology. But it didn’t end there. The harassment continued. No matter what I did or said, they followed me. They talked about me. They poisoned my name. And still, we kept going. We made our own spaces. We wrote our own rules—strict ones, because people were out here doing wild, unsafe, and reckless shit. We were trying to protect everyone, including ourselves.

    But the rumors grew. No one asked us what was true. They just saw the robes, the ritual, the joy we created—and assumed the worst. We opened our doors to the timid, the confused, the baby kinksters who were still learning. We accepted them because we thought that’s what community does. But some of them weren’t ready. And when things went wrong, they didn’t talk to us. They talked about us.

    We started education programs to stop the cycle of ignorance. That pissed people off. We taught anyway. Our classes were full. Our name was loud. And then I made another mistake. No one was hurt, but it didn’t matter. The rumors changed shape. Now, I was a predator. A monster. The kind of person who makes people shiver.

    They came back. The person from years ago. And now others, nameless and faceless, whispered in shadows. I went from being a safe space to the villain.

    I was never asked. Never spoken to. Just banned. Silenced. Exiled from spaces I helped build, spaces that needed our presence to even survive.

    And then the whispers made it into our home. The people I built this with started doubting. Started drifting. The weight of it all crushed us.

    I wish I had known. Not just as an individual, but as a leader. I wish I had understood the risks of open doors and unguarded hearts. I wish I had seen that being righteous doesn’t mean you’re protected. That building something beautiful doesn’t make you immune.

    Now, I know. Consent isn’t just about negotiation—it’s about capacity. It’s about readiness. It’s about knowing that the loudest harm doesn’t always come from predators—it comes from misunderstanding, emotional immaturity, or silence.

    So I offer this story to those who are building, creating, tying, teaching. Vet. Move slow. Ask the hard questions. Know who you’re in scene with, who you’re building with, who you’re trusting. Trust your gut. Listen to the whispers before they become storms.

    And remember, even if you do everything right, harm can still happen. What matters is how you respond.

    Let this be the start of deeper reflection. Stronger boundaries. Clearer communication. And if you’re like me—if you’ve had to learn through fire—let this also be a reminder: you’re not alone. And your story still matters.

    Rope is powerful. So are you. Act accordingly.

  • Judged by Their Shadows…

    You ever notice how folks size you up through a lens that ain’t yours?

    You could be walking clean, kind at your core, trying to show up with grace—and still, someone finds a reason to flinch, pull away, throw shade. It’s wild. You extend a hand and they recoil like you hid a blade in your palm. They’re not seeing you—they’re reacting to a ghost in their own story. Their shadow.

    Even in circles where trust should hold steady, where truth is currency and connection is sacred—someone will still project their wound onto your skin like it’s your fault they’re bleeding.

    But here’s the hard part: it ain’t really about you.

    People carry weight—generational, personal, ancestral. Trauma distorts the eye. Old wounds warp perception. What they reject in you is often what they’ve denied in themselves. Guilt. Shame. Desire. Power. Vulnerability. Most folks hurl blame when they don’t know how to sit with their own shadow. Instead, they wrap it in judgment, throw it at the nearest light.

    You ever been there? Showing up soft, heart-forward, only to get met with suspicion? You give, and they twist it. You care, and they mock it. And somewhere in the quiet after, you start asking yourself—am I the problem?

    Nah. You’re just reflecting something they’re not ready to name.

    Truth is, people criticize most harshly the very things they secretly struggle with. They’ll use shame, ridicule, guilt, and blame like tools to carve the world into a shape that lets them avoid their own mirror. It’s not malice—it’s survival. A desperate attempt to outrun their own demons

    Still hurts though.

    And if you’ve been wounded before—if misjudgment’s an old song—you might brace for the next blow before it even lands. You start hesitating. Silencing your kindness. Dimming your light so they don’t mistake it for a threat.

    But you can’t shrink your spirit to fit inside someone else’s fear.

    Stay rooted. Stay true. Don’t get dragged into their chaos. Let their shadow be theirs. You don’t need to fix their lens—you only need to keep standing in your own light. Even if no one claps. Even if they never see you clearly.

    Because It’s about alignment not applause.

    And one day, you’ll look back and realize: you held steady. You walked through their fog without letting it swallow you. You didn’t twist to fit their projections—you stayed whole.

    That’s real power.

  • A Demon That Never Left

    Teeth bared behind false smiles.

    Of storms that didn’t pass,

    you’re still here.
    Watching me unravel.
    Cracking open—ugly, cruel, divine.

    I didn’t look for you.
    Didn’t believe you existed.
    Why would I?

    A joke the universe plays with a knife pressed to your ribs.

    But there you were— twisted enough to stay.

    You didn’t come to fix me.
    You came to hold me

    down, back, open.
    You liked the way I rot,
    the way I turn into hunger,
    the way my mouth says “thank you”
    when what I mean is “Fuck me.”

    I scream in sleep not from fear, but from the strange delight
    of not knowing

    My memory frays at the edges.
    Maybe that’s a gift.
    Maybe forgetting is a mercy.
    But not you. you don’t let me forget.

    You drag me to the edge.
    You kiss me with a knife between the ribs.
    You hold me with that terrifying tenderness—
    the kind that sees every crack
    and wants to fuck the ruin.

    Your patience isn’t soft.
    It’s deliberate.
    Disgustingly disciplined.
    it doesn’t flinch when I turn monstrous.
    You open your arms and say, “More.”

    you came to feed.

    my silent confessor,

    my grinning devil, brother in madness.

    So many have touched this body,this heart, this fire.
    And each of them knows the truth:

    I am fucking Real.Raw.Ruthless.

    Thank you to the ones who didn’t run.
    To those who watched me choke down my own shadows

    To those who handed me knives,
    lit candles and said, “Burn, baby. Burn”

    No matter what.
    No matter where.
    When the blood dries and the bones turn to dust…
    I’ll still be here.
    Not saved.
    Not healed.
    But yours.

    In ruin.
    In rage.
    In all my fucking glory.

  • All I Ever Wanted Was Community

    All I ever wanted was community.That might sound naïve in hindsight, but it was real. I entered these spaces hungry for connection, for chosen family, for a circle that could hold both my fire and passion. I led with my heart—always have. It’s my greatest strength, and sometimes, the source of my deepest wounds.

    I showed up. I gave. I made space. Not because I was trying to earn approval, but because that’s who I am: someone who believes in people, in healing, in possibility. I believed that if I moved with integrity, compassion, and a willingness to learn, there would be room for me.

    But I was wrong.

    In my search for belonging, I’ve been met with silence, sabotage, and gaslighting. I’ve encountered white-led communities that cloak supremacy in safety, and Black-led spaces that replicate the same harm under the banner of representation.I’ve been hurt not only by systems, but by individuals I trusted—Black women I admired, white organizers I respected, and community “leaders” whose power comes from erasing people like me.

    This is grief.
    Grief for the dream of a home.
    Grief for the hours of unpaid emotional labor I gave to people who never saw me.
    Grief for the version of myself that thought community meant care. I won’t name every betrayal. Some wounds don’t need to be reopened to be honored. But know this: I have been excluded, erased, and defamed. I’ve been blocked from spaces I helped uplift. I’ve had my words twisted, my intentions questioned, and my work ridiculed—not because of any proven harm, but because I refused to entertain the game that was being played. Because I dared to practice power in a way that couldn’t be controlled.

    I’ve been called a cult leader, a predator, a violator—without process, without conversation, without evidence. Just whispers. Just gossip.Just Accusation. That’s how it works: one strategic accusation and the silent complicity that follows.

    I’m done holding the weight of other people’s discomfort with my truth.
    I’m done letting vague whisper networks, and cancel culture masquerade as accountability.I’m done explaining my practice to people who were never interested in understanding it and were never invited in the first place.

    Let me be clear: I have always been open to feedback, to dialogue, to growth. I am not above critique. I am not perfect. But I cannot engage with people who weaponize concern, manipulate narratives, and refuse to name their issues.That’s abuse

    I know what I’ve built. I know the lives I’ve touched. I know who I am:

    So no, I’m not broken.

    I am becoming.
    smaller, deeper, and far more exclusive. I will no longer open my work to strangers. I will no longer make space for those who treat my humanity as optional. My energy as given, and it should be given to all that desire it.

    If you’ve harmed me, you know what you did.
    If you’ve supported me, I thank you deeply.
    If you’re confused by the whispers—ask questions, or move along.

    I’m no longer here to beg for belonging.

  • Rope is a drug.

    Not metaphorically. I mean it hits your brain and body like a substance. It alters you. It seduces you. It reveals things you didn’t even know were hiding inside you—old stories, new truths, limits, desires, and possibilities you hadn’t dared imagine.

    Whether you’re tying or being tied, rope changes your biochemistry. Your body kicks out adrenaline, cortisol, endorphins. Your brain shifts gears. Your senses sharpen. Time stretches and dissolves. The world outside drops away. It’s just you, the rope, and whoever is in it with you.

    Call it what you want—meditative, ecstatic, ritualistic—but a lot of folks would agree: rope can be transcendental.

    For bottoms, that altered state is often called “subspace,” but let me be clear—that word doesn’t do it justice. I’ve watched people drift into a kind of waking dream, drop into deep primal states, or become something… other. Not quite human. Not quite here. And every time it’s different.

    And tops? We’re not untouched. Tying can drop you into deep flow—your hands working without thought, like they remember something ancient. You lose yourself. Sometimes you find a part of yourself you weren’t ready to meet. That’s no small thing. It can be beautiful, or intense. Sometimes both.

    But let’s not sugarcoat it:
    Rope hurts.

    And I don’t just mean the physical marks it might leave—though yeah, you should talk about that up front. Rope can push you into places you didn’t think you could go. Sometimes you want that. Sometimes it’s just about the shape, the stillness, the beauty. But if you’re chasing the edge, don’t forget that edge cuts both ways.

    The deeper you go, the more care it demands. Because rope isn’t just a high. It comes with a crash.

    We call it “rope drop.” After the scene, your body crashes out of that chemical cocktail and resets. You might feel raw, emotional, disconnected. That’s normal. But you’ve got to be ready for it—with water, food, blankets, hugs, silence, space, whatever it is you need.

    And here’s the hard truth most folks won’t tell you:
    Rope can become a craving.

    You can start chasing the next scene like an addict chases a fix—pushing past your limits, tying with people you don’t know, agreeing to things your gut says no to, all because you need it. And when you’re rope drunk, you might not even know you’ve gone too far until it’s too late.

    So here’s my advice:
    Especially if you’re new—go slow.
    Let yourself feel the highs and the drops. Learn how your body and mind respond. Learn how to take care of yourself after. Learn how to ask for what you need and to hear what others need from you. Build trust. Earn it. Don’t demand it.

    Rope is powerful. Sacred, even. But like any sacred thing, it comes with responsibility.

    So yeah—have fun.
    But stay grounded. Stay smart.
    And remember: this shit is real.

  • The Lonely Mountain

    Lately, I’ve been receiving a surprising number of initiates on the path. And right now—I’m literally out in the middle of nowhere, writing to you from what feels like a spiritual retreat or hiatus. I’ve been sitting with the silence, surrounded by ancestral land that’s been in my family for over 200 years. The soil hums with power, and it fuels everything I do. Out here, I remember who I am.

    And still—more hearts, more joys, more seekers arrive.

    I’ve been blessed lately by an oracle—gracious and attuned—who has been guiding sincere souls to my lonely temple. They’ve helped me keep focus, shielding me from distractions that once haunted my path. This couple was among the first to climb this metaphorical mountain, and the moment they crossed the threshold, I knew something was different. I was open. Receptive. Ready.

    The first thing I always teach is the why—the philosophy. Because this work is deep. It’s not just rope. And it’s definitely not a casual craft for the curious or the faint-hearted. I tell them plainly:

    “If you’re here only to learn technique without the soul of it—without the spirit, the healing, the eroticism, the magick—then this is not your path.”

    There are other instructors for that. Amazing ones. But here, in this sanctuary, we engage the sacred and the profane. The sensual. The spiritual. The shadow. Here’s what I say:

    Pleasure is Power. Joy, eroticism, and sensuality are pathways to liberation.

    Indulgence is Devotion. Desire is sacred.

    Embrace the Forbidden. Transcend your limits.

    Welcome the Dark. Integrate its power into your own.

    Shatter Illusions. Strip away pretense and reclaim the untamed.

    Be Bold. Be raw. Be seen.

    Do Not Shrink. Take up space.

    Growth is Constant.

    Return to the Primal. Instinctual ways of being.

    Respect the Discipline. Reciprocity. Dedication. Integrity.

    If this does not resonate, you do not belong here.

    This session was… different. Special. I admit my teaching style is intense—disciplined, exacting, sometimes brutal. I make you repeat things over and over and over. I won’t let you move on until I see proficiency. I will return to foundational knowledge again and again until it’s written in your bones and echoing in your dreams.

    In my head, I follow the way:
    Meticulous technique, every movement holding meaning.
    Emphasis on Awareness and Presence
    Safety Alignment and Consent
    Building Trust and Connection
    Sacredness in safety and communication.
    Mindfulness and Presence
    Structured skill-building.
    Trust. Presence. Meditative trance.

    This is the foundation I wish I had. This is the legacy I’m building. My seal.

    So when this couple smiled after the 100th time I said, “Start over”—I was shocked. They told me afterward: they were getting off on it. They felt accomplished. They wanted the challenge.
    I asked, “But what if you didn’t get it? What if we spent the whole class on just one thing?”

    They said: That’s what we expected. They didn’t want to cause harm—physical, emotional, spiritual—and if all they learned was how not to hurt each other? That alone was worth their time and money.

    Y’all.

    That made me feel so seen.

    So we worked. I mean really worked.

    Two hours on nothing but safety. Anatomy. Energy. We traced the ulnar, radial, and median nerves—spoke intention over them, whispered their names, followed their pathways. We made promises: to care for each other, to never abandon one another in scene, to be fully here—no phones, no distractions.

    We talked about reality: there is no such thing as 100% safe. So we practiced what to do when something goes wrong. Not if. We studied emergency protocols, warning signs, how to check in, where to pay attention.

    We layered in energy work. We studied neurochemistry in real-time—how dopamine, oxytocin, and endorphins shape what we feel in the tie. We explored rope handling, the confidence of touch, the power of clear communication. They spoke to each other, learning to name their internal landscapes. We studied accountability. Integrity. Ritual. Devotion. Love.

    We talked about guardianship and reciprocity, and how rope demands a kind of love that protects and sees and holds. We interrogated why we were doing this—why we’d show up here, of all places, to do this

    We talked about rope placement, body awareness, prioritization, how a lack of clarity translates into tension for the bottom. We studied the narrowing of awareness: how rope quiets the mind until all that remains is you, the rope, and your partner. The whole world dissolves.

    We covered so much in four hours and only learned one knot: the lark’s head.

    Only one knot—but lifetimes of knowledge. They went straight to sleep afterward.

    And still, I feel like I forgot something. That’s why I write—to capture what I can so I can say it better next time.

    I’m endlessly grateful to my oracle for sending them. This couple was truly a gift. They paid up front, trusting the process, honoring the craft before a single rope was tied.

    And I think about everything I’ve gone through to get here. Everything I’ve endured. And then a day like this happens. And it all makes sense. It all becomes worth it.

    Until next time.
    And if you feel called—reach out to the Oracles.
    Let them show you the way to my lonely mountain.

  • Bondage as Strength

    You already know this isn’t about beauty anymore.

    it’s not about seduction. or sex. It’s not even about rope.
    This is about something old dying so something honest can be born.
    The ordeal. The test.
    The threshold that burns people clean.

    This is the part where pain stops being a threat, and starts becoming a teacher.
    Where the rope becomes a mirror.
    Where the body becomes a question only the spirit can answer.

    You’ve seen it happen.
    The shaking. The trance. The surrender. The screaming that turns into silence.
    You’ve seen people come undone and somehow walk away more whole .

    And you’ve felt it —how the rope holds up a mirror to your limits, your own wounds, your own shadow.

    You know this path well.
    This is Ordeal. And you’re here to guide others into it and be guided in return deliberately.
    Every culture has known it. Initiation, Scarification, pilgrimage, sweat lodges, crucifixion rites, isolation rituals, vision quests, self-flagellation.
    Pain was never the goal—it was the doorway. It was the language of the divine

    Pain is not the problem.
    Pain is information. Pain is presence. Pain is the moment the soul stops lying to itself.
    Modern medicine has numbs us to it. now pain only requires anesthesia and theroy. But Pain is the alchemy that renovates soul—transmuting indifference when pain intervenes

    Don’t confuse ordeal work with edge play. Or Therapy
    Edge play flirts with limits. While Ordeal work _steps past them_
    We are not leading people to their edge—you’re taking them over it, and bringing them back changed

    Everyone has parts of themselves they’ve disowned, shamed, denied.
    Rope makes it impossible to hide from that. When you bind the body, you unbind the truth.
    When people start shaking or sobbing mid-scene—it’s not always about the rope.

    Sometimes its a opened memory. Sometimes its fear. Sometimes its rage. Sometimes its desire so deep you finally notice you standing there all along.
    All of that is valid. All of that belongs.
    That’s Radical Acceptance, the goal isn’t to avoid anything but to walk into it with your eyes wide open. sit beside the demon and ask what it needs. and listen. what you exile is not gone whether you welcome it or not

    You are a anchor it making space for the silence, making room for the unseen, Because it’s never been about the rope and what it is doing. but what the rope is waking up