CraigJustCraig

Tag: writing

  • 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.

  • Rope Handling — Embodied Practice, Sacred Flow

    Mastery of rope isn’t just about patterns or techinque—it’s about touch and connection. It’s about how the rope breathes through you, how the rope moves through you, how it dances across flesh, how it listens as it slips between your fingers. Every motion matters. Every pull is a conversation between body, rope, and intention.

    What follows are invitations. Not instructions, but gateways—to deeper practice, heightened awareness, and true communion.

    The Hook Technique

    The way we move the rope influences tension—it creates a direct impact on the person being tied. To improve our control, we need to step out of our comfort zone and teach our bodies to explore new ways. As we gain confidence, the process of tying becomes more graceful and fluid.

    We started looking at how to use the finger like a crochet hook to pull rope. Pull rope, don’t push it. Use the path of least resistance. Control the rope the entire time. Protect your partner from rope burns by moving slowly and shielding them with the back of your hand. Reach your finger through from the opposite direction. Hook the rope with that finger, or loop the rope. Draw the tail back through. Let it glide. Let it follow you. Think of your finger as guiding the rope.

    Do not use your fingers like a spear—jabbing and thrusting. Use the back of your hand to create a cavity or recess for your hand to slide easily through. This firm pressure pushing against the skin is both comfortable and relaxing. Always ensure that you grab both strands of rope when pulling through. Be mindful of rope placement, tension, alignment. Always “clean” your lines once laid—ensure they are without twists, knots, or crosses.

    Follow the Path of Least Resistance

    Let rope flow where there is space, intention, and invitation.

    Use your entire hand to pull, pinch, hold, and release tension throughout the tie.
    Set an ideal tension in your mind as you wrap the rope around to the stem.
    Use your other hand to temporarily set the tension—this hand will anchor your line until you can set the tension in.

    You must remember: rope expands and contracts under tension.
    This will cause your tie to experience deflection, where the rope is deformed under load.
    For safety, we want to have even deformity—and ideally, we’d like to eliminate or minimize it.

    This can be done in two ways:
    One, creating anchors throughout the tie to evenly distribute load.
    Two, ensuring the structure and form of stem-locking knots with an appropriately constructed knot or friction.
    Additional rope will not be able to add to the deflection.
    And three, pull as much slack out of the line between the anchor and the stem—tensioning to the anchor hand, not the body.
    This preloads the line, further reducing deflection.

    Another very important fact to remember:
    Under tension, rope will have a spring effect—expanding and contracting under applied forces.
    This can be experienced as tightness, which may be comforting or uncomfortable.
    Negotiate tightness before and during a scene.

    Also remember that because of the spring force under load, unexpected or rapid shifts in applied forces can have unexpected effects—so you must account for it.

    But it’s very important as a rope bottom to not slip out of the rope or eel, because as your body is the applied force, this can cause the rope to tangle and bunch in unexpected ways—potentially leading to accidents, or just a trapped bunny.

    Reroute First, Reposition After

    “The rope is not in a hurry. Neither should you be.”

    No matter how big or small your hands are, eventually you’ll meet a moment where space becomes limited—too tight to reach cleanly, too close to move smoothly. This is not a problem.

    This is not the time to jab, shove, or “just get it done.” (See: don’t spear people.)
    Don’t force it. You are not conquering a body—you are collaborating with one. Tight space is not a barrier. It’s a signal to change your approach.

    Instead, look for the space the body does offer—the soft hollows near the elbows, the curve of the waist, the dip between limbs. These are your allies. Use them. Route the rope through these larger, more forgiving openings first.

    Use the sponginess of the skin—the way flesh gives beneath gentle pressure. Pull back. Don’t push in. Slide. Adjust. Ease the rope into the place it belongs, without dragging it or forcing it.

    Avoid skin friction. Honor the body.

    Rope Control = Energy Control

    It’s magick, but it’s not that kind of magick.
    How the rope moves says everything.

    Controlled, consistent movement isn’t stiffness or predictability.
    When the rope flies, it’s wandering—it breaks the container.
    (If you’re getting hit, you’re standing too close.)

    When it flows, it’s entrancing.
    When it’s fast, it’s jarring and exciting.
    When it’s firm, it’s domineering.

    It can be hard.
    It can hurt.
    It can tickle.
    It can itch.
    It can sound.
    It can love.
    It can hate.
    It can laugh.
    It can be cold, or hot, or slow.
    It can be a language all its own.

    So yes, it can be sacred.

    We embody intention, grace, and motion.
    Be sure you’re communicating what you intend to—because it all matters.

    It helps to use mantra.
    Paint scenery with words.
    Use music.
    Use your body—how close, how far.
    Use your eyes.
    Use your breath.
    Use your rhythm.
    Use your all.

    Because it all is coming down the line.

    Communicate early and often.
    Rope has a direct line to the heart and bypasses the brain’s filters—
    so miscommunication is extremely easy.

    Move Rope in Lines

    Work with medium and short pulls of rope.
    You want the rope to move in straight lines.
    You want your placement to be exact, intentional, and preordained—predetermined.

    As you grow in skill and talent, you will be able to lay rope in the exact same wells and trenches, along the exact same paths.
    You will grow to be able to follow the rope in your mind—at first in time, but eventually moments, seconds, and minutes ahead.
    You will work out the desire paths of each tie.

    After you pull your desired length of rope, use your other hand to guide the rope—paint the rope into place.
    No dragging. No whipping. No jerking.No yanking. No intermittent, sporadic, or fitful motion.

    By painting the rope into place, you spend less time cleaning and dressing the lines. More time connecting

    These action will come in time with practices so its less important to focus your efforts on right techiques or right application and more important to focus on right thought, right mindfullness, right presensce, right focus

  • 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.

  • Sex Magick: Pleasure and Power

    Sex Magick isn’t just about orgasms—it’s about opening

    It’s the alchemy of breath, sweat, intention, and ecstasy. It’s the knowing that our pleasure isn’t profane.

    It’s prayer wrapped in skin. It’s the sacred technology of our ancestors, modernized and unapologetic

    ✦ Manifestation Through Flesh

    When I fuck with intention, I’m not just reaching climax—I’m casting.
    Each moan, each thrust, each wave of pleasure is a spell in motion. I’ve charged sigils with the pulsing heat of arousal. Whispered desires into the dark. Pushed visions of love, wealth, power into the ethers

    ✦ Ascension Through Sensation

    Sex is the serpent on the spine.
    I’ve raised kundalini with my back arched in worship, felt chakras crack open like thunder under the weight of another’s body. I’ve dissolved mid-orgasm, weeping from the sheer too-muchness of it all.

    Sex can be the door. Pleasure is the key.

    ✦ Shadow Work in the Sheets

    Sex Magick will show you your shit.
    I’ve touched old wounds mid-touch. Felt grief rise up in the heat of desire. Cried through climax. Laughed through shame. This work is deep—it will pull out your buried. It will demand your presence. It will transform.

    When you love your body loudly, when you let yourself feel fully—you heal. You reclaim.

    ✦ Alchemical Becoming

    I’ve used sex to shapeshift.
    To dissolve one identity and call forth another. To rewire my beliefs about worth, power, beauty. To become mythic. God-body. Spirit-skin. Pleasure is a spell that can mold the clay of self.

    Don’t sleep on the erotic as a tool of transformation.✦ Alchemical Becoming

    I’ve used sex to shapeshift.
    To dissolve one identity and call forth another. To rewire my beliefs about worth, power, beauty. To become mythic. God-body. Spirit-kin. Pleasure is a spell that can mold the clay of self.

    Don’t sleep on the erotic as a tool of transformation.

    ✦ Psychic Linking & Spiritual Bonding

    I’ve tied soul knots in bed. Formed sacred bonds through shared breath and bruises. Felt another’s thoughts mid-fuck. Merged energy fields. Called spirits as a silent witnesses. Sex is not just physical

    When done with intention, it becomes a way to merge. To commune. To co-create.

    ✦ Offerings of Orgasm

    I’ve moaned .Given my climax. Offered my bodyin devotion. Sex is a portal, and orgasm is one of the oldest sacrifices. Energy knows the taste of ecstasy. And when you invite it—they cum.

    That is not metaphor.

    ✦ Cultivating Power & Fire

    Through practice —I’ve built a storms inside myself. Stored energy. Directed it. Used it to strengthen my presence. Sex Magick teaches you to contain the fire as much as release it.

    When you learn to wield your turn-on, you become dangerous in the best way.

    ✦ Pleasure as Devotion

    I fuck to honor the divine.
    To worship the body. To remind myself that joy is holy. That my flesh, my desire—is worthy of reverence. Every act of erotic celebration is a defiance. Every orgasm is a resurrection.

    I don’t pray on my knees. I pray with my whole body.

  • 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 for Every Body

    You’ve been lied to. Trained to believe there’s only one kind of body that belongs in rope—slender, small, silent. To be hung like meat. Obedient and aesthetic.

    You’ve been starved on a diet of sameness. The same images, the same silhouettes, the same bodies looped and lifted as if worth can be measured

    But I’m not here to offer comfort. I’m here to burn down illusions. whispering truths to the willing. And I say this now, with fire in my gut and reverence in my hands:

    Rope is for Every Body.

    I’ve seen too many souls turn away from the altar because their body didn’t match the propaganda.Because they didn’t look like the rope virgins paraded on page after page of curated feeds—fragile, bird-boned, suspended like relics in a gallery.

    They ask me, : “Do I belong?”
    And my answer is always: If you have breath in your lungs and blood in your veins. This art is yours,

    But let’s name the demon: Rope culture as it stands is saturated in the worship of a singular aesthetic. You search “Shibari” or “Rope Play” and you’ll find an ocean of low-BMI bodies. A flood of the familiar. Rarely a ripple of difference. We inherited this from Japan

    And what happens when the zealots of the West try to replicate what they do not understand?
    We end up building temples where only the thin feel welcome.

    I don’t tie rope to please a camera or win a crowd. I tie rope to summon power. To invoke transformation. To crack open shame and pour salve into burning wounds. if you bring your body to me, no matter its size, I will honor it with the same hunger and heat as any other. Because this practice isn’t about shrinking—it’s about becoming.

    In my temple, flesh is sacred. Thickness is worshipped. Scars are sacred. And every rope I tie is a hymn to the holy monster in you.

    To those of you who feel like outsiders, know this:
    You were never meant to shrink yourself to be seen.
    You were meant to be bound in the fullness of who you are.
    And if they’ve never made space for your body in their ropes—then they never deserved your submission to begin with.

    Rope is not just for the pretty. It’s for the primal. The wounded. The voluptuous. The venerated. The hungry.

    Rope is for Every Body.

    It is the prayer.
    It is the offering.
    It is the altar.

    Let the others tie for beauty. I tie for ecstasy.

    And if you’re ready to enter, step through the threshold.
    I’ll be waiting—hands outstretched, rope in hand, ready to bind your doubt

  • The God Maker

    I don’t chase love—I summon it.
    I don’t search for connection—I conjure gods.

    I crawl, salivating, toward their altar—teeth bared, heart open—ready to be devoured or blessed.
    I was never built for soft affections or polite romances.
    What stirs me is darker. Deeper. Dangerous.
    I crave the divine made flesh—someone arrogant enough to demand my worship and divine enough to deserve it.

    I’m drawn to monsters. Blasphemous creatures dressed in mortal skin.
    Those who wear power like silk and don’t give a fuck who can’t breathe beneath it.
    They speak as if the sky should part for their voice—and sometimes?
    It does.

    I hunger for those who breathe conviction.
    Whose confidence reeks of madness and inevitability.

    That’s who I kneel for.

    The world is full of false gods with shaky thrones. I interrogate them.
    I tear away their veils. My questions are daggers—if they bleed, they are not worthy.

    But if they don’t?
    If they smile through the storm, unflinching—
    If their presence crushes doubt before it’s even spoken?
    Then I worship. Fully. Feral. Unrestrained.

    I crawl.
    I kneel.
    Mouth open.
    Spit truths into me. Make me believe.

    Because my kink is not impact or chains or play-acting obedience.

    My kink is transfiguration.

    I want the orgy that feels like a sermon.
    Bodies tangled in sacred frenzy. Names forgotten. Selves undone.
    Drugged on ecstasy and incense. Devotion thick in the air.
    Give me chaos. Give me debauchery.
    Give me the ruin of overindulgence and the gospel of lust.

    Sex?
    Isn’t enough.
    I want sex magick.

    I want to drink their ambition, snort their lust, and fuck their ego until it’s bloated with divinity.
    I want to overdose on their godhood.
    Split open on their altar, gasping holy hymns through bloodied lips as I swallow their cruelty like a sacrament.

    I don’t want romance.
    I want ritual.

    I want the kind of worship that leaves the room soaked in sweat, salt, and the stench of primal need.
    Orgy as offering.
    Hedonism as gospel.
    Sacrilege as salvation.

    Because in this filthy, starving world, everyone wants to be a god.

    But me?
    I am the one who makes them.

  • 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 Friction Device: Vulnerable Geometry

    When we tie a knot, we are not just manipulating rope—we are bending it to our will. Quite literally.

    Each knot imposes a curve upon the rope, and in doing so, initiates a series of physical tensions. The inner strands of the rope compress; the outer strands stretch and strain. The tighter the curve, the greater the imbalance. The more acute the bend, the more each fiber is stressed, and distorted. A knot, then, is a site of vulnerability. It is where the rope is most likely to fail.

    And yet, this frailty is where the power of the knot resides.

    A knot is a friction device. Its structure—the crossings, wraps, tucks, and overlaps—generates resistance. This resistance is what holds the rope together. But that same friction weakens the rope, reducing its ultimate breaking strength (UBS). In fact, when rope breaks under stress, it almost always breaks at the knot.

    So we must focus on the knots.

    After tying a knot, you are not finished. A freshly tied knot is still in flux. It needs to be shaped—tensioned and coaxed into its final form. Neglecting this step invites instability in knot. Poorly set knots can loosen, unravel, or deform and accelerates catastrophic failure.

    So you must

    • Study knots from every angle.
    • Tie them in different orientations, even with your eyes closed.
    • Practice with one hand behind your back.
    • Compare similar knots to feel how they differ.
    • Take knots apart. See their internal architecture.

    Let your fingers learn by doing. Let your mind learn by questioning.

    The Four Virtues of a Good Knot

    As you move deeper, remember the four virtues that define a “good” knot:

    1. : It is easy to tie
    2. it should be stable under load
    3. it does not reduce significantly the UBS (ultimate breaking strength) of the rope
    4. it is easy to untie. – Ideally

    Not every knot holds all four qualities. Some will distort under tension, reshaping into more efficient forms.

    To tie a knot is to enter into a conversation with the rope. The knot is alive. Its fibers remember your touch, your tension, your intention. As you shape it, it shapes the rope in return

    So tie slowly. Tie mindfully. Breathe with your rope.
    and Listen. It’s always telling you something.

  • 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.