She shouted out to the office at large, “I need someone to try out this new toy. Any takers?” She looked in my direction. The foreign environment overwhelmed me. It was a bustling hub of bondage, a Grand Central Station of intense pornographic experiences. This was much different from the one-on-one kinky sex that I had experienced with Blake, and I found myself wishing Blake was here to navigate me through.
The woman shouted in my direction, “Are you a model? You look lost?”
“Um yes. I mean I’m here to meet with Mackie, about modeling.” I was terrified that the woman was going to zap me with the frightening-looking electrical instrument she held in her hand.
She smiled and pointed to Mackie’s office, “Good luck, sweetheart.”
I knocked on Mackie’s door and walked in. She looked frazzled, shuffling through papers on her desk with the phone up to her ear. She pointed at the couch and I sat down patiently, waiting for her to finish her conversation. I stuffed my hands in my pockets and gazed up at framed photographs on the walls depicting women in different states of vulnerability; tied and collared, their faces set permanently in orgasmic pleasure, perseverance, and strength while mascara dripped down their cheeks. It seemed genuine and uncontrived, like a documentary photography exhibit on sex and emotional vulnerability.
Mackie hung up the phone and breathed a deep sigh of relief. She picked up a mug and took a sip of coffee, then picked up a file on her desk and scanned through the information before addressing me. “Hi, sorry about all of the chaos. It gets a little crazy here sometimes. You’re Blake’s friend, right?”
“Yeah. Tina. Nice to meet you.” I bit my lip, nervous about what an interview for a BDSM adult site might entail. I didn’t have that much experience with kink and was completely oblivious about how to discuss my sexual desires. I knew I wanted a Daddy. I knew I liked rough sex and relinquishing control, but I had never been tied up or had a ball gag in my mouth. What if my mouth doesn’t open that wide?
“Is that your stage name? Tina? Mind if I take a picture?”
“Um, sure. No, no I don’t have a stage name yet. I’m still thinking about that.” I tucked my hair behind my ears and tried to look seductively at the camera, pouting my lips and opening my mouth.
The flash was bright and startling. An unfinished photograph popped out and Mackie fanned it back and forth a few times before clipping it to the file that sat on her desk. “Well, I’m sure you’ll figure it out. Blake tells me you run a gallery?”
“Yes, I just opened a new location a few months ago. It’s our first storefront space.” My voice was raspy, and my throat dry and scratchy with nervousness. Mackie handed me a bottle of water with a smile and I nodded in gratitude. She sat down next to me on the couch and adjusted her glasses, nodding her head, listening. “That’s great, just great. Now listen, Tina. I know this is fast, but one of our models canceled on us last-minute and we’re in a bit of a jam. Would you be willing to shoot today? It would be with our CEO, Peter Acworth. Very basic, some bondage, maybe some dildos and vibrators. Pay is $800.” Mackie took another sip of her coffee and looked at me, waiting for a response that I wasn’t yet willing to give. I’m not prepared! My mind screamed. I didn’t even know if there is a way to prepare for this kind of thing?
I considered leaving or saying, “No”—or “I’d love to do this another time.” Then I remembered that rent that was due. I took a swig of water and found the courage to respond: “Um…I didn’t bring anything to wear or any makeup or anything.”
Mackie handed me a model release to sign and assured me that “It’s okay. Peter likes girls to be natural for his shoots, anyway. You look like the ideal girl next door.”
Peter, the mastermind behind the KINK empire, looked as if he had just come off a plane from a vacation in Bermuda. He was wearing surfer shorts and flip-flops with a white T-shirt and he talked with a thick but pleasant British accent. He had a gentle and polite disposition; his youthful face complimented by twinkling eyes. He looked like a little boy at Christmas, all the toys under the tree that he could ever imagine. I could picture him tying up his sister’s Barbie dolls with the same twinkle in his eye.
After twenty minutes under studio production lights, I felt sweat run down my face, plastering my damp hair to the side of my head. Peter slapped my flushed face and I smiled wide. My eyes came alive. I wanted more.
“Oh, I see you like that, do you?” Peter began to lead me in a circle, and I hobbled along in the shackles.
“Let’s see how you behave with a little more rope and a nice lashing.” Peter grabbed several bundles of almond-colored rope lying nearby in tight coils. I watched the rope as he grasped the familiar material, wrapping and cinching it tightly around my body. It felt like an embrace from a familiar lover. The rope held tension around my breasts and ribs, and I sighed and purred like a kitten. I dipped my face toward the rope to feel the fibers against my cheek and lips and between my teeth. I bowed my head in reverence and inhaled the deep scent of natural jute fibers. I became lost in the euphoric release as endorphins raced through my overly aroused and stimulated body.
I was in love. My entire body quivered with anticipation for the next touch. I needed more. Something was unleashed in me when the rope bit into my flesh; I became free. Free of anxiety, feeling deeply aware of and completely removed from myself at the same time. My body fell into the fibers of the rope, pushing against it and finding the spots of greatest tension and greatest weakness, rolling around in bliss. I felt the sting of a whip wrap its way around my thighs. My body felt like warm butter, the whip cutting through me like a knife. I cooed with every slice, dancing from the sharp bites, not knowing how to respond, or if I was supposed to move into or fight against this punishment. It didn’t seem like punishment, it felt like ecstasy, like all of the stars in the sky were flying down one by one to touch me. I felt blessed and whole, and my entire body opened up to the experience.
Just when I thought I had reached a peak, Peter brought out a Hitachi Magic Wand. The white tennis ball-shaped head of the vibrator landed directly onto my clit. When I took a breath I felt waves of orgasm ripple through my body while the erotic scents of rope and sweat wafted through the air, making me swoon and shake violently, contorting until all was released.
“Alright then, that’s a wrap. Simone can you get...what did you say your name was?”
“Madison,” slipped from my mouth. It felt natural and true, stirred from a memory of my first encounter with rope. The scent of rope had brought me comfort at Madison Tree Service long before I had developed any sense of my sexual self.
“Right, right. Madison. Could you get Madison some water? Matt why don’t you untie Madison and bundle the ropes for me? How do you feel, my dear girl?”
I felt light-headed, euphoric, and completely unblocked. Like the way I felt after a nice long sit in a sauna or really deep meditation, coupled with the buzzing pleasure-drenched glow of an orgasm. I inhaled deeply, my body as limp as a noodle. It took me a moment to gather my thoughts, to form a sentence.
“I feel blissful. Thank you, Sir.”
Peter smiled and gave me a pat on the shoulder, “Good. Good. That’s what we like to hear. You’re a natural, a natural! Madison, was it? When you head back upstairs let Mackie know I’d like to book you for our other sites, Water Bondage and Whipped Ass. Are you free next month? We’re shooting in Cabo, Mexico, and I’d love to book you for the trip.”
I nodded my head in affirmation, taking in the information and watching Peter’s mouth move. Just a few hours ago I wasn’t even sure if I was going to follow through, and now my next two months were booking up before the day was even over. I folded up the $800 check and headed straight to the bank to cash it and drop the rent money in my landlord’s mailbox.
When I stepped into the California sunshine I saw an open road in front of me. If I’d looked up and seen cartoon birds following me
, I wouldn’t have been surprised. I had to fight the urge to float off into the blue sky. Was Peter my Glinda the Good Witch, offering me rope in place of ruby slippers? As I walked back to the gallery, I bounced through the city feeling one step closer to home, to safety. If rope didn’t lead me to my Daddy, I didn’t know what would.
I think I fell in love with Gauge on our first meeting, an unintentional date at a dive bar in the Lower Haight called Noc Noc. It was small and the stone walls were covered with cave paintings while faux stalactites clung to the ceiling. DJs crammed into a closet-sized space by the bathroom to mix the evening’s auditory cocktail, combining experimental electronic soundscapes with obscure British post punk bands like The Raincoats and Siouxsie and the Banshees. Noc Noc was decorated with disassembled car seat cushions for seating and only served sake, wine, and beer.
Gauge was in one of Blake’s new genre art classes at San Francisco Art Institute. She was shy but intrigued by the gallery, and by me, so she had invited me out for a drink and brought along her artist’s portfolio. Beautiful and intriguing, she was a complex swirl of masculine and feminine energy bottled into a petite Croatian package with olive skin, warm brown eyes, and short dark brown hair. As we discussed her work and artistic influences, I hung on her every word. One of her greatest inspirations was performance artist Hannah Wilke, whose exhibition of vulval terra-cotta sculptures was some of the most inspiring artistic work that rose from the women’s liberation movement in the sixties.
I was thumbing through Gauge’s portfolio, black and white photographs of her nude body covered in vulva-shaped sculptures made from chewing gum. “Beautiful. Really powerful.” I was confused. Was this a work meeting or a date?
After the bar, she kissed me outside of my second-floor walk-up in the Castro, and I knew she was interested in more than just discourse on feminist performance art. She was a few years younger than me, and she touched my cheek and looked into my eyes and said, “I really like you, Tina. I’d like to get to know you better.”
I laced my thumbs through her belt loops and pulled her body closer to mine, “I’d like to get to know you better, too.” But she pulled away, looking awkwardly at the ground in the hallway outside my apartment and shuffling her feet back and forth for a moment before slowly looking up, her body shaking.
“I really have to let you know now that I can’t really do the open polyamory thing. I just can’t. I’m totally cool with the work you do. You know, the porn stuff. But if we are going to explore...this…at all...then I know myself enough to know that...you know, I need monogamy.”
Gauge looked like a lost, terrified kitten in need of reassurance and love. I was a little taken aback, but at the same time impressed with her direct and honest approach. I felt like I needed to be close to her, to explore what that relationship might be like.
And if I needed to try out monogamy for size, well…I could do that. I pulled her body close to mine once again and promised, on our first date, “Just you and me.”
After only a few weeks of dating, Gauge started to grow uneasy with my work in the adult industry. In theory, she supported my right to explore my sexuality on film and to bring feminist and sex-positive ideology to a traditionally misogynistic industry. The day-to-day jealousy, and her insecurity with my intimate encounters with total strangers, posed a greater challenge than she was expecting. In efforts to ease her discomfort I would make grand romantic gestures, like appearing with roses or daisies, scooping her up in my arms and pulling her close to me, hoping that she would finally realize how much I loved her. She responded by bombarding me with questions about my workday, “How many orgasms did you have?” and “Did you want to fuck the producer?” I thought that if I held her tight enough, maybe she’d understand.
Gauge and I had been dating for a year and six months. I was in Los Angeles, shoved in a taxi with my purse and a large backpack full of dildos, vibrators, and assorted bra and panty sets.
“Hi, there. Yeah I’m going to five-oh-six South Grand Street Do you know where that is?”
“Yes, Miss.”
I sighed in relief and buckled my seatbelt as the cab took off for Downtown L.A. By now I had been working in the adult industry, primarily in the kink and fetish genre of pornography, for about two years. My schedule involved traveling to new cities once a month, for about a week. It was Los Angeles this week, and I was going to be working with one of my favorite rope artists and directors, James Mogul.
My cell phone rang, and I fumbled around in my purse. I fished out my phone and answered to the welcome sound of Gauge’s voice.
“Hi, Baby. I miss you.” She was sweet and lonely and cooed in my ear like a needy child. My heart cringed with guilt for not being home with her, cuddling in our bed, under the covers, wrapped up in one another.
“I miss you, too, Sweetheart. Is everything okay? How are the cats?” Gauge had moved into my apartment about a month before, and we had quickly fallen into a life of domesticity.
“Yeah, everything’s fine, they’re fine. I just wanted to hear your voice. I’m working on finishing my video piece for the exhibition at school that I was telling you about. Remember?” The taxi pulled up to the hotel and I fumbled through my wallet for a twenty-dollar bill.
“Baby, I’ve got to go. I love you. I’ll call you after the shoot.”
I stood in the lobby of the Millennium Biltmore Hotel watching the bustling crowds filter in and out of the door. There was a technology convention this weekend at the hotel that was occupying the majority of the rooms.
I looked down at my sheet of paper, where Room 402 was written alongside many scribbles in blue ink that had seen me through the last six months of travels. I pressed the elevator call button and ripped the page from my journal, stuffing it into my back pocket. The elevator doors opened onto the 4th floor. I was looking forward to seeing James. I was swept away with James’ photography. His work was intimate, soft, and beautiful. There was an element of innocence and raw tenderness in each frame. I wanted to be one of his women, I wanted to be part of his collection.
James Mogul’s site was a portal to galleries of his bondage photography, with the occasional video clip of a woman in bondage. He started this site after years of working construction and carpentry. James’ journey into the adult industry began with a personal interest in Shibari, a Japanese style of bondage. When James wasn’t remodeling kitchens in Seattle, he found himself leading skillshares and instructional rope bondage workshops. He studied photography and lighting, and would experiment with documenting his girlfriends in exquisite bondage that he rigged himself. James used his site as a platform to share the beauty that he found in bondage and in women. Soon the site grew large enough to be a full-time venture for him, and he had local and traveling models coming to him because they wanted to be part of his world.
The first time I met James, he was late and I was early. I was waiting for him in a circus of a warehouse that housed large theatrical props and bondage furniture in Seattle. Gauge had come along with me for that work trip, and I promised to meet her after the shoot at Pike Place where we would find a romantic Italian restaurant to share a bowl of pasta and watch the sunset. Waiting in the warehouse, I was startled by the sound of the doorbell and looked up to find James and his partner, Bren, carrying in photo gear and a cooler. James is over six feet tall; he towers above me. Short, dark, boyish curls sprinkled with gray spring from his head, and a goatee circles his mouth. I watched his lips move as he said the words, “You must be Madison. I’m James and that is Bren. I’m sorry we’re late.”
A familiar presence radiated off him. I felt so comfortable, like I’d known him before, but where? I had never been to Seattle and I couldn’t imagine that we would find ourselves in any of the same circles in San Francisco.
He was wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt. I looked down at his boots as he took my hand to help me up off the chair. As I felt his ca
llused hands take hold of me, it hit me: I had met my Daddy. A comforting, blue-collar worker with good manners who looked at me like I was a princess, James was armed with rope, leather boots, and a pickup truck. Suspended off the ground, I cooed, hanging upside down and purring with every touch from this stranger. I felt safe. I tried to compartmentalize: this was work, and I was paid to enjoy myself. I was an activist, revolutionizing porn by being a woman enjoying herself in bondage. This is just work, I told myself as I signed the paperwork and asked James for a recommendation on where to take my girlfriend for a romantic Italian dinner.
The last time I had seen James had ended in disappointment. James’ hands and ropes never approached me. He stood by snapping photographs as his dominatrix friend, Catrina, paddled me and fucked me with her strap-on cock. I kept waiting for him to step in with his bag of sweet-smelling hemp rope and rig me in a position that contorted and stretched my body, but instead Catrina’s partner stepped into the scene. A very nice gentleman with a thick gray beard and spectacles, he was well spoken and articulate, but he was concerned with making my bondage as comfortable as possible and he used white cotton rope. It didn’t make sense to me. I need the complete sensory experience. I need the rope to tear me open passionately and hold me tight and safe in its tangled web. It was frustrating, but I recognized that these people were not my personal playmates or dominants. I was only here for my job. If James didn’t want to tie me up, I couldn’t ask him to. Still, after the shoot I found myself sulking on the ride back to my hotel. I had never reached my bondage high and was irrationally disappointed. James looked into the rear-view mirror and caught a glimpse of me curled close to the car door, nose pressed against the window, watching the other cars drive by as we maneuvered through the gray city of Seattle. “Is something wrong, Madison?”
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