“No, it isn’t Fuck You.”

“Not Shibal. Shibari. Well, I guess you could fuck after being tied up,” I said. The Korean guys think it’s hilarious - Shibal Shibari. Joke’s on them because they won’t be laughing if I hog-tied them up.

Shibari came from the Japanese erotic bondage Kinbaku-bi, which meant the ‘beauty of tight binding’.

Sexual bondage. The Japanese took it to the next level. Sailor knots + Shinto shrine meanings. This art uses intricate knots, power play, and explores the sexual senses awakened by the methodical tying of the partner. With each knot, the type of rope, the tightening and pressure of the rough threads, and pain and prickling sensations, tapped into our five senses.

And that’s why I am pulled to it.

I met him on Hinge. J, who unabashedly said he did Shibari, and if you judged, F U. I’d never imagined a normal-looking Chinese engineer would be into it. Cool pics aside, he wasn’t what I’d expect of a pervert.

If anything, I’d learned through my YOLO journey, people are not who they seem. And time and again, I firmly believed, talking about sex opens a different door to the psyche of a person.

We chatted for a while online. I was interested in the art, but he wasn’t really my type. The lure of the knots and being bound brought me to him.

“If I bring my rope, will u show me how to tie a knot on my wrist? A pretty knot?” I asked.

“The first thing in my mind is: Why wrists?” he replied.

“Bec I like,” I said.

“If u like, sure, I will.”

“Lol. Where will u go for the first?” I asked.

“Since I prefer a backhand tie. I would like to start from the waist or hands back. Something like this, I know.” He was showing me pics of the ties.

“Yes,” I replied.“Red please. Do u cut the rope?”

“Barely cut the rope,” he said.

It was an art. Endless knots. I could see how it was like the Asian style of letting the rope length grow, be it hair, noodles, or threads. You don’t cut because it was unlucky. A lifeline shot in half.

“Green matches your skin, a color for subtle pain and tightness,” he said. “Looking forward to having a play with u.”

Days went to weeks, and then I got a message. “Did you get the rope?”

I showed him what I got wrapped on my wrists.

“Ready to be tied up? Who’s the lucky guy?” he asked.

“Do you tie every girl you have sex with?” I asked.

“Not always. Depends if they are open to it.”

He told me he went for classes on Shibari classes for two years. “Did you tie guys too?” I smirked.

“In class, yes. Sometimes, I need to practice, I ask my friends or tie myself.”

“Your guy friends?” My imagination is running wild. An orgy of people being tied up. Glory holes waiting to be used. The Ultimate submission.

And then one day, I ran out of words to write, and he DM me. “Want to meet?”

“Okay, let’s have lunch,” I told him. The day had finally come. In my play bag, I brought a change of clothes, two lingeries, a leash, lube, condoms, my green rope, and a heart filled with trepidation.

It wasn’t my intention, but a cougar always needs to be prepared.

The question that I’d been asking myself over and over again. Was it possible for me to be attracted to someone because I’m tied up? Same question I’d asked myself for the Pin Test. Was my sapiosexuality stronger than my physical attraction?

He came dressed in a typical engineer — Baggy washed out white T-shirt, brown shorts and sandals, glasses, and disheveled hair.

And so the test began. Will being tied up change my preconceived image of him?

“Hey,” he said as I waited for him at the Thai restaurant. Fast forward to after our meal, and he invited me to his home. In other circumstances, I wouldn’t have gone, especially when I was going to be willingly tied up.

H’s warnings were ringing in my head, and in my impulsivity, curiosity won again. He didn’t seem dangerous enough and the cops in the US seemed more willing to take action if something were to happen, said my “Butt Brain” (to be explained later in the Team Boob vs Butt chapter).

I arrived at his place. He opened the door in a friendly manner, letting me wander around his one-bedroom apartment in a fancy complex.

“Where do you want to do it?” he asked.

I turned to him. “Just my wrists.” I showed him my hands.

“Yes, yes. Only wrists. Whatever you want.”

I pointed to his living room, which had a white couch, a white rug, and a big red bean bag. “Let’s do it here.”

“Okay,” he walked away casually and grabbing a bag of brown ropes. “Let’s use these.”

“What about my green rope?” I asked.

“Too thin. This rope is better,” he said.

Again. It should be a warning sign, but I went for it. “Okay. Let’s do it.”