Tied with care: Shibari, queerness, and community

You wouldn’t think that being tied up could feel freeing.

But that’s how it felt the first time I let myself be bound as a rope bunny during a shibari session. It wasn’t just about kink or curiosity. It was about returning to my body in a new way. Slowing down. Listening. There was a calmness to it, a kind of queer zen that surprised me.

That energy has carried into my BDSM-forward performances at a gay bar in Poblacion. Performing in this way isn’t exactly new to me. I had already been exploring that space before the pandemic. But something shifted recently. When I began doing it in Poblacion again, it gave me a quiet kind of confidence I didn’t realize I was missing.

I’ve never seen myself as someone others would find sexy or magnetic. I always felt “sakto lang”—someone who blends into the background. Not invisible, but not someone who stands out either.

But over time, that started to change.

Week by week, I began receiving compliments—from friends, from strangers. Sometimes under dim lights, sometimes after a drink or two. But no matter the setting, the words felt sincere. And they stayed with me.

I’m not doing this for validation. I’m not chasing applause. But I’ve come to realize that being seen and appreciated—being desired—feels good. And maybe it’s okay to want that.

More recently, I attended the GoodBoy Rope Jam, an all-male (mostly queer) rope event led by @rope.mongrel. I had the chance to be tied (and suspended) by @_ginagapos and @domtowerdemon, and the experience was deeply grounding, validating and satisfying.

The feeling of being restrained was unexpectedly relaxing, even comforting. For a brief moment, I was able to fully let go—to surrender control in a space that felt safe and supportive. When I was suspended, the way my body shifted and stretched felt physically satisfying. I felt completely present. One with my body. And hey, I kinda look good—bound!

People attend rope jams for different reasons.

Some come for the sensual or sexual elements. Others are driven by curiosity, emotional release, or healing. For many, it’s a  mix of all these things. And that’s the beauty of it—there’s space for all those reasons. None of them need justification.

What I love most about the kink community is how much it values care, not just intensity. After a scene or a session, there’s (always) time and room for aftercare—checking in, grounding, reconnecting. Whether that means quiet cuddles, water, deep breathing, or simple presence, the priority is always each person’s well-being. That kind of intentional softness isn’t something I’ve experienced in many other spaces.

That commitment to care is also at the heart of what Shibari.PH does. Founded in 2016, it started as an online directory of safety and educational resources for Japanese rope bondage. Back then, injuries and abuses were too common, often caused by misinformation or lack of training. The team behind SPH wanted to create a space for people to explore kink without compromising their boundaries. And, they did so by championing three core values: body-positivity, sex-positivity, and kink-positivity.

Over time, SPH grew into a community. They now host sketching sessions, rope jams, workshops, and private sessions. They’ve brought in international guests to give locals access to global kink culture. It’s a space rooted in consent, communication, and the belief that everyone deserves satisfying, safer, and sustainable kink.

For Dee Sapalo, SPH’s founder, queerness plays a huge role in how he approaches both rope and community building. As a non-monogamous bisexual man, he says it helped him challenge rigid ideas around love, commitment, leadership, and even pain as a love language. He shares: “My queerness taught me to see privilege not as a free pass but an opportunity for change.”

That’s part of why SPH keeps their rope jam locations private and registration-only. It’s not about secrecy—it’s about safety. For some people, being publicly associated with kink could mean losing their jobs or getting disowned. Privacy, along with mandatory registration, allows SPH to screen attendees and protect the space.

They also take time to walk newcomers through the most important lesson: That they deserve to have their boundaries respected. “More than negotiation strategies or checklists, we want people to know they have the right to feel safe enough to take the risks they’re interested in—and hold that same space for others,” Sapalo explains.

And then there’s Mongrel—rope top, performer, and lead of GoodBoy Rope Jam.

He didn’t grow up with fantasies of rope or early fascinations. For him, the spark came from porn—BoundGods, MenOnEdge, and the erotic manga of Gengoroh Tagame. In 2019, someone from Reddit pointed him to Shibari.ph, and he began using rope to deepen his desire for control in bed. But when he met BoundBoar in 2023 and they began playing together, the idea of public performance emerged. That pushed Mongrel to train harder—not just to tie, but to communicate through rope.

“Rope is an excuse to interact with another person’s body and heart,” he says.

And that shows. His philosophy prioritizes safety and emotional tone. Before every scene, Mongrel asks: “How do you want to feel in ropes today?” From there, he adjusts his tying to match—not just technically, but energetically. Trust is key. And so is establishing that his bottoms can say no at any time.

Mongrel is also intentional about visibility. “There’s not enough queer (specifically gay) representation in shibari,” he says. So much of mainstream rope centers on straight men tying smaller women, using harnesses designed for feminine bodies. “I’d like to see more men in rope,” he adds—and he’s helping create that future, one jam at a time.

He also reminds new riggers: Learn your basics. Master the fundamentals before rushing into suspensions or fancy shapes. “Find a bottom that challenges you,” he says. “And don’t let anyone tell you what ‘real’ rope bondage should look like.”

And despite what the vanilla world might think, the kink community isn’t a gathering of deviants. It’s a community of curious people. People asking questions about themselves, their limits, their desires, their bodies. People willing to explore—not recklessly, but responsibly, with others who value communication and care (and of course, consent). 

Exploration feels different when it happens in a secure space with people you trust. It’s in those settings that you get to discover parts of yourself. What brings you pleasure? What helps you feel powerful? All without fear of reawakening old wounds or stepping into harm.

As queer people, we’ve long searched for spaces like this.

For many of us, they simply didn’t exist. We weren’t given permission to explore our desires without shame. And when we did, we were judged, pathologized, or cast as deviant just for wanting.

That’s why communities like Shibari.PH and events like GoodBoy Rope Jam matter.

These are spaces designed with care, where consent is central and connection is prioritized. The location of the rope jam is kept private and only shared upon registration, ensuring the privacy and safety of those who attend. Boundaries are honored. Documentation is handled thoughtfully. Everyone is there with purpose.

It’s one of the few places where I’ve felt safe enough to explore, to learn, and to simply be—tied or untied, performing or watching. A space where kink isn’t something to hide, but something to embrace.

Where being seen doesn’t hurt.

Where being desired doesn’t feel dangerous.

Where exploration, finally, feels like coming home.