This comic self-bondage near misadventure appeared in Issue 14, January/February 1990.
NEW YORK STATE. When I was younger I lived in New England and used to really enjoy spending time in the woods. It gave me a chance to get away from the city and relax somewhat. One of my bondage fantasies was to be restrained "in the wild", and it seemed inevitable that I would eventually work out some way of fulfilling this wayward desire. At a certain point I was introduced to the Humane Restraint line of locking leather toys (though they are anything but toys, being extremely no-nonsense institutional tools) and eventually I had acquired a fair collection of items from them. From then it was only a matter of time before I found myself driving down a country road, headed toward one of the more strenuous stretches of the "Blue Trail", a northeast extension of the east coast Appalachian Trail. I wasn't really sure what I was going to try; I just knew that some kind of bondage was going to figure into my hike.
During this period I was a diehard rock and roller, and this particular day was dressed accordingly: long hair, tight jeans, Frye boots and camouflage shirt-jac, complete with a couple of joints, and a small leather bag filled with my bondage equipment: a new pair of locking Fetters fist mitts, ankle and elbow cuffs, three locking leather straps, and a key ring.
I parked the car at the trail turn-off and set out into the woods. After a few hundred feet I turned off the path, found a long branch and carefully lifted the key ring up in the air, snagging it about ten or twelve feet above my head. Then, just to make things more interesting, I judiciously cleared the area of all branches long enough to retrieve the keys, and set on out up the trail.
After about a twenty minute climb I found myself high on a ridge lookout, enjoying both the view and the joints. After playing chicken for awhile (I always do this before bondage: do I really want to do this to myself, what kind of nut am I anyway, only a fool would...etc.,etc.). And as I usually do to get around this hurdle, I played a mental game: "Well, if I were going to tie myself up (which I'm probably not) I'd do this first"...and so saying, I took the ankle cuffs out of the bag and fastened them good and tight around my legs.
I love the feel of my ankles being tightly bound through a pair of boots; sometimes I think it's the physical sensation I enjoy most about bondage. I don't know why this is; in fact, until I read "The Fine Art of Hog-Tying" in B&G Issue 10, I thought I was the only one fascinated by this particular aspect of bondage—I can only suppose it stems from the days of my youth when a friend and I used to play rope games on the farm. Boots and jeans were the order of the day then, and I still find them a turn-on today. The earlier days of rock and roll were near heaven for me in this regard; nowadays there's too much sneakers and spandex for my taste—they just don't do it for me like the old leather and denim days...
But I digress.
I took a short locking leather strap, and hobbled my legs together with about six inches of play between them. That would ensure me of at least a good hour of bondage while working myself back down the trail. I then strapped the elbow cuffs together, placed them behind my back and slipped my arms through them. That left only the waist straps and fist mitts, which I quickly made short work of. Soon I had all the locks in place, and came to that moment when it was time to either abort the whole crazy scene or plunge the locks home. As always when I reach this point, my adrenalin was up, my heart was pounding, and my hands were shaking I was so excited—I really love bondage, it thrills me like nothing else! I debated a bit, really more for form's sake than anything else, and then, before I could talk myself out of it, pushed the lock home on the ankle strap. Now, for better or worse, I would be hobbling down the trail whether my hands were tied or not, and what was the point of doing it halfway? As quickly as I could, overriding all second thoughts, I locked first the fist mitts and then the waist straps. I was committed.
I ought to be committed, I thought to myself, looking at my hobbled boots and black leather fist mitts with the little locks on them. If anyone met me on the trail they'd think I was crazy for sure! But at the same time I loved it—it was what I had come for, and the thrill of it made my crotch bulge. The marijuana in my brain added to and intensified the whole scene. I sat still for awhile, awash in delicious physical sensations, testing and pulling against my bonds, and finally, when I had calmed down a little, stood up, hobbled back to the trail, and started the long slow shuffle back to freedom.
I had only gone about twenty feet when I heard voices behind me. Jesus, I thought I'd have a heart attack! I stood stock still and listened hard. There was no question about it: there were people coming up behind me on the trail! I looked frantically right and left—the only cover was a small rise about fifty feet or so to my right. I started towards it, at first going as quietly as my strapped feet would allow, but eventually panicking, hopping and crashing through the underbrush as fast as I could, falling all over myself in an effort to get away. As the voices drew dangerously close I dove frantically over a fallen log and flattened myself on the ground. They must have thought it was a deer crashing through the woods, because after one look in my direction they kept going.
It was a family of four: mom and dad and two boys. I nearly shit in my pants when I heard the father say: "We'll hole up here for awhile and rest." I had visions of the boys walking into the woods to relieve themselves after the long trek (I knew from previous hikes that the other end of the trail was a YMCA day camp about three or four miles in the other direction), but luckily everyone stayed at the lookout to enjoy the view. I stayed put behind the log, tugging and pulling against the fist mitts, trying desperately to break free, but I've got to hand it to Fetters, they know their business. This was my first experience with their products, and while the leather had a tantalizing give and stretch to it, this was strictly a tease—there was no way I was about to break free. The Humane Restraint equipment was impervious; made to withstand four hundred poind maniacs, a 140 pound skinny-assed youth like myself was helpless in its grasp. I was stuck, and stuck good.
The family oohed and aahed over the view for a good twenty minutes. I spend the time trying to come up with some good one-liners to use for the moment when they found me. "It's a fraternity hazing." "Oh, I always do this on Sundays." "Beautiful day, isn't it?" "Got a knife?" As it turned out, my fears were groundless, for the family gathered up their things and proceeded on down the trail. I lay there in the woods, listening to them fade off into the distance, wondering, as I usually do at some point during any bondage situation, whatever possessed me to put myself in such a vulnerable situation.
Throughout the years I have spent quite a bit of time asking myself this question. What does possess an otherwise sane person to put his life in danger for no logical reason? Is it simply sexual drive, manifesting itself in a strange way? Is it a fetish, unknowingly programmed during earlier years? Or does the explanation call for darker symbols—atavistic demons, perhaps? Whatever the jargon, the basic problem remains the same: I can honestly say that I feel driven to bondage, and ultimately have no real choice in the matter. Oh, I can put it off for a time...days, weeks, even a month sometimes: but the longer I hold out, the stronger and more overpowering the urge becomes: I am unable to escape it. In Clint Eastwood's Tightrope the point is made that we must say no to our darker side in order for society to survive. Does this mean I am failing some basic cultural test when I succumb to my own particular demons? Or is the whole conundrum a mental crock that leads nowhere, another vapid exercise in intellectual masturbation?
Why do I sit here, strapped to this chair, forcing myself to type these words and finish this piece before beginning my escape efforts (which may or may not fail)? I wear the same boots I wore on that ridge so many years ago. The same cuffs hold my ankles tight in their grip; locked wrist cuffs allow my hands only enough movement to reach the keyboard. Strapped to the chair back, there's no way I can see that I'll be able to move across the room to the key in the kitchen. What would possess a person to knowingly put himself in such a ridiculous position?
The answer, as I spend more and more time with my hands in my crotch than at the keyboard, is obvious: I love it. I've got a hard-on that won't quit. I can pontificate all I want about society and individual freedom, the bottom line is simple: I like bondage. I liked it then, and I like it now. The major difference between then and now is that now the key that means my freedom lies only a few feet away, and then there was at least a mile of rocky downhill trail between me and release.
I stood up in the woods. The sunlight filtered through the trees. I figured enough time had passed for the family to be at the bottom of the trail. I started out.
The going was rough. I had to detour around fallen branches, since my strapped ankles prevented me from stepping over them. I quickly discovered that hopping along was really my fastest, most efficient means of locomotion. I must have looked pretty silly, in retrospect. Still gun shy from my experience on the ridge, I stopped every fifty feet or so to listen carefully for other hikers, as well as for the family, which I was afraid may have stopped again along the path. Eventually I made it down to the stream at the bottom of the gorge, and was just rounding a curve in the last quarter mile to my key ring when I suddenly heard laughter ahead. I stopped short, and to my consternation saw a group of teenagers about two hundred feet ahead, holed up on the trail, drinking beer and having a good time in general. One of them saw me, but my camouflage outfit and dark fist mitts must have done the trick, because he obviously was unaware of my bondage and went back to his drinking. I sank down against a tree by the side of the trail to take stock of my situation.
I was in a ticklish spot. Although safe for the moment, I was stuck between a rock and a hard spot. The teenagers stood between me and the key I was so desperately trying to get to. Any moment they might start further up the trail towards me—and what would I do then? Try to outrun them back to the ridge? Not likely. The longer I stayed put the better the chance that some other group would come down behind me on the trail, either surprising me or, at best, driving me toward the teenagers. I started to sweat a little. No, I started to sweat a lot. I tried again to break free of the fist mitts, but was unable to do so.
I'm spending some time right now trying to break free of this chair, and am also unable to do so. My legs, locked back and up to its sides, are beginning to ache. The toes of my boots, strain as I might, remain off the floor. The straps that secure my chest and waist don't hurt, but they prevent me from throwing my weight around and shifting the chair that way. My hands are good only for typing and groping at my crotch—there's no way I can reach the floor (or anything else) with them. My own weight is so much more than the computer table in front of me that when I try to push off against it, it just slides away from me. I could probably tip myself over backwards and split the back of my skull open on the floor, but I fail to see how that would help me. My hard-on, which constantly draws my hands down from the keyboard, for some perverse reason seems to fade away whenever I get close to a climax...
A typical bondage situation.
Meanwhile, back on the trail, I was getting more and more nervous. The longer I delayed some kind of action, the better my chances seemed for getting caught. On my left was a steep rock face—impossible to climb, tied up as I was. To my right was a rock strewn run down to a stream. Across the stream was another rock face. Ahead of me were the teenagers. Behind me was a four mile ridge trail ending in a day camp full of kids, camp supervisors, and no keys. I was in a real fix.
Finally, when I could take it no longer, I decided to at least gain some time by getting off the trail and out of sight. I stood up, and as fast as I could without falling down, hopped, stumbled and hobbled across the rocks to the stream and sank down behind a bush. I sat there a long time, looking sullenly at my strapped boots, the sweat-soaked Fetters mitts (still holding strong—I couldn't believe such a thin strap could defeat my most determined efforts. But it could, and did); and scanned the hill across the stream, trying to see in my mind the geography of the woods, and pinpoint on some mental map the exact location of my key ring when approached from the wild instead of the path so casually blocked by the beer party ahead of me. I listened to them laughing and talking—it didn't seem they were ever going to move.
I really had only two options: confront the teenagers and proceed on to the keys, or set out across the woods and try and find the tree on my own. I chose the latter. I struggled to a standing position and set out to ford the stream. This was pretty exciting, and rather a wet undertaking, but luckily the water wasn't that deep, and through some miracle I was able to keep my footing and make it across without falling down. The rock face was tricky, to say the least. This time there was no path, and I was exposed to view during the entire ascent. It was a tricky balance between haste and careful placement of my feet. Frye boots aren't really ideal for climbing rock-covered hillsides, and certainly not when your feet are hobbled closely together. I was literally dripping with sweat when I finally made it around that hill.
Once past the stream in the gorge the going seemed like a piece of cake after all I had been through. I was walking (hah!) through a stand of pine trees, and aside from branches getting in my way and the like, progress was relatively easy. I eventually found the trail on the other side and carefully made my way to the area where my keyring was. I say carefully, because I had no way of knowing if the teenagers were going to be coming back down the path, but they didn't. I was a bit angry with myself for clearing the area of all branches, but after what I had been through this seemed a minor annoyance. I scouted around until I found a suitable branch that would work, returned to my tree, retrieved the keys, and minutes later I was finally free.
Bob, you said in an editorial on the subject of self-bondage that we truly can be our own worst enemies...to which I can only reply "No Shit."
Well, I'm finished. Now all I've got to do is deal with this damn chair...
would have love it if you were dressed in womans clothing too.
Posted by: carlaray | September 18, 2008 at 12:35 PM