I regularly review training programs from other dojos. Sometimes I come across useful ideas; other times, interesting approaches; and almost always, perspectives on teaching shibari that broaden my view.
But every now and then, I also find something that unsettles me—something that raises real concern.
Among the common scenarios I strongly disagree with as an instructor, one stands out.
Technical progress is often framed as a linear path: from “basic knots and frictions,” through partial suspension (using various harnesses), all the way to full suspension, the hashira, and torsions.
It’s a trajectory that sets the ultimate benchmark as pinning someone against a post—like a sheet of newspaper slapped against a lamppost in a windstorm.
This sequencing is little more than a reflection of the standard—statistically typical—pattern of foreplay, intercourse, and orgasm, just arranged in a more vertical, segmented way.
And to make matters worse, in most cases the rigger’s “skill” becomes the yardstick, overlooking the value and active role of the person being tied.
On top of that, there’s something that genuinely pains me: the idea of aiming to “perform a figure from memory,” like a machine, reproducing it exactly the same way and with the same result as someone else—as if all bodies were identical, responded the same way, or had the same physical condition.
Our teaching method is built on helping students adapt technique to their intentions and abilities.
That’s why it’s impossible for everyone in the same workshop to achieve identical results.
Erotic shibari is not a single-answer equation. Quite the opposite—it’s a story we build every day with new words, using a different grammar each time.
Before going further, let me explain how we approach these aspects in our dojo.
There are no rigid levels.
Some people are still figuring out whether shibari appeals to them, interests them, or is worth their time; they’re simply looking for a basic introduction.
For them, we offer a short half-day course as an entry point.
From there, those who decide shibari is worth pursuing begin working on technical foundations: first, the historical, psychological, and cultural aspects that will shape the context of their experience.
The focus is, in fact, on each person’s erotic experience. We don’t teach based on other people’s experiences, and there are no gurus or one-size-fits-all formulas that work the same for everyone in every situation.
Both participants are always distinct, evolving individuals.
The second step involves working with the body—its posture and movement—of each participant.
For us, erotic shibari is something shared: both people are active, both are present, both operate on equal footing in terms of power and responsibility.
A useful comparison is partner dancing—tango, bachata, ballroom. A lifeless body, a lack of intent, an absence of presence—none of that has a place here.
A third area of study is rope use, but not to build complex patterns or memorize figures. Instead, it’s about understanding how rope helps stabilize the body and shape the emotional experience of the person being tied—adapting not just to each individual, but to each moment.
The style we teach, sekibaku, is not about replicating patterns. It’s not about tying something and calling it done.
Rather, it’s a companion—an accessory to an erotic interaction between people exploring their emotional experience through the act of tying, being tied, or engaging with the broader techniques that define shibari.
That’s why when I read phrases like “energy management methods,” I can’t help but laugh.
I assume they mean volts and amps, and I wonder what electrical wiring has to do with shibari.
Or are we talking about imaginary forces? Can you imagine a workshop on very Catholic, inquisitorial-style torture including a section on “communion with the Holy Spirit”?
I respect almost everyone’s beliefs—there are bridges I won’t cross, but this isn’t one of them.
It’s perfectly valid if, in your own play, you include concepts like ki energy, midichlorians, or even the Black Stone of the Kaaba. It’s your space.
But when you teach a workshop or a course, it’s not honest to exploit people’s spiritual gaps or their appetite for the exotic just to take their money in exchange for a string of beautifully packaged falsehoods.
Attempts to fit shibari neatly into BDSM are quite common. There would be nothing wrong with that if they didn’t often boil down to a checklist of tips and poses like “how to make a collar” or “how to expose intimate areas without shame.”
Shibari, in its more “traditional Japanese” form, is a technique that works. Among its effects is the ability to place the person being tied into states where they become more susceptible to conditioning, with their capacity to assess consequences influenced—sometimes significantly—by external factors.
If the goal is a safe and satisfying session for both parties, these characteristics demand a serious approach and a deep dive into the psychological and technical dimensions of shibari.
That, more than anything, is what places it at an advanced level—not because of difficulty per se, but because of the time and context required just to address it properly.
The complexity of erotic shibari—especially in the sekibaku style—does not lie in creating more elaborate patterns, using more rope, or executing physically demanding sequences. It lies in the range and intensity of the emotional experience we are willing and prepared to face, process, and take responsibility for.
Adding a bit of spice to an interaction is within reach of any student, even on day one.
Facing intense, deep, shared emotional expressions is also possible—but doing so safely and sensibly requires more tools. Not necessarily more classes, but the kind of preparation that allows for adaptive management.
And it’s important to be precise here: experience and management are not the same.
Emotional experience is what happens—what you feel when practicing shibari.
Management, on the other hand, is what ensures that experience remains safe, satisfying, and adaptive.
It rests on three pillars: the technique needed to generate it, the knowledge to keep it within manageable limits at any given moment, and the readiness to process and integrate it afterward.
That, ultimately, is what our school offers through its courses and workshops: not the experiences themselves, but the tools to face them.
As an instructor, I find it just as valuable—if not more—when people in their biological maturity learn to use body and rope to achieve a simple, well-structured, functional tie that they can safely incorporate into their repertoire, as when someone at peak physical condition experiences a coregasm through the progression of a suspension.
That said, age—biological maturity—is not the same as emotional maturity.
The latter doesn’t depend on years or physical condition. It’s the result of that same process of management: technique, knowledge, and readiness, sustained over time.
In both cases, these individuals live a unique, personal experience—one that technique allows them to explore with intensity, safety, and satisfaction.
The goal of sekibaku is simply the fulfillment of erotic desire.
It’s not about doing more or making things more complicated, but about understanding your own abilities, tastes, preferences, and circumstances in that specific moment—so you can have the best possible experience, every time.