For a long time, I avoided spending extended periods overseas.
It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go.
For more than twenty years, I have worked in adult video, where someone else can step in if I leave a regular booking open. If I take a long break, there may be less work waiting for me when I return. That worry has been with me throughout my career.
So even when opportunities to work overseas came along, there was some fear about being away from Japan for too long.
But now, my desire to share the rope I inherited—and the thinking behind it—with people who want to learn has grown stronger.
Leaving the adult industry, once
At one point, I had actually decided to leave that world.
When I turned fifty, I announced my retirement from adult work. After that, I started the café and gym I run today.
At the time, I thought I would leave a life in the shadows and begin living in the sunlight.
Then my teacher, Randa Mai, passed away.
While Randa was alive, I had considered it my role to protect what I had inherited, keeping it safe within myself so that no one could destroy it. After my teacher’s death, my role would be to carry it into the future.
That was why I returned to adult video and SM work.
I had only been away for about two years. The world I returned to was not entirely different.
But changes that had already been taking place gradually in society had become more visible. And, of course, I was no longer quite the same person either.
What a changing society asks of those who take the dominant role
Experiences that people once swallowed as “just the way things are” have increasingly been named as harassment or violations of human rights.
People can say that something was unwanted. They can say that they were hurt.
Society has become more accepting of people in less powerful positions speaking up. I believe that change matters deeply.
For a long time in Japan, women were often expected to accommodate others, endure things quietly, and put their partners first. These were treated as virtues.
Of course, this was not true of every woman. Still, I think many women maintained relationships with men—at home, at work, and in their romantic lives—by taking a step back themselves.
Giving way because they loved someone.
Remaining silent because they cared.
Putting their own feelings aside to support the other person.
Sometimes this was a choice they wanted to make. Sometimes they had been taught that this was what it meant to be feminine.
Those values are gradually changing.
But a change in social values does not mean that the desire to be dominated, to surrender to someone, or to experience intense sensations has disappeared.
Being expected to endure something is different from choosing to surrender.
That is why I believe those of us who take the dominant role need to reconsider how we approach it.
We should not act from the assumption that anything is permitted. We need to understand what the other person wants, how they are experiencing what we do, and how far they wish to surrender.
The more intense the play, the more we need not only technical skill, but also attentiveness and responsibility.
To me, this is one of the most important changes facing SM today.
What should SM films portray now?
I believe this presents a significant question for adult video, and especially for SM films.
A woman is the central figure, yet within the story she is subjected to one-sided torment. She resists, cries, suffers, and eventually succumbs to pleasure.
That has long been one of the established narratives of SM films.
Of course, people still enjoy it as fantasy. I am not trying to deny that enjoyment.
But as values surrounding women change, I wonder whether those of us creating these films should simply keep repeating the same stories.
In the parts of the industry where I work, I get the impression that harder SM films are finding it more difficult to sell, and that productions are moving in a softer direction.
Yet I do not think the answer is simply to reduce the intensity.
Perhaps intensity alone is not the real question.
Who is this expression for? What is the woman feeling within the story?
Beyond the acts themselves, what relationship exists before and after them? What allows her to surrender? Why does she choose to accept this play?
And how much responsibility is the person taking the dominant role prepared to take for her body and her emotional well-being?
I believe the future of SM filmmaking needs to explore these things too.
What has stayed with me since “Zecchou”
These are not thoughts I have only recently begun to have.
My thinking has changed very little since I founded my own SM label, Zecchou (“Climax”), at the age of thirty-four.
Even then, I did not believe that spectacular, brutal, or sensual play alone would make an SM film sell.
I believed that if the SM exchanged between the two people was genuine, the work would reach an audience.
For me, rope, whips, pain, and visual stimulation are not the purpose of SM in themselves. I have always seen them as ways to move our emotions and reach somewhere deeper.
Perhaps what we are truly seeking is the emotional connection between the dominant and submissive partners, and the release that lies beyond it.
That was why, for Zecchou, I chose to work with slaves and play partners with whom I had already built relationships, rather than with models brought in only for the day of filming.
I wanted to film something that emerged from a relationship that existed before the shoot and continued after it.
I think I was searching for the truth of SM.
At the time, when selling a hundred copies of a video priced at around ¥10,000 was considered a hit, Zecchou titles sold five hundred copies, and some sold around a thousand.
I took those numbers as a response from enthusiasts who were looking for something similar.
There were people who wanted more than spectacle. There were people who wanted to see SM in which two people were truly engaging with one another.
That was what I felt the people buying my work had taught me.
That feeling has not changed.
I did not stop making Zecchou films because I no longer wanted to film that kind of SM. Once I no longer had a partner with whom I could engage wholeheartedly, I simply could not find the desire to make those films.
I want to experience genuine SM.
I want to make genuine SM films again.
That desire is still there, deep inside me.
Life continues after the filming ends
At the same time, I have come to think even more carefully about my responsibility toward the people I work with.
I am also a mother of three daughters. These days, more of the actresses I meet on set are the same age as my daughters, or even younger.
I cannot see them only as people who exist within a film.
The time captured on video is only a tiny part of their lives. During that brief time, they earn money through work involving their bodies.
But their lives continue long after filming ends.
What would it mean if I left a lasting injury or scar on someone’s body for the sake of that brief moment?
They might remember the shoot every time they saw it. What would remain with them emotionally? How might it affect the rest of their lives?
Thinking about these things has made me even more careful with rope than I was before.
That does not mean I want to make everything small or restrained.
I want to prepare carefully to reduce physical strain and risk as much as possible, so that each person can fully explore the expression they want to create. I want them to be able to bring as much of themselves to it as they wish.
But no amount of preparation, skill, or knowledge can eliminate risk. That is why I want us to discuss the risks and keep checking how the person is doing, with the freedom to continue, change what we are doing, or stop.
And I hope that having their performance preserved in a film can become something positive for them too.
I believe supporting that is part of the purpose of the dominant role.
Taking steps to reduce risk and creating intense expression are not inherently opposing goals. We can move together toward what the person wants while respecting their body and their choices. I believe this is where expressions and emotions unique to that moment can emerge.
Yet, frustratingly, manufactured performances often become hits.
Even so, I believe there is a radiance that exists only in something genuine.
That radiance may look faint or fragile. It may not be spectacular, and it may not reveal itself immediately. But I believe that something truly born between two people never loses its light.
Something manufactured may seem to shine brightly for a moment. But to me, that is a light that is gradually consumed, overwritten by the next stimulus.
Genuine radiance remains, even when it is quiet, and continues to be loved.
That is the light I have always wanted to preserve on film.
So I am not rejecting adult video, nor do I want to leave it behind entirely. Someday, I would like to capture that genuine exchange of SM again.
But making it work as a film has become more difficult than it used to be.
There are regulations intended to protect performers, production companies’ priorities, and requirements for bringing a film to market. Naturally, I believe these need to be respected.
Within those conditions, how much of the feeling that arises between two people can we preserve on film? That presents a different kind of difficulty from the ones we faced before.
“So what do I do?”
I do not yet have an answer. I think I will keep asking that question.
Carrying Randa Mai into the future, beyond adult video
I have also come to realize that adult video is not the only place where rope can be preserved.
Adult video has its own rules. There are things we cannot discuss within that format.
Yet I have come to feel that some of those very things are knowledge that everyday rope enthusiasts need in order to understand the risks involved and enjoy bondage while reducing those risks as much as possible.
The shapes of the ties and the mechanics of applying rope cannot tell the whole story.
Why tie that part of the body?
Why use that form?
How do we reduce strain on the body?
What do we observe in our partner, and how do we make decisions?
My approach to modern kinbaku aims to help people enjoy SM while reducing the risks involved as much as possible.
To support that, I want to share more than techniques. I also want to share knowledge about risk, ways of communicating about each person’s wishes and boundaries, and the thinking that helps us make decisions as things change.
As more people have told me that they want to know and want to learn, my desire to share these things overseas has grown stronger.
The responsibility I have given myself is to carry Randa Mai into the future.
That means more than preserving the shapes of the ties or the techniques. It means passing on what we think about when applying rope, how we engage with the person receiving it, and what we seek to protect.
I believe that is my role.
Alongside my work in adult video, writing books, teaching workshops, and performing on stage all have a part to play in this. Now, the places where I want to share this knowledge are expanding beyond Japan.
With these thoughts in mind, I recently reread an interview greenz.jp published with me in 2016.
Ten years have passed since then.
In that interview, I described my role as a rope practitioner as supporting someone until they could let everything go and reach a state of deep relaxation. I spoke of what lay beyond that as human dignity: a feeling that “it is okay for me to be alive.”
Reading those words ten years later, I realized that the roots of what I am thinking about today have barely changed.
But now, I want to put it into words more precisely.
What it means to “become zero” in Randa’s rope
Recently, I have been hearing the phrase “schools of kinbaku” more often.
Even when people use the same hemp rope and create similar-looking ties, their ways of thinking about kinbaku can be very different.
So what is Randa’s rope?
If I call it “liberation of the soul,” many people may say they seek the same thing. I feel I need to explain what that liberation actually means.
Today, I think of it as:
“Allowing the person receiving the rope to become zero.”
Zero does not mean denying yourself or erasing your existence.
It means being able, for a time, to put down the roles and responsibilities you usually carry. Your awareness of how others see you. The need to keep making decisions. The need to keep protecting yourself.
You do not have to perform a role.
You do not have to keep trying so hard.
You do not have to stay constantly on guard.
But creating that state is not a matter of simply telling someone, “Please let everything go.”
It means discussing the risks, understanding what each person wants and does not want, and building a relationship in which the person receiving the rope can choose to surrender. I believe the person tying has a responsibility to keep working toward that.
Having the necessary skills. Continuing to learn about the body. Preparing for the risks we can anticipate. Continuing to observe the person in front of us.
And building trust that their choices and any changes in how they feel will be taken seriously.
Feeling at ease enough to surrender is not the same as being free from physical risk. Trust and experience do not make that risk disappear.
Surrender does not mean losing your own will, either. Being able to say no, or to stop at any point, is part of that sense of ease.
I think every decision in my rope begins with that purpose and works backward from it.
Where do I place the rope? How much force do I use? Where do I leave space?
When do I wait? When do I move on? And when do I untie?
The care we take to reduce risk is not separate from expression.
If we want to create a time when someone does not have to remain constantly on guard, then the person tying has a responsibility to keep checking their condition and making decisions to reduce strain and risk.
Ten years ago, I called it “ultimate relaxation.” Now, I am trying to describe it as “becoming zero.”
I think I am looking at the same thing.
But after ten more years of tying, teaching, thinking about accidents, learning about the body, and working with many different people, my words have gradually changed.
Sharing my rope overseas also makes me question it anew
Now, I want to be able to explain all of this in English as well as Japanese.
Since I began thinking about teaching overseas, I have been trying to develop the habit of thinking in both languages.
When you try to communicate with people from another culture, a vague sense that you understand something is no longer enough.
Why this rope?
Why this placement?
Why teach it this way?
What am I trying to protect?
And what makes Randa’s rope different from other approaches?
Each time I try to put these things into words, I find myself being asked those questions in return.
I am finding that fascinating.
For so long, I worried that spending an extended period overseas might cost me my work in Japan. Now, I am preparing to go overseas to share my rope.
At fifty, I left adult work once. My teacher’s death brought me back into that world.
When I returned, changes that had already begun were more visible. My own way of approaching the work and the people involved had changed too.
Now, I want to reach beyond the boundaries of my existing work and go where there are people who want what I have to share.
Writing books, teaching, performing on stage, and making films are all connected to the responsibility I have given myself: carrying Randa Mai into the future.
Not only the techniques, but why we use them. Not only the shapes, but the thinking beneath them.
As I reread the 2016 interview, I felt a continuous line connecting who I was ten years ago with who I am today.
Now, I am learning again so that I can extend that line into the future.
Since reaching an age when I am more conscious of the time I have left, I have found more things I want to learn, more things I want to think about, and more places I want to go.
It seems that having less time ahead of us and finding greater richness in that time can happen together.
Lately, I feel a new sparkle entering that time.
