She’s young, fox-like, innocent, her arms bound tightly behind her back, twisted ropes digging into the soft flesh beneath her breasts.

Behind her, a second woman in red knickers and black elbow-length gloves raises a leather whip, poised to strike.

I swallow, and raise my pencil to the paper. But I can’t for the life of me remember a single thing from high school art class. I’m here in Studio B of the Lower Ossington Theatre for the regular Tuesday-night Keyhole Sessions, and from the moment the models reveal several thick coils of rope and sawed-off metal poles, it’s clear that this isn’t your typical life drawing class.

I wasn’t supposed to be here alone. My friend, a lovable, diehard romantic who stays up at night planning the perfect picnic date but has never had a girlfriend, got cold feet at the last moment.

“I don’t want the first time I see a naked woman to be in a bondage drawing class!” he protested.

Generally, I flabbergast him, and our conversations run something like this. Him: “You have a commitment problem. You don’t know how to open up to people.”

Me: “Sure I do! I love open relationships. Not to mention cheerleaders.”

So here I am, sitting in the front row of a bondage drawing class with a sketch pencil and little artistic imagination. 

Partly clad models carrying riding crops are decked out in army boots and steampunk goggles. And if that’s not enough to turn your creative crank, these twisted sisters also come wrapped in shibari-inspired rope bondage.

The most curious thing is the intimate atmosphere. It’s like the artistic version of hooking up with a beautiful stranger. There’s even something of the grand old hotel room about the studio, with its high ceilings, dusty skylight and low floodlights sending shadowy fingers snaking over naked bodies and across the floor.

“My co-workers think I’m a bit of a freak,” says graphic designer Sonya J.F. Barnett, who founded the sessions. Two years ago, Barnett was in a bondage show for Nuit Blanche. “Ever since then, I’m always looking for new outlets for my sexuality and exhibitionism,” she says. “This class is the perfect combination.”

Bondage enthusiast J.P. Robichaud, who’s tying the models today, sports tattooed arms, a shaved head and leather wristbands. “Some people prefer jute to hemp because it’s a bit softer,” he explains, lashing one of the model’s arms to a 7-foot black pole, the sawed off remnant of an Ikea lamp.

He’s got various shades of rope to match everything from toys and outfits to the colour of his partner’s eyes. Rope isn’t cheap, and can range from $5 to $50 a length, depending on how it’s treated. Full-blown kits including suspension and safety gear can go for upwards of $400.

And then there’s the actual tying.

From simple wrist-binding to the head-to-toe “rope dress” that Robichaud says feels like a “full-body hug,” mastering the art of restraint takes years of practice. Intricate designs mimic images in nature, from the pattern of a tortoise shell to the particular curve of a shrimp tail, and can take hours to complete.

But for this pose, Robichaud only has four minutes. So he works quickly to complete a basic chest harness. 

Good rope work, Robichaud tells me, is always comfortable and avoids sensitive areas like the neck and insides of the wrists.

“It feels great,” says the model, theatre student Jennifer Krukowski, who twists around to examine herself in the floor-to-ceiling studio mirrors. “Totally digging the ropes.”

Krukowski strikes a playful pose, sticking her tongue out at the class, and I bite back a wicked grin. I feel like I’m back in eighth grade looking at naked pictures of Angelina Jolie with the Google safety off.

Barnett calls out the five-minute mark, and I finish the arch of the model’s back, filling in the shadow.

It’s hard work. How often do we really look at a naked body – not stare or gawk – soaking in the folded curves and gentle arches? 

It’s a safe place to expose yourself, he says, both for the models and the artists. “No one’s going to judge you.”

As I pack up my supplies at the end of the two hours, I realize the real reason I was drawn to the class wasn’t sex. I admire the models. They have the guts to bare it all. The only place folks in my line of work get to expose ourselves is on paper.

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