Not long ago, my girlfriend and I visited an art gallery in a Southwest city. The main exhibit was of folk art.

While I was looking at wood carvings of ecstatic people pulling wagons, my girlfriend called to me, "Here's something you'll like."

In a glass case at the back, there was a fancy rope draped over a hook. It was titled Bondage Cord .

She was right. I did like it. But I was also embarrassed. Because if I showed interest, wouldn't that mean I was a fetishist? If I bought the objet d'bondage and used it to tie her up, wouldn't that mean I was a kinky cowboy? And if I were, in fact, a raving rodeo rider, shouldn't I feel ashamed?

"May I take a look?" I asked the gallery owner.

The Cord was woven from red strands, probably cotton, and was about ten feet long. At its ends, instead of tassels, it had gold bells and medallions.

I was abashed. Wouldn't using this work of high art for the low activity of trussing my girlfriend be considered a midlevel sin-worse than onanism but better than kidnapping? And what sort of ranch dude would force his partner to struggle and jingle, anyway?

I turned to the gallery owner and asked, "How much?"

"Six hundred fifty."

I was humiliated. First, I didn't have the cash. Second, I needed the money for apartment rent, not sexware collection. Third, if I shelled out that much for a cinching instrument, wouldn't that mean my obsessive behavior was totally out of control?

"Maybe we'll come back later," I said.

The Cord, however, stayed coiled in my psyche. As my girlfriend and I strolled the streets lined with adobe, I kept looking for silver clamps by Paloma, police cuffs by Brancusi, iron maidens by Chamberlain, stocks by DiSuvero.

I was totally humbled-mainly because all I could find were hand-tooled belts, wallets, snake kickers and gun holsters.

I knew that, sooner or later, I would have to acquire the Cord, get over my discomfiture, and tie the knot in a big way.