Choke me maybe

I have heard a thing or two about men and women who enjoy a good sex choke. But I always thought chokers and chokees were sexual deviants, the types who frequent the underground clubs teeming with leather whips and ball gags you always see as crime scenes in Law and Order: SVU.

But I learned this week, far from any sex club or asphyxia-nados, that was not the case.

C (C for Choker) and I first met when we were both in grad school at Harvard and have been friends for a few years now. We had a budding rapport, but he had a girlfriend so nothing ever ensued. Although one summer’s eve, we shared this magical moment where after hours, we somehow discovered a hidden elevator in Grand Central Terminal that led us to an amazing private view of the mural of stars, where we talked until sunrise, when the next morning’s construction crew kicked us out. We lost touch over the last year. Suddenly, last week, two days before he was set to move to Chicago, C texted.

We started the unassuming Wednesday night at a Stanford (his alma mater) open bar in the East Village, and after more vino on my Tribeca rooftop on the perfect August evening, C finally made his move. As he first kissed me, he softly whispered that he had wanted to do this since our time at Grand Central. Our connection started off so romantic and tender—as though this was a night two years in the making.

Fast forward 40 minutes (I think? I lost track of time…), and somehow he is grabbing me by my hair and choking me.

I have had my hair pulled before, but his roughhousing was certainly level 2—and I liked it. The choking was more of an introductory move, as I could see he was tepid and wanted to gauge my reaction. I didn’t even realize it was happening at first. I thought, does he realize that’s my throat, and I use it for breathing?? Quickly, I understood his maneuver was no accident.

CH2I always thought that anything out of the sexual ‘norm’ a la choking was only de rigeur for freaks. Or at least for two strangers passing in the night—no feelings required. But at that moment, it was part of the racy repertoire between C and me, who have had somewhat of a history. I also thought it was surprising that C employed this tactic on me—was I somehow subconsciously emitting that I hate oxygen?! I’m pretty sure it was clear that I did not think air was overrated.

In the end, we had pleasant time, he moved to Chicago, and we set a date for a fall rendezvous. Who knows how part deux will transpire. I realized, I never know what anyone has up their sleeves, and it’s not necessarily just about me or what I project. But I know not to over analyze—just breathe in (or gasp?) and enjoy!


It’s okay to like it rough

I love rough sex—and that is perfectly acceptable.

I always thought it was imperative to be hard to get, classy, and sweet. I used to adhere to those mantras (well, not when I was bumping and grinding at Marquee in 2006.  And 2007. OK, and 2008). But then I realized a truth:  life is short—bone. And bone how you want to!

Now, let’s call a spade a spade– I am in no way kinky or experienced enough, really more of the latter, to like it truly rough a la whips and chains (I might be amenable to a light slap across the face, however). I’m talking about enjoying diet rough sex: a little hair-pulling, booty-smacking, sex-bruising, and the like.

I LOVE a good sex bruise. I got my first contusion of the sort in San Francisco, earlier this year. Unless you cbruiseount a hickey I got circa 2001 from my high school boyfriend. My poor Indian mother thought I was getting in fights at school. Sorry Mommy, I’m not a bully, just a ho.

We will call him the Doctor. (He’s currently doing his MD/MBA at Stanford—undoubtedly one of the smartest smartypants I know.) We dated briefly in college and have kept in touch over the last ten or so years. By kept in touch, I mean hooked up. I was staying at the Ritz Carlton for work; perhaps it was the fact that we were in a luxe hotel overlooking the stunning SF skyline that made the Doctor act on his naughty impulses. If not the view of the city, perhaps it was the view of my ass as I greeted him dressed solely in my garter (have I mentioned I LOVE dressing up??). The hookup was a delight—tender, rough, and fun, all rolled up into one act. The cherry on top of this sultry sundae? I had a souvenir from our dirty deed! Every time I looked down (at my arm, neck, inner thigh…) I was greeted with a pleasant reminder of what once transpired.

I recently came back from a trip to see a separate boy in London (I’m so busy), and my only keepsake from the weekend romp was a giant sex shiner on my left arm. You would think I would be embarrassed of looking reminiscent of an abuse victim (a video chat with Mom led her to invoke God for help if I was secretly getting battered). But no—I freaking LOVE the bruise. It is perfect for show and tell. How was my trip, you ask? Well take a look at this baby!

I was taught to be virtuous and pure, and my (crazy) parents essentially ingrained in my head that sex is for sluts and I should do math instead of boys. But you know what—be authentic! Love sex! Love it rough! Or don’t! Just be me. I can still be classy and sophisticated (after all, I wear pearls) and like to get down and dirty. Ludacris said it best: be a “Lady in the streets, freak in the sheets.” Luda—you get me. So at the end of the day, I know what I have to do—keep it real!

My first one night stand

I always thought you need to really feel connected to someone to truly enjoy sex. I presumed chemistry was a rarity in this world, shared only with a select few.

Then I boned a rando, and I freaking loved it.

Going from only sleeping with (two) boyfriends, to a one night stand was quite the leap for me. In my rager-filled youth, I rarely had the urge to do anything more than make out with a stranger. A little spit-swapping and feeling up on the dance floor used to hit the spot and then I’d usually just peace out and spend the night with my true love–pizza. But suddenly, a new curiosity emerged: what would sex with a stranger be like?


I assumed it would be awkward, gross, painful, brief– standard fare. No, thank you. I don’t know if I hit the one night stand jackpot but my experience was nothing like that.

Let’s call him The Greek. He was a handsome lawyer with luscious locks and Clark Kent eyeglasses, who I met at a cocktail party for the Apollo Circle at the Met (the only way I was convinced to become a pricey patron of the arts, was the guarantee of countless open bars). Over cocktails, we chatted about the Punk to Couture exhibit and eventually migrated to the Four Seasons with a group of our friends to keep it classy. I don’t know when I decided that he was the Chosen One, but I could feel myself not being able to resist the temptation to finally discover what this whole hit it and quit it behavior was all about.

I suggested we leave our nice friends and head to our respective homes. “We can share a cab and make out a little if you want,” I nonchalantly suggested as if carpooling and french kissing were natural partners. The Greek was amenable.

We hopped in the (not long enough) ride from midtown to SoHo, and I straddled him. Oh yes, I love a good makeout slash straddle session in a taxi. It’s surprising, sexy, and pressing my butt against the backseat TV is better than watching it. When we first got in the cab, I told the driver we were making two stops, going to my Tribeca apartment second. (I’m SO hard to get). But as I ran my hands through that beautiful head of hair, it was at that moment I decided– this is it, we are going all the way.

All of a sudden, I had a thought– is this safe?? Wholly unfamiliar with all one-night-stand protocol, I pulled back from our liplock and asked The Greek two pivotal questions:

1. Are you going to serial kill me?

2. Do you have STDs?

After I felt comfortable I was going to emerge from this undertaking alive and disease free, I was ready to get down to business. And down to business we got. The night was just SO FUN. I remember falling asleep that night and thinking OH MY GOD- WHY HAVEN’T I BEEN BONING RANDOS ALL MY LIFE??? I suddenly understood why everyone was so slutty.

Then the morning came. We parted ways, and like the little bozo I am, I thought this clearly wasn’t a one night stand. I mean who wouldn’t want to have sex like that OVER and OVER again?? I patiently waited for him to text or call me. (And, maybe we will fall in love??) All day at work, I was beaming with the joy of just indulging in the most ravishing and unexpected night I had encountered in a long time.

Well, he never called. But the best part of having a one night stand for the first time at age 29, is that it is OKAY. I wasn’t devastated, I wasn’t appalled. I was zen. I still loved the sex we had. I would have happily re-boned, but alas, this was a lesson. Good sex is out there, not just with people I love. What a twist!!