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!

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