4/2026 (c)
I don’t know, call me old-fashioned.
I never got into erotic asphyxiation.
Maybe it was because after months
I still never knew his last name,
or where he and his family lived,
only that when he texted
occasional offers
of what felt like timely,
necessary orgasms
they meant his meaty hand
around my throat,
pressing—
until I pictured a snapped hyoid bone
or a busted mandible, trachea.
I felt captive.
He wouldn’t engorge,
couldn’t ejaculate
and I believed this threat of harm
was the closest to pleasure he’d come,
and I am, if nothing else,
reciprocal..
