I found myself chatting with a hot piece at a bar one night, and was impressed that he could keep up a conversation after so many shots of tequila...plus, I’ve always been a sucker for a pretty face…so we go back to his place for some fun in the gutter.
I am suddenly in a situation that can only be described as humorous, in hindsight, yet disturbing, in the least, in light of the potential violence that could have ensued had I not had a small moment of clarity.
We were deep into it and I felt his hands resting heavily on my collar bones...I’m sitting in his lap...and then one hand moves slowly up to my neck…still, no big deal...I was too busy with my own business to be bothered with what the meep he was doing, i.e. I didn’t notice the big red warnings flashing up all over my little head. When I finally did become “aware” of the assault on my pipes it was too late to dismiss it as recklessness or lost in the moment. He was looking directly at me and I saw in his eyes that he knew exactly what it was he was doing. He was choking me. He had his hand around my throat and was choking me, slowly but surely, while we're meeping on his couch.
I’ve always imagined the “attack” my father consistently drilled into my young head to be debilitatingly frightening, to put it mildly, and yet never really thought it would ever happen to ME! I always thought, “I’m a good judge of character and would never get myself into a situation that I couldn’t handle.” Surprisingly, it had become intrinsic; a survival skill and I am utterly amazed at how well I had been conditioned (Hoorah for Dad).
In an instant, I had drawn out the entire apartment in my head. I saw it in perfect architectural blue complete with dimension lines and footnotes. I marked two exits in red, mapped an escape labeled 'I LIVE…THIS WAY', and sought out a possible blunt, very heavy object within reach, to bash him in the meeping head until death or, at the very least, stun him so that I could make my escape.
Steeling myself against possible death or mutilation, it had come down to him or me.
Breathe, breathe, and breathe…
Thankfully, I checked myself before the potential tryst even began. Some sort of deep reasoning set in (a rebellion against my father’s “might-is-right, get-them-before-they-get-you” attitude, perhaps?) and I opted to try a simpler, less freak-in-the-hole approach. A gentle swipe of the hand, nonchalant and to the right; luckily (for him), he yielded. The balance of our tiny, momentary universe lay in that small gesture (well, at least, it felt like that to me) and it passed gently, silently, and without a care.
Funny thing: he had no idea that this struggle had transpired in my head during our sweet, hot, little moment, and he thought that it might just be something interesting.
Funnier still, it was the second night of our acquaintance (great way to get a call back).
And the best part? In true death-becomes-me fashion, I never missed a stroke…(Well, that IS when orgasmic asphyxiation happens, isn’t it?)
Turns out I’m glad I didn’t end his life with a glass ashtray. It could have been messy…