The most violent I’ve ever been was with a woman.
Not that I intentionally lived a life of passiveness in preparation for this event; I just hadn’t experienced personal physical aggression.
Alive for 22 years. Yet no punches thrown, no punches received.
So when she hissed in my ear under the sheets that I should choke her, I almost went limp with apprehension.
“What’s the process?” I asked. “Is there a safe word? Or do you plan on squeezing my balls as a reminder that I’m stealing your life force?”
She laughed and spoke with the crisp accent of a girl who spent her whole life in the fresh-water lakes of cottage country. Unrefined yet sweet natured. It’s what I loved about Ontario girls.
“Don’t be silly; you’ll know if it’s hurting me.”
At the time I was hardly the two-and-half-minutes-of-missionary-then-sleep type. I was a drunk and drug-induced foreigner down for anything. But hurting someone for their own sexual gratification freaked me the fuck out.
I know how Michael Hutchence and the dude from Kill Bill died; it’s a risky way to have an orgasm.
Yet she was a sweet girl with a mind-melting smile from cottage country, so I obliged.
The sex continued as it does, both of us heightened by the MDMA given to us from the Ziploc bag earlier in the night. My grip mustn’t have been ferocious enough as she decided I needed to press my thumb down harder on her windpipe.
Maneuvering me like a rigid puppet she informs me to “Stop being a fucking baby.” Like a fucking baby I did what I was told.
A minute goes by. I’m impressed with myself. Another minute passes and I’m almost sick at the thought of choking her for one more second. I never get to be sick because luck comes my way the next second—she passes out.
It wasn’t, “Oh my god, I had so much to drink last night I passed out in the middle of sex with an Australian guy!” That’s the ideal scenario. No, this was “I got the Australian guy to choke me during sex and he did it so long oxygen stopped reaching my brain so I passed out.”
I freak. I’ve forgotten her name so it becomes a string of weird nicknames and colloquiums.
“C’mon, mate! Wake up! Hey, girl, Blondie, can you hear me?” Nothing.
The house is empty and I didn’t want any witnesses to a potential homicide anyway. Never mind, she’s breathing. I mentally return the garbage bags and duct tape to the drawer.
I pour some water on her forehead and move her head around a little; she’s out to the world. Pulling my pants on, I start letting out every cuss word a Tarantino film has taught me.
What the fuck am I going to do?
What if she is in a coma?
Will I go to jail until she comes out of it?
Not a chance, I decide. I am waking this girl up just so she can learn a valuable lesson that violence and sex don’t mix.
So I slap her.
Lightly, of course. Just to see if the shock will bring her back to consciousness.
I shake her and am yelling as the fear in my voice gets noticeably shrill.
“Don’t be a fucking baby” enters my mind, so with desperation I pull back and slap her with force.
“OWW! FUCK! THAT HURT!” she blurts out as an evil grin grows on her face. “Is that how you wake up everyone that passes out?”
I stand there speechless and she rubs her face and continues to giggle at what she’s manifested. While laughing, she says, “I was out for like 20 seconds, then I just wanted to see how you’d react.”
I don’t love Ontario girls much anymore. I also struggle to comprehend how violence against women can come so easily to so many.