Oh My Ovaries
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Oh My Ovaries

Choke your own chicken, mate — not me.

Getting blackout drunk, not having an internal “stop now” alarm is a serious red flag.

I didn’t think his drinking was too bad.

I knew I found it annoying when he drank until he was sick, mostly because I HATE vomit. I hate hearing it, seeing it, cleaning up after it…

I knew it bothered me that we spent so much money on alcohol. I say we — I mean me, as I was the only one earning any money.

I knew it repulsed me when he drunk vomited. I knew it infuriated me when I had to get up to look after him, when all I wanted to do was to sleep.

I knew it embarrassed me when he went mine sweeping at my work Christmas do, collecting half full bottles of wine from function tables and taking them back to our hotel room.

I felt both disgusted and hopeless when he got so drunk he literally shit the bed, and I had to clean it up while he hosed himself off in the shower.

I knew I felt disturbed when after my friend’s wedding he decided that that was the time to get blackout drunk and introduce erotic asphyxiation into our sex life, with no previous discussion or consent.

I was not happy that a man who could barely stand up was insisting on having sex, and that he wrapped my tights around my throat, pulling until the fabric burned my skin, like rope.

I did not consider it lucky that he was so drunk it wasn’t difficult to physically get away, and settle him down into bed like an exhausted toddler, while he mumbled that he thought I would like it, and that I was too good to be with him.

I never brought the strangulation up with him. I doubt he even remembers it.

I threw those tights in the bin, like it was all their fault.

I didn’t mention any of this to my therapist. I still haven’t told my best friends. I think maybe I didn’t want to make it a “thing” — particularly when this was such a new relationship.

I have quite conflicted feelings about this. I know that this was a non consensual sex act. I know that this should never have happened. I’m also pretty sure that it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been sober, or it would have stopped a lot sooner if he’d been aware of what he was actually doing.

I don’t think that I was in any intentional danger, although if I had been as drunk as he was and less able to physically get myself out of that situation things could have been very different. I’m fully aware of that, though I consciously choose not to dwell on the “what ifs”.

He strangled me for maybe ten seconds. What hurt most was the “I thought you’d like it”.

I am terrified of not being able to breathe. I’m asthmatic. I’ve had enough asthma attacks to know what it’s like to be unable to get air into your lungs, like you’re drowning on dry land.

I can’t bear to watch anything drown. If I see a bug in water, I will scoop it out and put it somewhere safe. This was something that he knew about me, that he’d remarked on before.

So, with this in mind, why would I find it arousing to be strangled? Why would you introduce my biggest fear into one of my favourite things? It’s not “play” when only one person knows the rules of the game, or that the game even exists.

This happened about four years ago. Mostly, I don’t think about it. Occasionally, I remember it and think “oh yeah, that definitely wasn’t right”.

I’m still undecided as to whether it was an assault, or an experiment gone awry, or even something between the two.

What’s crystal clear to me is that you should never impulsively introduce erotic asphyxiation into your sex play. It needs to be planned out together, and 100% consensual. It should never be a “do first and then ask for forgiveness if it goes wrong”.



Tales from a slightly sarcastic, gleefully feminist killjoy.

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Laura-Anne Williams

Director of Get Social. Marketing and feminism are my bag, baby. And cake. Big fan thereof.