From Wrong Tree Review. Suckers.

Choked

I’ve been choked by two men in one week. Both men were named Dave.

The first man who choked me was a thirty year old African-American man. I was sitting and he was standing. He came closer and closer reaching out towards my neck with purposeful zombie arms. His eyes met mine and I couldn’t say anything.

My eyes invited it, maybe.

I sat on my hands while his went around my neck. Huge and strong they squeezed and shook. My head filled, my eyes swelled. I suddenly felt like I wanted to be fucked and right when I opened my mouth to say stop, he slowly released and told me that I liked that. There were no words I could find to respond. I only could nod. He laughed in a way that said I told you so and then he left. I sat on my hands for a moment longer before bringing them up around my neck to investigate; so warm.

The second man who choked me was 66 years old. I was standing and he was sitting. He looked quickly from side to side before reaching up and putting his hands around my neck. I didn’t have a chance to say anything. My eyes met his; they looked both angry and satisfied. I held on as long as I could while my head throttled back and forth like a slippery fish.

I took it, and when he finished, I just nodded and he wiped his mouth and panted along with me.

The walk away was shaky and stunned.

One week, two men, two Dave’s, both choking and what does this mean? I am asking myself this when I am sitting. I am asking myself this when I am standing. I am asking myself this in the shower. I am asking myself this when I shake the bed with it at night.

I worry about riding the subway now, or getting my sink fixed, or asking for directions, or running into men named Dave or men in general; what if it’s Steves next or Jims? I stare at men’s hands now but it’s different. I study them. I commit them to memory; color, length, thickness, width. I hold my head higher, helping their target lengthen; the shortest skirt on stocking-topped thighs down the darkest alley, but still, I walk, and wait and want.

Lots of things happen or need to happen and even if there are only four they will confound and overwhelm me.

Yes, I just used the word, “confound.”

I like to bury myself under things that are primarily transparent and weigh next to nothing.

I like to obsess on sex things and then write about them.

Last night I accidentally went on an old porn website I used to frequent. HUGE accident! Whoops! How did THAT happen! Silly me! So, WHOOPS, I typed in “amateur gangbang” (accidentally AGAIN because, well, force of habit) and this old clip I used to jill off to all the time was one of the thumbnails. So, FOR NOSTALGIA PURPOSES ONLY I watched it and I accidentally made myself have an orgasm.

But, you know what? Accidents happen. People make mistakes. People move on from them. It’s all good. I'm not about to beat myself up about this. Good thing I have insurance. Like a good neighbor and all that...

Every day you promise to pay for them. Every day. Finally I let you. Because they are old, anyway. Because I can buy a new pair with the money and still have enough for two more. Because I need the money.

You stare with shopworn eyes while I slip them off, one at a time. Your mouth is an open drawer and I feel like I am performing. I wish I had done it slower.

“Pink…nice,” you groan. I shuffle my toes against the dirty sidewalk, suddenly ashamed of my peeling self-pedicure. The ground is cold but I don’t feel it.

I want to watch you with them, but I don’t tell you this. A man buying things from a woman he has worn down from begging is a man obsessed. How he must look when he takes them home, smells them, delirium drunk on his face, a hard on strong enough to break stone. This is something I want to see; him furious with his fist, face buried in my soles. Or will he sit with them as long as he can stand, sniffing. Savoring.

He kneels down and takes them gently like a treasure. I wait for him to get up. I want to watch his eyes.