I’ve only dated one writer. As much as I love writers and surround myself with them on a daily basis, I’ve never really wanted to go to bed with one. They’re dramatic, too in their heads, and when things go wrong, you know they’re going to write about it and plaster it somewhere for the world to see; and most times, they won’t even change your name. I should know – I pull that shit all the time.

Thomas was a writer who was working on his second book and was an adjunct professor at Columbia. I think it was mostly the professor part I liked. He wasn’t my “type,” at all. I didn’t find him exceptionally attractive or witty, but he was so damn smart I just couldn’t get enough of him. Sometimes when we were fooling around he’d recite his doctoral thesis, and honestly, it was pretty hot; even if the premise of his thesis still remains a mystery to me to this day.

Having a few years on me, and several more sexual experiences than I under his belt, he was really adventurous in bed and always looking to push the limits. It seemed harmless at first: adding some toys into the mix, taking turns with tying each other up… basic stuff that we all try out at some point or another. One day he asked me what my “safe” word was. Having never needed a safe word in my life, but being slightly versed in the world of BDSM, I knew what he meant and laughingly said: “apple.” I was eating an apple when he asked me the question.

A few weeks went by, our sexual relationship evolved (frankly, that’s all it was anyway), then one night he put his hands around my throat and started to squeeze. The aggression was sexy initially, but he started to squeeze tighter and tighter, to the point where I started smacking at him because 1. I couldn’t breathe; and 2. I actually feared for my life. I thought back to the afternoon when I was devouring my delicious Granny Smith apple and yelled: “APPLE!” It’s really hard to vocalize anything let alone formulate a cohesive word when a man who’s far stronger than you is pretty much choking you for some sort of sexual satisfaction.

When I broke free, I immediately started screaming at him. To the best of my knowledge, I hadn’t agreed that erotic asphyxiation was on the menu, and if it was, I thought it should at least be discussed beforehand. I love sex, but I love breathing even more.

After that episode, where I was called “narrow-minded,” our relationship quickly fizzled; as in he walked out of my apartment and we never contacted each other again. I had to go to work the next day and lie that I had choked the night before, on an apple of course, and the man at the table adjacent to me just didn’t know how to properly give the Heimlich.

For awhile I wondered if I was being narrow-minded when it came to sex; if perhaps, it was something I should have at least tried before shooting it down, but those thoughts faded fast. I would never judge someone for what gets them off sexually; no matter how taboo or vile the world may consider it, it’s not my place to dictate the proper way to fuck. However, for me, I like breathing. The best part about sex is breathing, that gasping that comes with reaching climax, then the way you have to catch your breath after you have finally reached orgasm… all that breathing! So much breathing! Personally, I love it… I love breathing.