By JUSTIN JONES

I like being choked. A little. My experience tells me this isn’t an uncommon want. Before you get your panties in a bunch, I’m not talking erotic asphyxia. At least not what comes to mind when you hear the term “erotic asphyxia”—I don’t enjoy being strangled to the point of passing out or anything.

I prefer the cuddle-choke. Let me explain. I met a cute guy at a bar recently. He was tall and masculine, rugged with that oh-so-desirable “straight-acting” quality about him. And to top it off, he was sweet. Very sweet. He told me I was “f***ing cute,” and showed jealousy when I spoke to other men.

When I met the guy, I told him right away I wasn’t good for a hook-up. Not my style. He appreciated it. He thought it was adorable, he said, and he respected my boundaries. Of course, as the night waned, I wanted him to want to take me home—regardless of whether I was going to or not. At the end of the night, as we stood outside with my friends, he talked to me about how much he liked tinkering with his car.

He told me about his dog. And he reminded me that he thought I was attractive. In other words, he sealed the deal. He saw that I was his, and my “no hookups” policy went out the door. “So do I get to take you home?” he asked. “I guess,” I smiled. “But only to cuddle.” “Deal.”

Later, in his messy bedroom, we lay in our underwear: I in a fetal position, him behind, holding me. I felt his big chest against my back, his scruffy face in the crook of my neck, his big arms around my waist, pushing my butt against his—ahem. Anyway, it was nice.

I felt sexy, yes. I felt wanted. But more than that, I felt safe. I felt like he was a protector of sorts. A very schoolgirl thing for me to think, sure, but I felt it nonetheless. As we lay there, his hand caressed my chest and made its way up to my throat, where it lingered for a little while, and continued over my face. He touched my cheek with the back of his hand. He patted my hair. And then he returned his hand to my throat.

He didn’t apply pressure or anything, but for some reason this act alone made me feel safer still. I gave his hand around my neck a gentle nudge. He pushed into me harder and squeezed it. Just a little. The act aroused me immediately. It didn’t hurt, and I could still breathe. It was odd, this feeling.

Like it made him more dominant in my eyes, but also somehow more of a protector. This is the cuddle-choke: a passionate, twisted way of cuddling with someone in a way that shows off dominance—and affection.

My ex introduced me to this. Maybe that’s why it holds such significance for me. Like he’s still there, somehow. As if it’s one part of him I can’t let go. Or, more likely, it’s just us boys– prudes in the street, but freaks in the bed.