So, how does a black person identify as a slave, given its historical connotations? Photos of enslaved Africans bound by chains and covered in whip marks provoked a visceral horror in me. My experience, then, seemed more like some kind of taboo reserved for white people than anything I should be doing. Growing up, I had no real contact with white people, outside of teachers, police, and retail workers. My family and friends often joked about the weird things white folks did, and twisted sex acts-like incest, bestiality, and golden showers-was one of them. As a young black woman trying to find herself, I wondered if enjoying these acts somehow betrayed my blackness. I didn’t tell anyone what had happened because I was ashamed. I recall his soothing words: “Relax, baby girl, it’s going to be okay.
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I remember the initial, instinctive fight to live, as my body felt on the brink of oxygen-deprivation.
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As he cut off my air supply, waves of an intense orgasm coursed through my body.
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Sensing he had full control, I submitted to Devon’s command, and discovered what remains my primary kink: erotic asphyxiation. Then, there was the first time Devon wrapped his hands around my throat. He wasn’t my first sexual partner, but I had many firsts with him: the first time I climaxed without penetration the first time I discovered my spine could be an erogenous zone after he trailed a riding crop down my back the first time I was flogged from my thighs down to the soles of my feet. Standing 6-foot-4-inches tall, with medium-brown skin, Devon* was in his late 20s.
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Back then, I was dating an older man whose particular taste included darker fetishes I had only read about in Anne Rice’s erotic stories or my mom’s porn magazines. My first experience with kinky sex happened at 19.