De garrotibus non disputandum est

 

(I started writing this poem back when the government's plans to ban pornography which featured 'strangulation or suffocation' was merely a proposal - in the time it's taken me to finish it, that proposal has now become law - a law I disagree with. As I point out below, an awful lot of women enjoy some consensual breath play from time to time, and as one of them I resent the government not just policing my sexual imaginary but implying that it in some way contributes to violence against women and girls when - again, as I point out below - I think the causes of that are much closer to home, where this government is concerned. I wrote the bulk of this in one session when, as I say, the law was just a proposal, and the rest of it today. The result is something that varies very wildly in tone and structure, and which may need a lot of editing before I can get it into a form I'm happy with. I publish this version of it here because there are some bits of both sections I quite like, and I think it would be nice to have some record of those bits somewhere as the poem eventually coheres into what it's properly going to be.)

Some go under the gun when they get a tattoo,
some make do with the ol’ stick-n-poke;
some like to know that they’re loved when they screw,
some find that puts them off their stroke;
some like getting down to it, some want to be woo’d
-         and some of us like to be choked.
 
Some caress with ethereal lightness of touch,
and some love to maul, grab and grope;
some people don’t bother with sex all that much,
some hit a dry spell and can’t cope;
some like it tender and some like it rough
and some of us like to be choked:
 
We want leather gauntlets instead of kid gloves
-         we may be, in all other ways, woke;
we might push back on claims kids need toughening up,
and interrogate off-colour jokes –
but in amorous matters, when push comes to shove,
some of us like to be choked
 
with consent, within limits, with safewords in place,
and having informed our close folk
where we’re going, and leaving a trail they can trace,
quite aware of the risk we have took
for the thrill of at once feeling helpless and safe.
It can feel nice to be choked:
 
to be gradually forced between strong arms or thighs
which then tighten their grip on your throat;
to feel strength leave your body, to feel panic rise,
the relief and release at the break:
it’s both terror and pleasure you’ll see in my eyes
in that moment. I like to be choked,
 
and while I will admit I’m a deviant case,
I know that I’m far from alone.
Thirty per cent of us broads share my tastes
(which is ten per cent more than the blokes):
a sizable chunk of the whole human race,
it seems, rather likes to be choked,
 
and I don’t think you’ve room in the prison estate
to throw so many folk in the poke
for consumption of content reflecting our tastes,
as you piously seek to propose,
alongside the thousands you mean to detain
for the Palestine flags on their clothes:
 
you might get off dreaming of your own police state
but said state’s something we all oppose,
from the tops to the bottoms. We won’t tolerate
your intolerance of people whose
one crime is the fact that we get entertained
watching people like us getting choked.
 
So what if we do? I think Cop Killer’s cool,
that doesn’t make me Raoul Moat!
I liked Tommy Lee Jones in that Under Siege, too,
and I’m not out here hijacking boats!
Yet apparently you think I’m down to abuse
because I get off on being choked?
 
There’s a word you’re ignoring in your rush to censure
and that word, of course, is consent,
though that doesn’t surprise me – your mate Pete’s pal, Jeffrey,

wasn’t real clear on what that word meant;
him, and lots of chaps friendly with your buddy Wesley
seem to be of a sinister bent,
 
like the cops on that force you so keenly defended,
your kaffeeklatsch chums from the Met,
men like Couzens and Carrick who– do you remember? –
were both once assigned to protect
the likes of yourself and your high-value brethren,
like Andy, who claimed not to sweat,
 
or your manager, Charlie, once best friends with Jim –
oh, I know we don’t mention that, yes,

it isn’t the done thing to talk about him
but I’m not one of your friends in the press.
I write poems, not PR, Keir, I don’t give a shit
what you’d rather have me forget,
 
and I have no incentive to not join the dots up
ahen you make what I’m into a crime
or have all my mates and their grandmothers locked up
for t-shirts that say Palestine
while you and your media mates march in lockstep
to run cover for genocide,
 
not just in the Holy Land but here at home,
where 46 trans kids have died
since your friend Mrs Cass had their blockers withdrawn
and Wes came along for the ride.
Dead kids worry me more than choking in porn.
Mustn’t have my priorities right.
 
And I know the excuses you’re going to make:
it wasn’t your hands on those throats.
You can’t be blamed for what you made them choose
when you made them strangers to hope.
And furthermore…
                I’ve heard more than enough.
It’s a shower I need, not your cope.
 
So I’ll be on my way,
with this one thing to say:

I hope 

that 

one day,

in
an

en

tire

ly

un

kinky

way
 
I get to see you fucking choke.