Months later, with that same boy, during a scene late at night in my house, a moment of panic.
He was staying over with me for a little while, and we were curled up on the couch at a very tiny hour of the night, watching a movie. He wore a a high collar, a heavy leather corset that squeezed his ribs in and made a narrow waist appear in his silhouette. He lay on top of me, which was heavy and comfortable and made it a little hard to breathe. After a while, I pushed him down between my legs, and we alternated between my moans and the soundtrack, for a while.
I knew something was wrong when he started gasping, and then he stopped, puled back and said “I can’t breathe” before sliding off his knees and to the ground.
I remember I tore at the lacing of his corset with my fingers, and the cord had knotted. I cursed myself for not having scissors, and I can’t even remember how I got it off him. I remember him sitting on the floor, holding his head against the edge of the cushion, breathing weakly, waiting for me to fix it.
“I think the collar plus the corset plus the kneeling was just too much,” he said later, and I nodded regretfully. That possibility had not even crossed my mind when I pushed him down, although it does now, every time I pull May’s collar and he gasps into the air.
