The first time it happened to Hannah, it lasted “just a few seconds.” Without warning, the man she’d met on a dating app and was now having casual sex with grabbed her neck and squeezed gently. Flustered, she swatted his hand away and tried to wipe the gesture from her mind. A year later, it happened again: Another dating-app match wrapped his fingers around her neck. Then this past May, a third time, when a man she’d just started seeing wordlessly placed a hand on her throat while they were hooking up. “Then I said ‘no,’ and he took it off,” she remembers. Each time, Hannah said, she had a basic conversation around sexual desires and preferences with these men before anything physical took place. But the partners never brought up choking outright, let alone asked her permission to do so.
“In all of these scenarios, the men otherwise seemed very sweet, conscientious, and well-informed, and I think that’s why it always comes as such a shock,” Hannah said. “I’m like, ‘What are you doing? Where’s this coming from?’ It’s a pretty violent thing to come out of nowhere, especially from men who otherwise seem so vanilla.”
What does it mean, then, that this “pretty violent thing,” an out-of-nowhere chokehold during sex, is happening in the post–Me Too age of consent? Today’s straight, liberal men are assumed to be considerably more interested in centering women’s pleasure and safety — so what gives? For one, panicked reports of an anecdotal “rise in choking” during sex have been circulating online for years, growing in frequency since 2019 and often offering up the middling explanation that young people have simply picked up the habit from porn. This year both Business Insider and the New York Times warned of the “trend” among Gen Z and teenagers alike. And while choking is not a particularly transgressive kink — it’s not unheard of for women to enjoy, as psychotherapist Esther Perel puts it in Mating in Captivity, the “politically incorrect … poetics of sex” — these particular instances serve as evidence of something sex-positive feminists had hoped would lessen with time: the unrelenting dissatisfaction of casual sex.
Generations of us have been there. Nearly a decade ago, New York’s Rebecca Traister investigated what she labeled “male sexual entitlement,” the tolerated if not expected discomfort of heterosexual sex. And as sex writer Nona Willis Aronowitz observed in her 2022 memoir, Bad Sex: “Sex has never been more normalized, feminism has never been more popular, romantic relationships have never been more malleable — yet we still haven’t transcended the binds that make sex and love go bad.” Just last month, new research reported in the New York Times confirmed the obvious: The orgasm gap for straight women still persists.
But while the threat of a bad time has always been part of the packaged deal of sleeping with a stranger, those of us aspiring to operate as sexually free agents, ever the optimists, had hoped that with age and education, the quality of casual hookups would improve. Instead, the feeling of despair among young women engaging in casual sex has reached a fever pitch. Just take a scroll through TikTok for proof. The individuals I spoke to (most of whom, like Hannah, requested anonymity for the sake of their privacy) shared sexual encounters that ranged from awkward and annoying to harrowing and traumatic, from unexpected slapping and anal play to a hesitance to wear condoms when asked. The issue isn’t so much that the sex is always outright unenjoyable or ill-intentioned but that consent to casual sex still seems to be operating as a catch-all for anything men only assume women want.
For her part, Hannah doesn’t believe that her sexual partners were acting out of malice. If anything, it seems they were making an attempt at tending to her needs, however misinformed. “But of course, in considering women’s pleasure, the only way that some men can seem to conceive of is strangling,” she added. “It makes me sort of depressed if I really think about it. That instead of asking, ‘Hey, what do you like?’ or ‘Hey, do you like this?,’ they’re just going straight for the throat.”
Other women I spoke to had similarly jarring experiences during recent hookups. Tiana said she’d been slapped in the face on a few different occasions while performing oral sex, a “weird thing to do without consent” even when administered lightly, she says. She noted how common it was for “guys to try to eat or finger my ass without asking first.” Similarly, Ash says lots of anal play happens without her go-ahead — often a finger inserted into her anus in the middle of vaginal sex: “In doggy, it’s always a big ass thumb for some reason.” And much like Tiana, Nicky Josephine, a 33-year-old Brooklyn-based writer, recalled being slapped by a sexual partner without consent, to which she responded by slapping him back.
“I felt it was insulting more than anything,” Josephine said. “I like it as long as it’s not too hard, and it’s discussed beforehand. I was just super mad he didn’t ask or warn. That being said, I kept having sex with him.”
Alyssa, a 31-year-old Brooklynite, describes herself as practiced in BDSM and generally more open to experimenting during casual hookups. (That is, only after boundaries have been discussed.) She’s found that insecurity in beginners can sometimes breed aggression, a textbook sign of overcompensation. “I’m learning that men who have no experience in kink tend to completely overdo it on their first time and just be really, really rough and also not listen,” Alyssa tells me. There are echoes of the same sentiment on Reddit in r/TwoXChromosomes, where users point to the mainstreaming of BDSM as one of the factors producing “ill-informed ‘practitioners’” who don’t understand the negotiation of consent, let alone the practice of aftercare. In January, Alyssa found herself at the hands of one such man in his early 30s.
“I would have been fine with some choking in theory, but it ended up being more of a strangulation that I did not consent to,” she said. “He was shaking me by the neck like in a TV show or true-crime reenactment. It was like he was copying strangling someone as he’d seen in the movies.”
It’s no wonder hordes of young women are opting for celibacy instead. Celebrities like Julia Fox, once positioned as the apex of male desires, have sworn off fucking men altogether. Queer pop star Chappell Roan gave voice to her pleasure-less interactions with men in “Femininomenon” (“lying to your friends about / how he’s such a goddamn good lover … I don’t understand / why can’t any man / hit it like … ”), while former country star Maren Morris divorced her husband, came out as bisexual, and now seems to be taking pleasure in the bliss of sexual discovery: “Sittin’ on the fence / Feels good bеtween my legs.” Meanwhile, online, women are recording TikToks after horrific first dates as they search for solidarity, yearn for real love, and unpack their listlessness toward men. As someone who regularly requests to be choked, this inquiry made me pause to ask whether I really draw pleasure from the act or if I am subconsciously bending to the whims of the men under which I am pinned. Easier to stomach if I get ahead of it and convince myself I wanted it, anyway.
Curious about what exactly compels a man to go for the throat, I turned to Jake, a 28-year-old straight guy who lives in Manhattan and works in tech. He doesn’t often talk “explicitly” about sex when gearing up for a new hookup. Rather, he describes the whole process as a somewhat delicate “dance” that can’t really be taught, composed of subtle hints like “touching on the wrist, or touching on the forearm, or touching on the shoulder when we’re laughing.” When Jake does place a hand on a woman’s neck, he says he’ll either ask outright or gently place it there if it “feels like something [he] should do.” Besides, no one has ever told him they don’t like it.
When I ask why he wouldn’t initiate a conversation beforehand, Jake thinks for a moment. Talking about sex risks “removing the spontaneity of it” or might “feel like a sterilization when you put it into words.” He pauses again before musing that maybe it’s just something he’s seen in movies: that a man should be able to intuit what a woman finds pleasurable and when she wants it. “I understand it could be good to ask,” he adds. “But personally, there’s almost a sheepishness when it comes to discussing sex. I am scared of making an assumption and being wrong.”
Of course, men do talk about sex in other settings. Jake mentioned that both some of his friends and the male comedians, podcasters, and content creators he follows frequently boast about pleasuring women as a means of clout-chasing. “It’s now almost like a sense of pride to make a girl come in my own circle,” Jake said.
So it’s not that men are ignorant of — or worse, don’t care about — women’s pleasure; it’s who benefits from that pleasure that’s up for debate. Take, for example, Andrew Schulz’s bit about squirting (“We know it’s pee, ladies, we’re not stupid … but here’s the thing, we don’t give a fuck because we made you pee”). Or Mike Majlak describing his “process-driven” approach to foreplay on the Rawtalk podcast and his need to “spray in every nickel hooker.”
“This sounds bad,” Jake tells me, “but I think a lot of men are seeing women not necessarily more as people but more as sexual beings who also like sex. Things have changed a lot in the past decade, but I think that the pendulum has swung in a way that’s probably also not healthy.”
While casual sex is a two-way street, several of the women I spoke to expressed regret that they hadn’t been more clear in the midst of a hookup about what they did — and, more importantly, didn’t — like. Maybe they’d issued a curt “no” or pushed away a grazing hand, but they hadn’t articulated why a particular act made them uncomfortable or bothered them, the words caught in their throat. Hannah, for instance, doesn’t think it’s her job to close the systemic knowledge gap around consent and pleasure burdening men. Still, she wonders whether she could’ve stopped the cycle by educating her partners more clearly.
“It’s just another burden. It makes me feel like I’m gonna have to take this on myself,” she explains. “It’s just another responsibility that women have. I’m not doing a lot of work in terms of trying to make sure that they don’t do it again with someone else, but like, I’m exhausted.”
Willis Aronowitz writes of this feeling — of all we stand to lose when we express sexual discomfort: “Even the most sexually confident among us sometimes hesitate to talk about all this, because we don’t want to hurt our partners’ feelings or seem demanding, because we want to appear as horny as we initially advertised ourselves to be, because the length of time it takes us to orgasm will spoil the mood … because too much is at stake, because we’re simply not sure what we want.”
For Samentha Teah, a 25-year-old who lives in Virginia, taking a vow of celibacy seemed the only way to discover what she really wanted out of casual sex. After a particularly irksome on-again, off-again situationship with a man in 2021, she swore off sex, albeit unintentionally. But by February of the following year, Teah began actively identifying as celibate. For nearly a year and a half, they tried to unravel their attachment to penetrative sex and rethink the possibilities of physical connection. She needed to get to know herself “outside the expectations of hookup culture, because hookup culture is dependent on you having no boundaries.” Toward the end of last year, Teah decided they were ready to have sex again. Naturally, the hookup wasn’t great — her male partner repeatedly ignored her requests “to slow down, or to take it easy and be gentle.” “I feel like through sex, I can understand how a relationship is going to go,” Teah said, “And the way that he was with my body, I just didn’t want to interact with him anymore after that.”
While many women have documented the intense disappointment of breaking celibacy for milquetoast men (and renewing their vows immediately after), Teah had a different takeaway. She still engages in casual sex but is now “very, very selective,” prioritizing “fooling around” with men and women she already knows over vaginal intercourse with strangers or dating-app matches. Their new relationship to physical intimacy, they tell me, feels like “true liberation.” “I get to have sex when I feel like it. I get to take breaks when I feel like it. If I don’t like sex, I can walk away from a person. I can stop sex mid-act. I didn’t know that I really, truly could do these things … I was searching for autonomy.” Within herself, at long last, she’s found it.
