THIS BLOG IS A COMPANION TO THE TRUTH ABOUT CHOKING DURING SEX: WHY THERE’S NO SAFE WAY TO STRANGLE. THAT ARTICLE SETS OUT THE MEDICAL, LEGAL, AND CONSENT REALITY OF SEXUAL STRANGULATION. THIS ONE IS WRITTEN TO EVERYONE WHO DOES THIS — STRAIGHT, GAY, BISEXUAL, QUEER, TRANS, AND NON-BINARY PEOPLE; CASUAL PARTNERS AND LONG-TERM ONES; PEOPLE NEW TO SEX AND PEOPLE DEEP INSIDE KINK COMMUNITIES. WHAT YOU INHERITED IS NOT THE SAME AS WHAT YOU HAVE TO KEEP DOING.

Let’s Put It All on the Table

Sexual strangulation sits on a continuum. At one end is what some people describe as consensual, pleasurable, negotiated power play. At the other is intimate partner violence and, at its worst, homicide. This article treats the whole continuum as sexual violence, and I want to be honest about why.

The research does include accounts of choking experienced as pleasurable. In qualitative interviews with 24 young women, many said they enjoyed being choked, while others went along with it largely to please a partner (Herbenick et al., 2022). I am not going to pretend those accounts do not exist, or that everyone who has done this intended harm. What I am going to do is explain why, on the conditions in which sexual strangulation actually happens, the pleasure framing does not hold up.

Every Australian jurisdiction now defines consent to sex using a communicative model, in which people must actively show their willingness to engage in sexual activity (Dowling et al., 2023). Tasmania, NSW, Victoria, the ACT, and Queensland have gone further and adopted affirmative consent standards (Quilter & McNamara, 2026). In Queensland, for example, each person must say or do something to seek consent; consent cannot be assumed because someone did not say no or agreed in the past; and if consent is withdrawn, the activity must stop immediately (Queensland Government, 2024). South Australia has reviewed its consent laws and identified affirmative consent as a possible reform, but has not legislated it (Quilter & McNamara, 2026; South Australia Attorney-General’s Department, 2023). Even under SA’s current law, a person who is asleep or unconscious is taken not to have freely and voluntarily agreed to sexual activity (Criminal Law Consolidation Act 1935 (SA) s 46; Legal Services Commission of South Australia, n.d.-b).

That framework asks a specific question of any sexual practice: can consent to this act, right now, be freely given, communicated, and withdrawn by a person capable of doing so? For sexual strangulation, my honest answer is no. The Institute for Addressing Strangulation (2024) explains that reduced oxygen to the brain affects the very organ we need to make and act on decisions. In experiments, people being strangled have forgotten that they can stop it, or found themselves unable to speak or move — which, the Institute argues, makes safe words or actions redundant. Consent given beforehand cannot do the work of consent in the moment, because the whole point of a modern consent model is that consent is ongoing and can be withdrawn. Strangulation undermines a persons capacity to withdraw if they are not able to speak and, move or are oxygen deprived.

Newer experimental research points the same way. In a small study, 31 young women who already had both choking and non-choking sex were tested within 24 hours after sex with choking and after sex without choking (Sweeney et al., 2026). The researchers measured near point of convergence: how close an object can come before the eyes can no longer focus on it together, which reflects how well the brain is coordinating eye movement. This measure worsened after both types of sex, but by more than twice as much after choking sex (19.9% compared with 8.1%). About a third of participants reported neurological symptoms, such as head rush and blurred vision, after choking sex. The authors note the study’s limits: a small sample, short follow-up, and reliance on self-report. Even so, these were women who already practised choking, and the effects were still measurable (Sweeney et al., 2026).

So when I call this sexual violence, I do not mean that everyone doing it intended violence, or that everyone experiencing it felt violated. “I didn’t feel violated” is often the top layer of a more complicated response. Sit with it longer and a quieter, sometimes embodied reaction frequently comes into view. The absence of a felt sense of violation is not the same as the absence of harm. I mean that this is a sexual act that, on the medical evidence, undermines the very capacity consent depends on, and that carries risks no agreement can remove.

The pleasure people report is sometimes real.  But the vehicle those experiences are being delivered through has been culturally rebranded, and the rest of this blog is about that rebranding and what to do now that you can see it.

An Honest Starting Point

If you are reading this, there is a reasonable chance this has been part of your sexual life, or has been asked of you. In an Australian survey of 4,702 people aged 18–35, 51% had strangled a partner during sex and 57% had been strangled. Fifty-nine per cent of men and 40% of women had strangled a partner, and among trans and gender-diverse participants the figures were 74% and 79% (Sharman et al., 2025). The same study found that gay and bisexual men were more likely than straight men to have been choked (Sharman et al., 2025). In a survey at one US university, 50% of gay men and 31% of bisexual men reported being choked during sex one to five times in their lifetime, compared with 21% of heterosexual men (Herbenick et al., 2024).

To me, those numbers describe the normalisation of sexual violence across a generation. This is not a heterosexual problem with LGBTQI+ readers added as an afterthought, nor a young-and-inexperienced problem with kink communities tacked on. I see it in my practice across every sexuality and gender, in people new to sex and in people who have been part of kink communities for years, in those who have done the strangling and those who have been strangled. You are not the first person to bring this into my practice, and you won’t be the last, though I wish you could be. Sex can be playful, curious, exciting, consensual, embodied, intimate and pleasurable, and it should never come at the cost of someone’s safety.

If you have done this, you are not alone, and you are also not off the hook. The honest starting point is not shame alone. It is a clear look at where the script came from, what it has been doing for you, and what you will do with it now.

The Script Arrived Before You Did

By the time most of us become sexually active, we have already absorbed a rough map of what sex is supposed to look like. In the Australian data, pornography was the most common place people first heard about sexual choking (34.8%). Overall, 61.3% had seen it in pornography, 40.3% in movies, 31.9% through friends, and 31.3% through social media. People most commonly first became aware of it at 16–18 or 19–21, and 8.8% learned about it at 15 or younger (Sharman et al., 2025).

A script is not a rule. It is the ambient sense you develop — often before any real conversation — of what sex includes, who does what to whom, and what makes you competent or desirable. Scripts are learned from what is available, what is repeated, and what looks normal.

The choking script has a gendered shape. Women being strangled by men is prominent in pornography (Respect Victoria, 2025), and in a survey at one large US university, men more often did the choking and women were more often choked, in line with how it is depicted in pornography, social media and mainstream media (Herbenick, Fu, et al., 2025). In interviews with Australian men who have sex with men, participants were usually strangled as the receptive partner or “bottom”, and usually strangled others as the insertive partner or “top”; those who learned about it from pornography tended to see it as less dangerous (Mullin et al., 2026). In my clinical experience, the same script travels into queer, F/F and trans sexual contexts along whichever axis of power the encounter is organised around.

The link between pornography and behaviour is real, but more complicated than “watch it, do it”. Earlier US research with young men found that pornography use was associated with seeing depictions of strangulation, which in turn predicted strangling partners — a pathway shaped by beliefs that it was pleasurable, safe, and did not require consent (Wright et al., 2023, as cited in Sharman et al., 2025). In the Australian data, pornography was a primary way people learned about it, though once other factors were accounted for it only weakly predicted positive views of strangling a partner; the researchers concluded that pornography may introduce people to it, while experiences and expectations of safety shape attitudes (Sharman et al., 2025). That is exactly where the work is: in the beliefs about safety and consent that travel with the script.

None of this is your fault. You did not commission that content or choose to grow up when hardcore pornography became free, ubiquitous and mobile. If you came up through kink communities, you did not decide that strangulation would be presented as an advanced-but-doable technique. What is genuinely yours is what you do now that you know. And what needs to happen now is that it stops.

Learned Is Not the Same as Acceptable

Having absorbed something does not make it right or safe. “This is what I learned” is an explanation. It is not a defence.

The law is also part of the picture. Every Australian state and territory has an offence that covers strangulation, but the laws are not uniform. In Queensland, South Australia, the Northern Territory and Victoria, the strangulation offence applies only between people in a domestic or family relationship, so it may not cover a casual partner, although other assault laws can still apply. How consent is treated also varies, and in several places lack of consent is not an element of the offence at all (Queensland Law Reform Commission, n.d.).

In South Australia, choking, suffocating or strangling someone you are, or have been, in a relationship with, without their consent, carries up to 7 years’ imprisonment, and since May 2025 up to 10 years where the person is rendered unconscious (Legal Services Commission of South Australia, n.d.-a).

In practice, that means “we both agreed” is not a reliable legal shield everywhere. And the law’s limits are not the measure of safety: no legal framework makes this safe. Many of the people I see who are doing this have no idea how seriously the law now treats strangulation.

A Direct Word to Kink and BDSM Practitioners

I want to speak to experienced kinksters specifically, because otherwise this article gets dismissed as being about porn-influenced amateurs, and it isn’t.

You have probably been trained in “safe, sane, consensual”, “risk-aware consensual kink” (RACK), or a similar framework. You may have taken breath-play workshops or been taught techniques that you were told make this safer. I respect the seriousness with which many kinksters approach consent and technique. And I have to tell you clearly that the medical reality does not shift for skilled practitioners. Strangulation restricts the airway and blood vessels of the neck and risks brain injury and death; this can happen in seconds and does not require significant pressure, and strokes can occur days, weeks or even months afterwards (Institute for Addressing Strangulation, 2024). Fatal outcomes can occur hours, weeks or months after an incident, sometimes without warning (Safe and Equal, n.d.).

In interviews with Australian men who have sex with men who engage in sexual strangulation, participants often believed their skill, knowledge and attunement to their partner reduced the risk, and generally overestimated their ability to manage it; some described passing out or partners losing consciousness, and one described a partner who stopped breathing and needed CPR (Mullin et al., 2026). The kink framework that adults can agree to what they do together, and that skilled practice reduces risk, works for many activities. It does not work here, for the reasons set out at the start of this article, and because injury can be invisible and delayed. Being good at this does not exist. There is nothing to be good at.

If your community treats breath play as a teachable skill, this is one of the places where its commitment to safety needs to update — not because kink is wrong or isn’t pleasurable, or because you don’t have the right to consensual sexual freedom, but because no level of skill makes this safe.

And for Some People, This Is Intimate Partner Violence

Inside the broader category of sexual violence there is a narrower and more serious thing that needs naming on its own.

For some people, what is called “choking” is not absorbed sexual script at all. It is intimate partner violence, and sex is only its stage. When someone reaches for a partner’s throat because they want the other person to know they could hurt them, to reassert control after an argument, or because they are angry, that is not a sexual practice that happens to be violent. It is violence that happens to be sexual, and it happens across straight and same-sex relationships alike. Victim-survivors of non-fatal strangulation have been found to face around a seven-fold increased risk of attempted homicide by the same partner (Glass et al., 2008, as cited in Lowik et al., 2022), and family violence practitioners are advised that a history of non-fatal strangulation is one of the strongest predictors of intimate partner homicide (Safe and Equal, n.d.). It is not a kink gone wrong. It is a serious warning sign.

If something in you has just gone quiet, because you know that what has been happening in your relationship is about power over a person you say you love, that recognition matters. It does not put you beyond help. It does mean the work is more serious than examining a script: it is about what you are doing to another human being, and stopping. There is no version of this article that is soft about that.

The Wanting Underneath Is Not Really About the Neck

The choking script landed on a much older cultural template about what “dominant”, “in charge” and “sexually competent” look like. That template came out of a long patriarchal tradition in which sex was organised around a man doing something to a woman, and in which competence meant being on top, in control, and unbothered by a partner’s softness or hesitation. But once a template like that is in the culture, everyone trying to work out what “good sex” looks like absorbs it. That is why it now shows up in women choking male partners, in queer and dyke tops with their partners, and in kink doms of any gender. The body doing the enacting varies; what is enacted underneath is dominance and control. You do not have to be a man for this template to have shaped what good sex looks like to you.

The template is not really about the neck. The neck is where it ends up. What it is about is the feeling of having a partner in your grasp, having an effect on them, being the one doing rather than being done to. Once you can see that, you can see the neck is a poor delivery system for any of it. Feeling powerful does not require compressing an airway. Being wanted does not require restricting blood flow to a brain. It is not shameful to want to feel powerful, wanted, or in charge, or to play with submission and domination — those dynamics can be erotically healthy when they are consensual, and the risks of harm have been considered. What matters is whether the way you have been shown to reach for them respects your partner’s body and boundaries, your own erotic integrity, and the law.

“But They Asked for It”

One of the most common things people say is that their partner asked for it or initiated it. Often that is true. In the same US university survey, 44.8% of students who had been consensually choked at their most recent sexual event said their partner knew it was okay because they had asked or told them to do it (Herbenick, Fu, et al., 2025).

The picture underneath is more complicated, though. In qualitative interviews with US university students, researchers found evidence of sexual compliance: people choking, or accepting being choked, to please their partner (Herbenick, Guerra-Reyes, et al., 2025). Some young adults have also described doing it because they see it as a normal part of contemporary sex, and worry that saying no might make them seem boring (Herbenick, Fu, et al., 2025). This is what shows up in my own sex therapy practice in Adelaide too. The script is now so pervasive that saying no to it has become socially costly. Two people can end up doing something neither would have chosen unprompted, each believing they are doing it for the other. When I ask why someone did it, the answer is often, “I saw it in porn and thought women liked it,” or, “I thought this is just something we do, and I was never really into it.” “They asked for it” is not the settled ethical or legal ground it can feel like.

Reading the Vibe Is Not Consent

The other pattern in the research is consent-by-atmosphere. In that survey of 3,780 students who had ever had partnered sex, among those who had been consensually choked at their most recent sexual event, only 56.7% reported any verbal communication beforehand; 38.1% relied on body language without words, and 24.0% said their partner would have relied on their lack of resistance or not saying no (Herbenick, Fu, et al., 2025).

The person doing the choking can easily over-read subtle cues as clear consent, while the person being choked may, as described earlier, be unable to signal anything at all. From a trauma perspective, the freeze response can compound this: some people go still not because they consent, but because their nervous system has taken the decision away from them. “They didn’t stop me” is one of the weakest possible foundations for what has actually happened.

What It Costs

A note before this section: what follows briefly mentions the recent death of a young Australian woman. If you have been strangled by a partner, have lost someone this way, or are finding this material difficult, you might want to skip ahead and come back when you have support around you. That is a completely legitimate choice.

In August 2026, a 16-year-old girl from Sydney’s northern beaches died in hospital. NSW Police are investigating her death as a suspected sexual choking act. Sources told the ABC she was believed to have lost consciousness after allegedly being choked during sex, and that officers had been told the sex was consensual (Kennedy & Corvo, 2026).

I am not going to walk you through the details. She was 16, and she is gone, and that is too much. What matters for this article is that, on what has been reported, agreement between two people did not protect her. It cannot. No agreement alters the anatomy of a neck. Intimacy and pleasure with a sexual partner should never lead to their death.

If you have been strangled by a partner, you may be reading about her and recognising something. That recognition is real, and it is not a sign that something is wrong with you. If you are quietly realising how close you have come, you are the reader I am most concerned about right now. Please come and see me, or contact one of the support services listed below. You do not have to sit with this alone.

If you have been the person doing the choking, and reading about her has moved something in you, that is real too. It is not the same weight her family is carrying, and this article will not pretend it is. But you are also a person, and you need somewhere to bring what has just moved. The last section of this article is for you too.

There are quieter costs as well. Performance-driven sex — enacting a role you were trained into rather than moving from what you actually feel — tends to disconnect you from your own arousal, your tenderness, and your partner. People who work through this in sex therapy often describe, once they are past the initial defensiveness, a kind of quiet grief: the sex they thought they were supposed to be having has been less connected, less curious, and less pleasurable than they hoped. And most people, when they think about it seriously, do not want to be someone who is dangerous to be intimate with, or to carry for the rest of their life the fact that a partner was harmed or killed this way. They almost certainly did not want that outcome. That is what “no safe way” means from the other side.

There Is More Here Than the Script Has Shown You

Naming the cost is necessary, but the point is not to leave you sitting inside it. What the script has done, more than anything, is narrow the erotic territory you have been shown.

The subtleties of power play — pressure and yielding, leading and being led, playing with vulnerability, sensory intensity, playful roughness, tenderness that is chosen rather than assumed, the way attention itself can be a kind of dominance, the way stillness can be a kind of holding — make up a whole adult erotic imagination that does not compress an airway. Kink communities have built careful maps of this territory for decades, and the parts that do not involve strangulation are worth taking seriously. Being genuinely desired by a partner who is present, awake and free to want you is a different order of experience from being tolerated by a partner performing a script.

You do not have to stop being interested in what you are interested in. What has to stop is reaching for it through a partner’s throat.

The Pause: What to Do in the Moment

Between reading this and getting to a therapy room there is a real, practical moment: when you notice, mid-sex, that your hand is moving toward a partner’s throat, or theirs toward yours.

Pause. Not politely, not apologetically — pause. Move your hand somewhere else: their hip, shoulder, back, arm, or hair. Then say out loud, “I don’t want to do this anymore,” or, if the reach was theirs, “I don’t want you to do this to me anymore.” You do not owe a full explanation in the middle of sex. “Not this — this instead” is enough. So is a plain “no”.

Outside the bedroom, start the longer conversation. Say that you have read about this, that you know it is not safe and that agreement does not make it safe, and that you want a different sexual life together. If your partner responds by pressuring you, mocking you, or refusing, that is important information about the relationship you are in.

If you have already done this to someone, the pause includes going back. Not to make yourself feel better, but to acknowledge,  that you now understand it was harmful, and that you will not do it again. Some people who have been harmed will want that conversation; some will not. Both are legitimate. The point is not their absolution of you; it is your honesty.

Come And Talk To Me

If any of this has landed for you,  the script, the alibi, the legal reality, the kink-culture piece, or the harder recognition that some of what has been happening in your sexual life is not really a script at all, I want you to come and talk to me. I am a psychosexual therapist, and my practice is set up for the whole of this conversation. I work with people who have been harmed by sexual violence. I also work with people who have caused that harm and are ready to face what they have done. Both kinds of work belong in this practice, because both are needed if this pattern is going to change — and both deserve serious therapeutic care, on their own terms.

The people I see include: people who have been engaging in choking as a learned sexual practice and are starting to question it; people who have realised that what they have been doing is not really a script but a pattern of sexual violence; experienced kinksters who are re-examining what they were taught; people whose partners have been doing this to them and who are working out what they want to do about it; people who have been strangled by a partner, sexually or otherwise, or who have been sexually harmed and are living with what that has done to them. Doesn’t matter what your sexual orientation is or your gender.

My sex therapy practice in Adelaide, Goodwood is set up for all of this. It will not be a lecture, and it will not be a rush to name you as one thing or another. It will be an honest look, at your pace, at where your sexuality was shaped, what it is doing now, and what you want to do about it, including the parts that are difficult to say out loud. If what has happened is more serious than a script problem, we can look at that with the seriousness it deserves, and think together about what accountability, safety, and change need to look like. If what has happened is that someone has done this to you, we can look at that with the seriousness it deserves too, and think together about safety, recovery, and what you want to do next.

You can book a session with me at Polysoma in Goodwood, Adelaide, or online across Australia and internationally. Come and start there.

If You Have Been Harmed by This

If reading this article, or the companion piece, has surfaced something that happened to you, support is available. In South Australia, Yarrow Place offers 24/7 crisis support, medical care, and forensic medical examinations on 1800 817 421 (toll-free in SA). Nationally, 1800RESPECT (1800 737 732) provides confidential 24/7 counselling. For immediate mental health crisis support, Lifeline is available on 13 11 14 or by text on 0477 13 11 14. For LGBTQIA+-specific peer support, Rainbow Door is on 1800 729 367 (10am–5pm) or QLife on 1800 184 527 (3pm–midnight). If your emergency is life-threatening, call 000. You are also welcome to book with me for ongoing trauma-focused therapy.

References

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