I decided on “banana” as my safe word. I think because it reminded me of a smile. A phallic smile that encouraged me to take longer breaths when I started to choke between sobs and crying fits.
During the summer of 2020, whenever my mind would begin to boil – whenever I would find myself ruminating on the facts surrounding my then compulsory cohabitation with my ex – I’d scream in my head, “Banana!”
The number of times I used my safe word that summer is the same number my then fiancé gave when asked how many massage parlor sex workers he’d solicited over the course of our four-year relationship: “Eventually, I lost count.”