How many times did I say “Step on me, queen” out loud to a gif of Stephanie Beatriz or Olivia Wilde before realizing I might actually want someone to step on me? I don’t know. A lot.

My boyfriend, as ever, went into Intrepid Researcher mode when I made this proclamation. He searched on Google, KinkAcademy, and the various kink wikis, but there just wasn’t that much practical info on trampling safety or technique. Here are a few basic things we learned:

1. A carpeted surface – and/or pillows on the floor – makes the experience more comfortable for the “tramplee.” I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s a good thing.

2. The trampler should wear either shoes (ouch) or bare feet (less ouch) – not just socks or stockings, which are too slippery for this task.

3. As with any kink activity, care should be taken to avoid putting pressure on the kidneys, spine, and other bones. Large fleshy areas are best for stepping on: the upper thighs, the butt, and the non-bony parts of the back, for example.

4. Orient yourselves in an area where the trampler has lots of things to lean on, on all sides – banisters, cabinets, whatever – so they can keep their balance and moderate the amount of weight they’re distributing.

Why did I want to be stepped on? The typical narrative about this activity is one of humiliation and domination, being squished into the ground because you’re a lowly worm who only deserves to be under your tormentor’s feet. But I didn’t want a punitive or degrading experience; I wanted the slow, measured, meditative calm of someone gradually moving their weight from one part of my body to another. I wanted the peace of momentarily being not a very messy person but instead a very useful floor.

I have done the math, and so far this year, my sex life is 69.9% phone sex. (Nice.)

That number feels like it should be higher, and the only reason it isn’t is that when my partner and I are together in person, we cram sex into our schedules like a game of Tetris. Three or four times a day isn’t uncommon. But those blissful stints are a sprint, and our ritual of near-daily phone sex is more like a marathon. Except more fun, and marginally less sweaty.

Here’s the secret I wish someone had told me about phone sex before I knew fuck-all about it: Like “real” sex, it can be terribly awkward, but when you find someone whose style and desires are compatible with yours, it can be divine. I always envisioned it as a nervewracking endeavor, like a two-person improv set with no suggestion where the stakes are boners/orgasms/your relationship, but in reality it’s more relaxing than any sex I’ve ever had.

Our nightly catch-up conversations are like any you might have with a partner: casual, breezy. We talk about work and family and friends, TV and Twitter and the news. But then some flirty comment or bratty remark drops his voice to a molten register. “Oh yeah?” he says, or sometimes he just growls or purrs, provoking a reaction in me that Pavlov might find interesting. His voice is a tool with which he’s stroked me off hundreds of times and my brain and body respond with this knowledge, bone-deep, worn in.