On having a panic attack immediately after an orgasm with a new partner

what is it about me that so clearly telegraphs to the people around me that I want to be hurt? but, this isn’t the right question.
on what part of my body is the sign hung that reads, hit me—jolt me—loosen me, deaden me, bruise me, please—please try to break me—
and how did he know, the first one that did it, that I would like to be choked? that I would not just allow the vise of his fist meeting in my throat but press up into it, eager for incapacitation?
this still is not the right question. I am assuming intention when I wonder if he thought about whether I would like it. I am assuming that some groveling part of my soul did not come leaking out of my mouth, begging from the corners of my eyes—please—take more than my body—take air too—take the rhythm on which every animal relies, on which we predicate every idea of what it means to be alive—take that—it is too heavy for me to hear—
and so here, in this bed, with a new lover whose good heart and good intentions are foundational to why I am in this bed in the first place, here I go silent, when inside my head I can hear my own first scream, and it is echoing in every cell of my body and every cell is screaming back WE REMEMBER THIS
YOU DID NOT LEAVE THIS BEHIND and the vise that crunches my muscles into my bones is not here, not now, it is years old and thousands of miles away, and I am still suffocating, and I am still fighting toward my first scream