Talk Dirty To Me

I hate sex without words. I like to be spoken to -- mutter something, scream my name, make a fucking joke -- don’t just lie there, silent, mute, and tacit with whatever you are feeling. Sex is about sharing and letting your partner know that her fingers, her tongue, her thighs are doing the right thing.

Now, it’s important to know how much is too much. No need to get verbose. Too much talking is just as bad as playing dead. I don’t need a blow by blow, (pardon the cheap pun) one needs to strike the balance. The perfect note, if you will. That is what makes life good. Balance. It’s also what makes sex good. Good sex is like good wine, like good poetry, like good dessert. At its best, sex is like an interesting and well-paced conversation. You take in only as much as you need. Say what needs to be said. No more. No less. It must be peppered with good images, good smells. Good words. Balance.

Forgive me for going off like this, but I was just reading through the angst-filled journals from my early twenties (God knows I had no idea what balance was back then), and everything I felt was described with a super-superlative. Everything was awesome! And the greatest! My teachers. My sandwiches. Sex with my first female lover was the most amazing sex ever. Forget that neither of us had an orgasm. Or that it lasted all of three minutes. Or that she was crying and praying the whole time. Or that I was wondering if she was supposed to be this dry. It was awesome!

More than a decade later I am a bit more discriminating. Now I know what I like. And I like a woman with some initiative, a dirty mouth, and a healthy disregard for rules. I have had a lot of good sex in my life. So I’m not that easy to impress. I have had the most amazing head ever. And I have had awesome orgasms. So when a woman peels off my panties and throws me on a four-poster bed, she absolutely cannot hesitate. First-time shyness may be cute, but after we’ve been lovers for a bit she has to be quick on the draw. She has to bring some swagger to the table. She has got to have a gift with dirty words. Which means, she has to be invested in what she’s saying. In short, she has to know what she is talking about. She cannot refer to my vagina as a Volvo.

You cannot tell me you want to spit your warm gravy all over my hot love biscuit. Do not start acting sexy -- like you’ve suddenly found yourself in a porn flick. It makes my twat dry up and become impenetrable. You have to actually be sexy. And that means talking about what you know. Even if it’s just traffic talk -- tell me all lights are green. Encourage me to fuck you like I drive my Saab. Even if I don’t have a Saab, it sounds good.

If you are a librarian, talk book-stacks to me. I love big words, unusual words, words with some meat on them. Find words that make me want to come. Whisper them across my skin. Pin them to my navel. Blow them into my ear. Tell me you think about eating my pussy when you are in the philosophy section. Encourage me to come fuck you in the archives during lunch tomorrow. Wear your glasses. Shush me when I speak too loudly.

If you want to have good sex, you have to learn to relax and be yourself. A confident lay is almost always a good lay. I say almost because alongside your confidence, there must be a sense of reality. You have to know what makes you look stupid and still be willing to chance it. To laugh at yourself when it happens. Good sex is all about being comfortable. After that you can get to the fancy stuff of whips and chains and role-playing and pain and silk ropes and what-not. And truth be told, when the sex is good to begin with -- all that fluff is simply that. Fluff. And by itself, fluff is nothing but a mouthful of dry cottony words that don’t mean very much.