I was newly on the rebound (read: heartbroken), and had been invited by a friend who knew the deal to a downtown hipster party full of sexy, artsy guys. I proceeded to immediately knock back a few free drinks, then flirt my way through the throngs of smart artistes. One struck my fancy, with his Southern drawl, earnest voice, and red hair. He was sweet, and super talented, and cute in a non-overpowering way. I knew he liked me, but he wasn’t putting the hard sell on getting in my pants. So of course I went home with him.
We got to his apartment and tipsily made out, and soon our clothes were off. I got on top of him and we started having sex. Now, I’m a talkative girl whether I’ve been drinking or not, and one of the places I love to run my mouth is in the bedroom. I don’t remember exactly what I said—the sex wasn’t that earth-shattering—but I know there were a few “That feels good”s and whisperings of his name. I’d thought he was having just as good a time as I was, until we talked the next day.
We weren’t talking about us, per se, but sex in general. It was understood immediately that we were never gonna be relationship material; we were in friends with benefits territory, and therefore could converse casually about our sexual likes and dislikes in ways you just can’t when your heart’s involved. “I hate talking during sex,” he said, causing me to almost drop the phone. “Even if a girl’s just saying my name, it throws me off my game. Talking in bed ruins the mood.”
I didn’t protest, even though there are few sexual statements I could disagree with more vehemently. I was still buoyed by getting to know him so figured I’d give sex with him another shot, but found I could hardly work up the requisite arousal.
We were near the edge of his bed, and it would have been more comfortable for me to move over, but I didn’t ask, nor did I tell him what a big c–k he had (okay, it wasn’t true, but in certain positions, any penis can feel big) or what I like the most, saying my lover’s name just as I’m on the verge of climax.
Not speaking ruined the sexual spark for me, and I realized that it’s a true dealbreaker. I don’t need the other person to be a talker—I get that some are, some aren’t—but being told to shut my mouth, unless I’m using it to give a blow job, felt very wrong somehow. The silence wasn’t sexy — like it is when you’re trying to muffle the sounds of sex lest nosy neighbors or parents overhear — but sad.
To me, talking during sex is one of the things that makes sex so powerful. Words find their way out of my lips that I never could have planned. Being naked and open the way you are when you’re that close means you (hopefully) leave most of your inhibitions behind. Sex opens you up so you can open up, too, sharing secrets and fantasies. Having someone say my name in the throes of orgasm sounds differently than it does when they say my name during a regular conversation.
I don’t have any hard and fast rules for dirty talk—it doesn’t even have to be “dirty” to get me off. But leaving room for some verbal back-and-forth is essential for me. Even a simple “Touch me” or a well-timed “Yes” can make sex that much more powerful. And certainly when a lover takes it up a notch and whispers the dirtiest of words into my ear while we’re screwing, I can go off like a rocket.
So no more “strong, silent” types for me, no matter what the rest of the package looks like. If they don’t know or don’t care to put their lips to good use (I’d by far rather a sweet talker than an orally-giving lover, but that’s another story), or to let me handle the sweet (and dirty) talking, then they should find another girl.