Dirty talk is an acquired taste. Like oysters, or caviar. Sure, maybe at first bite, dirty talk can seem a little awkward, even unsavory to some. But like a kalamata olive, it grows on you. And soon enough you’re ordering Greek salads like it’s your job and dirty talking like you never owned a copy of Emily Post’s Etiquette. I am not criticizing such behavior. Something about glass houses and stones and throwing them. I dirty talk. I like it. I do it all the time. I want to hear it. There. I said it. As cleanly as I know how. But recently, I’ve come across an urban phenomenon. Let’s call him Dirty Harry. Like Clint Eastwood in “Dirty Harry,” hw has little regard for rules. So little, in fact, that he breaks out the dirty talk early. And voraciously. With abandon. On the first date. At the total wrong time.
As every mother is prone to saying, there is a time and place for everything. Dirty talk is no exception.
Recently, I went on a date with a Dirty Harry. Actually, more accurately, it was a set-up. Which it makes the whole thing more egregious, because homeboy had backers. He came with promises, like “with ten percent more gentleman!” and “now with a fresh lemony scent!”
But as I’ve learned in my years as a single person, many of my couple friends have no idea what they’re talking about.
Harry seemed thoroughly mediocre at first — personality-wise — but everything else-wise — his face, his eyes, his body, his hands — were hot. We meandered through a nice dinner, jumping through all the first-date hoops. You know, sharing all the stories you usually share on a first date that you think are amusing and present you in the best light. We drove back to Harry’s house, and after an awkward pause, Harry asked if I’d like to go inside.
Though I wasn’t enthralled by his personality, I was enthralled by his green eyes and chiseled jaw line (show me a straight woman who can turn down a chiseled jaw). I agreed to come inside for “a drink,” which, in first date talk, loosely translates into rolling around on top of each other for a couple of hours. I didn’t want sex, but I did want a good make-out to tide me through the holiday season. The economy isn’t the only thing that has taken a nosedive lately. My sex life is in dire need of a bailout, as well.
Harry led me through his house, pointing out important monuments, like the bedroom and the bed.
Harry slid me onto said bed and make out we did. I commended myself on what a good idea this was. I wanted to make out with him in a seventeen-year-old kind of way, until the scruff on his face left a bit of a rash on my chin. I was in it for some good wholesome fun. You know, a little heavy petting on a Tuesday.
Suddenly, Harry pulled back and looked me in the eye. And then he said: “Let me taste that pussy juice.”
Even though I’m a screenwriter, even I cannot conjure dialogue that amusing. I looked at him as if he was speaking Mandarin. “Excuse me?”
He repeated himself. As if I didn’t hear him the first time. Did I look like a Jamba Juice? Am I an Elixir? I’ve got a wide array of tantalizing things on my menu, Harry, but “Pussy Juice” is not one of them.
After a few uncomfortable and awkward moments I got out of there — unjuiced.
I shared the story with my girlfriends, only to discover they, too, had encountered the Dirty Harry type. One friend of mine was set up with a Dirty Harry who broke out the big guns while they were still completely clothed — and in a taxi. Dirty talk, my friends, is not for public consumption.
Dirty talk, you see, is not inherently bad, nor is it inherently good. It is circumstantial. You need to be in the mood for it. Like watching a Holocaust movie or eating Thai food.
So, to the Dirty Harrys out there: Keep honing your craft, but use it wisely — and sparingly — at least in the beginning. But no matter what you do, please, never, ever use the phrase “Pussy Juice.”