Dealbreaker: The Romantic Dirty Talker

I met him through mutual friends, and I noticed him immediately because he looked like my ex-best friend — but, like, a way hotter version of the ex-BFF. We hung out a few times, and one night, after some drunken bonding over tattoos and the psychological and scientific validity of the art of pickup, he asked if I was coming home with him, and I said yes.

What I was looking for at the time was a fun, casual fling with someone I could be friendly with — without it turning into anything emotional. Neither of us were into having a relationship, and I knew that he was seeing someone else casually, too. He was smart and sarcastic and seemed like the type to bottle up his feelings and never reveal them to me. I thought it was the perfect setup.We continued seeing each other, but after awhile he started saying some really awkward things. After the first couple times, I thought he was just having one of those moments where you say what you feel in the way you think the other person wants you to say it, so I ignored it. Then one night, he halted a make out session to look deep into my eyes and asked, “Why does kissing you feel so right?”

“Um … I don’t know,” I stuttered.

In the morning, he told me that he loved waking up, “feeling [me] curled up beside [him] like a kitten.” Once, during sex, he stopped everything so he could “experience” me, and said, “My d*** feels so at home inside you. It’s like it was meant to be.”

As if it wasn’t bad enough that everything he learned about the art of conversation could have been found in a romance novel, I soon discovered that everything he had learned about dirty talk had come from watching porn. Low-rent porn involving girls with DD-cups and ejaculate that spurts out like a fire hose spews water.

He’d ask me, mid-thrust, if I was a bad girl.

“Have you been naughty? Do you need to be punished?” he’d say. It really broke my concentration.

“Huh? What?” I gasped. “Do you want me to say yes or no? Yes? Yes!”

He asked me if he could come on my face. (No.) Or if I’d lick his j*** off his body. (No). He didn’t seem to have absorbed any of the positions featured in adult movies, though, because we did it missionary nearly every time. I suggested something once that I thought was pretty tame (me on top, both of us sitting up), and he said, “What is this — the Kama Sutra?”

There were other things majorly wrong with the relationship. He was deathly afraid of catching an STD from me (because, obviously, I must be a slut if I’m sleeping with him); he randomly threw away my toothbrush; he lied to me. But in the end what made the last of my desire for him shrivel up and die was the final time we had sex. I was on top, enjoying myself, until he said, in the voice of Quagmire from “Family Guy,” “F**k yeah, baby! I want you to ride me all night!”