After a slew of flings that consisted of more games than the World Cup, I was practically in heaven when I met Jake – an intelligent, successful, Southern gentleman who eerily resembled New York Mets heartthrob David Wright.
The next couple of months were pure bliss. We would cuddle at night during the week, go out with our friends on Friday, and brunch on Sunday mornings. Finally, after an exceptionally fun weekend filled with museums and mimosas, we had The Talk and mutually decided to become exclusive.
Up until that point, we had refrained from sleeping together (it’s a personal choice of mine to wait until I’m in a committed relationship), so by the time we had The Talk, I was ready to jump his bones.
When the night of the main event finally arrived, I had prepped my apartment as if I was about to lose my virginity. I lit candles and donned my sexiest lingerie, my mind and body filled with high sexpectations.
As things started heating up, it turned from romantic to downright raunchy. He started whispering not-so-sweet nothings in my ear, telling me exactly what he wanted to do to me. To quote Elvis, “a little less conversation a little more action please.” But I tried to go with the flow, sputtering out my own awkward, R-rated dialogue. But his pornographic recitation didn’t stop. Every move, every nibble, every touch, was accompanied by a kinky sentiment. It was like an extended XXX monologue and I was the sole audience member.
While I can appreciate the occasional naughty line, it’s a little strange to have your entire sexual experience narrated. Since he had never done this during our previous manual and oral play, not to mention the fact that I really liked him, I chalked it up to nerves.
Unfortunately, rounds two and three produced similar results. I even tried downing some liquid courage in hopes that it might loosen my own tongue so I’d be comfortable spewing my own kinky phrases, but no amount of vodka would stop me from feeling ridiculous about my own dirty talk. And this is coming from a woman who writes about sex.
Knowing that he wanted to “run his tongue all the way down to my #@%$% before he #*$*%^# me” before he actually did so, totally zapped the element of surprise and took me out of the moment. Determined not to let this ruin an otherwise perfectly good relationship, I attempted to have a talk with him about naughty narration.
Careful to tread lightly so not to burst his ego, during dinner the next evening, I reminisced about the night before, glowing about a specifically hot move he pulled.
“I just wish I hadn’t known you were going to $#@%$# me first. It might have been even sexier if I had been caught off guard,” I suggested, hoping that my subtle hint was enough to shut him up.
“You’d rather me be silent?” he asked defensively.
Quickly realizing that this conversation was not leading to an orgasmic conclusion, I explained that I wasn’t comfortable with the extent of dirty talk in the bedroom.
“Every other girl I’ve been with likes it. I think it’s you with the problem,” he insisted as he quickly put on his coat and headed towards the door, mumbling about having to go into work early the next day.
I never saw him again.
It’s likely that there were other girls who were uncomfortable with Jake’s constant dirty talk, but they kept quiet about it. As diappointed as I was to see the relationship come to an end over sexual semantics, I was glad that I hadn’t kept my mouth shut.