It always starts innocently enough. He asks how is your day going? and I think how tedious sweet. But if we’re on plenty of fish or OkCupid or twitter or Facebook or maybe even via text, it usually ends the same, he wants to turn the chatter sexual; he wants the dirty talk.
And don’t get me wrong, I love dirty talk.
There, I said it. When it’s good, it’s amazing. I love it whispered in my ear. I love it showing up via text message. I love it in my inbox (DM stands for dirty message, no?) But here’s the thing… if you’re not eventually going to put it in my box, I’d rather you just sort out the male yourself.
The problem is I’m a writer.
When we’re talking about articulating anecdotes of arousal, sending soliloquies of seduction, teasing with testimonials of torrid temptations, I admit, I may have the upper hand. And if we’re being real, that’s basically the only one I need.
Unless, of course, you plan to deliver. I don’t want DiGiorno.
In which case, you know where to find me, or at least plead your case. You go ahead and bring it. Show me your lumberjack lasciviousness, your burly backroom bellows; hit me with your famous filthy frenzy, your slickest unchaste urges, show me what you got and don’t be shy about it.
But if you’re just looking for some escapist excitement, some bored-on-a-Monday mystery, some spank bank material, some spice-it-up-with-your-wife-later-flirtation, go ahead and get the fuck out of here. Because you’re wasting my time. And that, in and of itself, makes you a shitty person (more on this another time).
If the words you’re spouting are not a preamble to the amorous activities of the future, to be honest, I’m not interested. Because after all, I can make this shit up on my own and I would do a better job.
While I may be just a fantasy behind a pair of lips to you; to me, you’re just an ordinary guy. Which, in and of itself, is perfectly fine. I love to date guys. Ordinary is cool, extraordinary is better. But we’re talking about spending time coming up with saucy things to say to you with absolutely no payout? Fuck that. I’d rather write the story myself.
Because you see…
I’m fairly certain you have an amazing job. Not amazing in a monetary way. I couldn’t care less about that. But you’re successful. And you’re talented. You’re an artist. A muralist or designer, a sculpturist or a painter. Maybe you’re also a wordsmith: a novelist or poet or playwright. Maybe you’re a musician. Or even better, a singer/songwriter musician. There’s a reason my dating history is decorated almost exclusively with the gorgeous visages of singer/songwriter musicians.
And I‘m sure you find me attractive, in fact you’ve told me over and over again. You think I’m amazing and funny and super sexy. In fact, the attraction is so strong we spend most of our time in some sort of tender tousle where you try to rip my clothes off and I try to keep you at bay, temporarily.
You see, we’ve got a thing going on. It’s passionate. It’s secret. It’s unbelievably fun.
On Wednesday night, I stop by your studio. Everyone has gone home for the night but you’re busy working late. My hard worker. You’re vigilant, you’re dedicated, there’s a reason you’re at the top of your field.
You look up from the recording console, I stand in the door frame. Your smile is not the smile of laughter, it’s not a roller-coaster smile or a punchline smile. Your smile is brisk, it’s sharp, it owns the room, it will take me down.
“Come in,” you say and I do, slowly, so you can get the whole view, but not before closing the door. I am me, but not me. By now you’ve walked over and are standing dangerously close. I can feel the seconds beat against my ribs.
“What took you so long?” you ask as you slide your left hand inside my jacket and around my waist, but I know you’re not really asking. This is just the chatter, the preamble, the small talk that takes place while you encircle me like a shark. You smell like a man; all skin and cologne and testosterone.
You push me back against the wall, rough and aggressive, using one hand to brace us and the other to hold me, always just one inch shy of any actual hurt. You press your lips into mine, I press my hips into yours. We are the opposite of a tug-o-war.
Your mouth is warm and wet and for a moment the power dynamic changes. This is my obstacle course, I’m leading the way. At first the kisses are so slow you can barely stand it. I spread your mouth open the smallest amount with my own, trace the bottom of your upper lip with the tip of my tongue, pull back for just a moment, gently bite my lower lip and then offer it up to you. It slips inside your mouth, and you suck on it, soft. Then harder. The tension matches your arm as you reach around my waist and pull me closer.
And then your demeanor changes. The room shifts. The temperature changes. Your breathing reverberates like drums. Your skin burns like fire. You taste like promises and peaches. You reach your hand down and maneuver your way under my dress, run your hand along the softness of my panties, and then find your way inside…
And I could go on.
In fact, I will, in my head, when I write it how I want tonight.
And I might change it tomorrow. Tonight it’s a musician who takes what he wants, throws me on the couch and exacts a debt I owe. Tomorrow it’s a painter with whom I do unspeakable things. Thursday, I could be pulling an under-the-desk-Lewinsky while my novelist has a meeting with his editor, only the two of us aware. A week from now it might be on a trip to Paris with a wealthy benefactor, or a naive dishwasher. But either way, it beats the hell out of so…uh… what are you wearing?
Unless, of course, you are an intelligent, talented, powerful man who finds me to be both amazing and beautiful…
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