talk dirty to me

The other day, bae, when we were locked in a wrestling pose, preparing to indulge ‘the desires of the flesh, you pulled me close and whispered in my ear, ‘talk dirty to me’. I could not have misheard; your lips were right against my ear. I apologize if I froze momentarily. It was not revulsion, I promise. Nor was it hesitation, I assure you.
Rather, I was attempting to wrap my head around the pragmatics of it all. I am pro- kinky, if I say so myself. I have a healthy respect for whips, chains and leather tights, and I have long nursed an ambition to role play as James Bond. So the openness of my mind is not really in question. What I was having difficulty with was how to respond to your request without dissolving into laughter.

How would I begin, anyway?

I suppose the safe thing to do to break the ice would be to ask you who your daddy is. I hope I can pull of that deep, husky baritone necessary for this to work. Knowing how often my voice slips into soprano… Anyway, I already know who your daddy is, and I am sure certain parts of my body will droop if I jump on that train of thought. And then there is the whole ethical dilemma of being on top of someone’s daughter, or gently lifting one of her legs as she gasps periodically from the couch over which she is draped. Just now, bloggers are dropping like flies, you know. So if it is okay with you, I would rather not wonder out loud who your daddy is, even if it is this particular brand of kinky that revs your engine.

There is that other option also, where I insult you as brutally as I can. This I am very good at, thankfully, but I have a suspicion my cultured insults just won’t work. I understand there is no room for deciphering subtext when you are hanging on to the bed post for dear life. Apparently I am supposed to call you a filthy, fluid guzzling ‘professional sex worker’, but I am only supposed to use the colourful words. Like the ones that rhyme with ‘ditch’ and ‘hunt’. Actually, let me get back to you on that one. There might just be some comic relief to be had here.

What I will definitely not do, however, is allow myself to look like an idiot. I will not repeatedly ask “You like that?” because I am fairly certain that you do like it. Should you choose to furnish me with a running commentary of the proceedings, I will gently remind you that this is not the North London derby. Neither will I painstakingly describe to you the many things I intend to do to you. How about I just do it? I will also take issue if you decide, for whatever reason, to dish out little reminders that whatever I am doing is so far ineffective. “Faster!” for example. It’s a pelvis, dear, not an engine piston.

For these and many other reasons, you will allow me to kindly decline your invitation to defile your ears. I’m afraid the hilarity of it all will overpower the eroticism. As a testament to our love, however, I will allow you to bring to bed a toy of your choosing, and the leeway to deploy it in a manner of your choosing.

Now shut up and kiss me.

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