Dirty Talk is a tricky topic. It requires timing, tact, and a tacit agreement that whatever happens will never, under no circumstances, be exposed to a public realm. I am going to break that last rule, and not because I loathe the partner that happened to be part of the experience which I am about to share. More so because I was already responsible for breaking the first two rules during the particular occurrence anyway, so I figured I might as well just go all in. Here it comes.
It was a serene and snowy evening in late December. Christmas was just around the corner. I was at the home of a sweet, humorous and genuinely nice woman and we are hitting it off for the first time since we had gotten to know each other.
Now you would assume that the initial phase of physical intercourse with a new partner won’t necessarily include each other’s wildest fantasies, as this would require a certain level of personal intimacy that sets in usually at the same time you hear each other farting for the first time. But every now and then, you happen upon a certain type of person. I am talking about the one that seems perfectly normal, maybe even slightly reserved, but definitely not the least bit nonconformist, let alone freaky. And then, as soon as the lights go out, they turn into a Tasmanian fuck devil with sex rabies. The woman in question was one of those libido-driven Looney Tunes and – god bless her soul – although the sex rabies fortunately didn‘t latch on to me, she did provide me with a lasting and memorable impression.
So we are at it in the way of the mighty Snoop, and it‘s all pretty lewd and lascivious already when all of a sudden she started talking dirty. I can‘t exactly remember how she got the ball rolling, but it definitely turned me on big time since she was obviously enjoying what was going on and felt comfortable to express her lust. I didn’t even have to reply that much, she was basically doing all the work – in a literal and physical way. Then came the memorable line that got the disaster going. While I am plowing away under her precisely worded guidance, she blurts out “Give me that fucking meat salami of yours and fill me up.”
At first her remark didn’t strike me as odd. It was appropriate in some way since a dick does bear a certain resemblance to an unsliced piece of cold cut material, both in terms of physical appearance and – if we are to believe Anthony Hopkins in his most remarkable role – in terms of taste.
She pulls her body away from me, bends down a little more, turns her head around and tells me in the most seductive voice “I’m a very dirty girl and need to be punished.“ I was thrown a little off the tracks there and didn’t realize at first what the salami gal was on to. Apparently, this little chap here was an avid advocate of the occasional anal adventure. And luckily for her, it just so happened that this night the judge was in the mood for some severe sentencing.
I don’t want to delve into the topic of anal sex too deeply here for the sake of keeping this as short and sophisticated as possible, but let‘s just say that just as with dirty talk, anal sex also requires a few things. First and foremost: timing, especially in terms of preparing the tools for the trade.
Next on the list: tact. This one is kind of self explanatory though, as you wouldn’t use a jackhammer to drill a trench. You start off by setting the borders, gently removing the soft and moist top layers of soil where all the delicate flowers are, and then you get the big machinery out.
Thirdly and most importantly, anal sex requires a tacit agreement that whatever happens there will never, under no circumstances, be exposed to the public. You might guess where this is heading.
I was preparing myself mentally and physically to subpoena that anal cavity and go all Perry Mason on her ass. Just as I was getting my meat grinder ready, she informs me that it would only work for her when we were both talking dirty. I was supposed to call her a little slut and pull her hair and do all the stuff to her that made a woman a woman in pre-feminist times. Now, don‘t get me wrong here. I don’t have a problem with dirty talk at all, I enjoy it quite a lot when the setting is right. It‘s just that a degrading diction, which she was clearly demanding, is more often than not hardly enjoyable for me. Due to the nature of my profession as a scriptéur, it might very well be the case that my sexual partners even expect me to be particularly witty or creative at dirty talk, so before I am about to tell you the end of the story, please cut me some slack as I was under a lot of pressure there.
Do you remember the meat salami that she asked me to fill her up with? Well, it had a more intense and lasting effect on my mind than I had expected back then. Just as I was about to crash her colonic coterie, I realized that suddenly all I could think about were cold cuts. I was mentally caught up with meat slices to the extent that it got me actually hungry, so hungry that for a brief but intense moment, contemplating about a deliciously stacked BLT sandwich provided me with more arousal than this beautiful woman spreading her ass cheeks in front of me.
But since I consider myself a gentleman I of course stayed with her. The fridge was empty anyway.
I slowly and sensitively moved my third dwarf leg near her genitalia to start it off with the appropriate dynamic. She was doing her really sexy slow dirty talking thing as I was working my way up in there, and at first we were on the same vibe and just throwing dirty rhetoric jabs at each other. Then she looked at me and went ”Alright now, put that salami all the way in there and do me like a butcher.“ For fuck’s sake, that was one too many meat references there. I was unable to think of any non cold cut related dirty talk.
So there I was with this sexy freak wanting me to wreak havoc on her ass, and all I kept saying to myself in my mind was “Don‘t mention anything remotely connected to salami now. Be sexy. Be creative. Give that woman pleasure.”
Usually any of those sex related mind games with an inhibiting impact on the faculty of speech last only a brink of a moment, but on that occasion there was a really awkward silence building up. It felt like a business meeting where you are asked by the boss to give your opinion on a topic that you know jack shit about, mostly because you have spent the last half hour contemplating what to eat for dinner instead of listening to your colleague’s presentation. But now you‘re in the spotlight and have to come up with something meaningful.
I was flipping my imaginary dictionary for possible comebacks to the meat salami, but to no avail. All I could think of were different types of hams, sausages and pâtés. As a guy with a normally working prostate, I’m more than grateful for any image or thought that helps me prolong the inevitable during the act of fornication. The only rule is that these mental images have to be proportionally de-arousing to the extent of sexual pleasure I am experiencing at the moment. If you need an example: if I am in a good mood and enjoy doing the deed with my partner, a few moments of thinking about my last visit to the dentist are sufficient to hold my juices back. But if I am in a great mood and have the bang of a century, we are talking heavy stuff like fingerblasting the handicapped old hag from the library in a drunken stupor with your grandfather suddenly joining in.
After what felt like an eternity, I knew that I had to come up with a dirty talking reply to her request instantly. All the while I was still stuck on the salami trope. It dawned on me at this very moment that I wouldn‘t get out of this unscathed, either physically or emotionally, so I just went with the first thing that came to my mind, hoping it would get me back into the flow. As I was sealing that colon Calzone I exclaimed ”How do you like my Cabanossi you little slut?“
She reacted in one of only two ways that a perfectly normal, non self-loathing and confident woman who had just gotten a dick – whose owner referred to it as a colon Cabanossi – stuffed up her ass could have reacted: she broke out in a laughing fit and luckily didn’t throw me out before sharing her experience on Facebook, which would have been the other possible reaction. But she opted for number one, and what am I to say, it was kind of contagious because I started laughing hysterically as well. Only briefly though, as my joy was rapidly enhanced by one of the most intense orgasms I ever had. I’m no expert on human anatomy, but apparently the body has this mechanism which causes certain parts of it to “tighten up“ during laughter. Even more so when there are parts of another person’s body inside of another laughing body.
Needless to say, the brief but intense moment of joy was followed by an even more intense moment of ejaculatory eruption, which in turn seemed to destroy all the fun for my partner. Not so much – as I first suspected – because I came before her but – as she would later describe to me – because the discharge had made her feel like she was pierced by a fucking dagger. She used a slightly less graphic description back then and compared it to one of those moments where you are eating and accidentally one of the chunks gets swallowed into the wrong drain. But with me, she said it felt like somebody had changed the trajectory of a slimy chunk and blasted it up from the other end of her body.
I‘d lie to you by saying that I felt sorry or remorseful for her because, after all, I just had an extremely fucking insane orgasm. But I’m also no animal and so I offered to finish her off orally. After she had stopped laughing I made my proposal, which was met by another hysterical laughing fit of her. I realized that this was probably the end of the evening and of my acquaintance with this woman, but I didn’t want to leave her like that. I tried my best to get her in a less fatuous and more fuckfriendly mood again, but there is only so much a hungry guy who had just had an awesome orgasm can do. For me there are three options: it‘s either sleep, eat pussy or have a meal. Most of us guys are simple like that, many even discard the middle part and immediately fall into a drone-like state of meandering between complete exhaustion and the munchies.
You wanna know how that evening ended? Let‘s just say I had Tommy Wiseau sex with a Michael Bay climax, learned a valuable lesson about unsettling connections between dirty talk and cold cuts but most important of all, I had never been so grateful for the fact that I was living in proximity of three Subway diners.
