“Tell me what you want to do to me,” I cooed in Brandon’s* ear. It was our first time in bed together and I was hoping he would pass my “dirty talk test.” The test is simple. I ask the man what he wants to do to me and he responds with his own special brand of dirty talk. Easy, right? Not always so simple.
It’s easier to get the little head than the big head in the game. But the problem is, I only want to have sex with a man when both heads are present. I want him to understand that my pleasure takes place first in my mind and then in my body. And if he can’t stimulate my mind, he has a very slim chance of stimulating anything on my body. Sure he can fumble his way around and accidentally push a button, but why bother? I know some people don’t like to talk; they just like to “do.” But for me it’s not enough.
Source: INSCMagazine
The idea of sex is almost as powerful as the sex itself. I want to hear what turns him on—really turns him on—and I want him to find out what really turns me on. It could be sweet and gentle or rough and nasty. I don’t care what it is, as long as it’s his. Sex is not a monologue; it’s a dialogue between two people. It’s rare to find a man who is able to articulate his turn-ons and ask about mine. Yet so many guys seem to think they know what turns a woman on. Where are they getting all this knowledge about female eroticism? Porn. Womp. Womp.
For the record, I don’t think it’s bad for people to look at porn. It’s not personally my thing, but I get the appeal it has for some. My main issue with porn (or the influence of porn in the bedroom) is that it’s so irrelevant to actual sex. I think that it’s fine for a quick self-romp or a shared partner activity if both parties are into it, but when you get into bed with a real person, the porno “acts” just don’t really translate, at least for me.
I had high hopes for Brandon. We had gone out a number of times and he seemed like a smart, grounded, fun guy. We talked about philosophy, comedy, and music. We talked about our families and our childhoods. He seemed kind and generous and, most importantly, I felt respected by him as a person. When we kissed for the first time, it was surprisingly passionate. He kissed me with his whole body and when he touched me I could feel the sexual energy oozing out of his fingertips. Great chemistry. All good signs for the sex that was about to happen.
Source: Miłość to pasja
“Tell me what you want to do to me,” I said again.
“I want to put your legs over your head and split you apart,” he said. “And then I want to come on your face and tits.”
He went on like that for a while—never pausing to ask me a question in return or check in with me—just continuing to repeat trite storylines from internet porn clips. The disconnect between the Brandon I was getting to know, the one I had kissed, and the porno director that I ended up in bed with was startling—bordering on offensive. It’s not that I felt turned off by the particular sex acts he mentioned—hell, I‘ve engaged in most of them in the past—it’s just that the real Brandon wasn’t in bed anymore. He was replaced by a litany of improbable, porno fantasies and in my place was the porno actress meant to play the part of “sex object.” I didn’t feel real. It didn’t feel real.
Geez … keep your porno fantasies to yourself, I thought. I liked you better when you weren’t trying to be John Holmes. Please don’t ever tell me again what you want to do to me again.
Confused and disappointed by his “dirty talk test” failure, “I’m not really into that,” was all I could say.
Original by Anonymous
