Nowadays dirty talk is as much a part of the mating ritual as GUM clinics and sleeping in 'the wetspot' but that doesn't mean we're all ok with it...
Hello there, my name is Adam. I am a twenty-three year old boy and I’m here today to tell you about my problem. I cannot, for love nor money, talk dirty to people.
I’ll admit that, as problems go, it’s a pretty tame one. I’m certainly not expecting any tax exemptions or those awesome parking spaces right outside the shop door – I do allow myself use of the special toilets though, if I’m desperate. But what might sound like the trivial nervous dribblings of a potentially impotent half-wit is actually socially crippling, no sooner have I seen the come-to-bed eyes, than I’ve started sweating cold piss in total fear of what’s to come.
For see you see it’s not my skills in the art of horizontal jogging that I’m worried about, heading into my quarter century I’m just about competent between the sheets and I could probably point to most lady bits on a diagram. I just have a serious issue with what exactly you’re meant to say when you’re… y’know…
â€śWhat’s that? Oh yeah, haha, I have got one of those… uh-huh, yeah I suppose you could do that with it, it’s probably quite nice actually. Um… yeah sure, if you like… I’ll just… how’s that? Coolâ€ť. Honestly, if you ever heard me trying to talk my way through coitus you would cringe so hard you’ll physically invert.
I doubt your Nana Margaret ever ended a night of doing the Jitterbug by burying her tongue in someones ear-hole and tugging them off in the back of a taxi.
I just don’t get it, what’s wrong with gentle encouragement, why do you have to provide me with inanely enthusiastic feedback that you’ve clearly scripted from your ex-boyfriends hardcore porn stash. I’d be quite happy for you to just imply I was doing a good job and let me crack the odd joke to break the tension, but no, if I’m not playing rude word boggle with you then apparently I’m doing something wrong.
Whilst I’ve managed to mask a lack of dirty-talk with various grunts and growls over the years, I even started to develop a problem with hearing other people saying it. After you’ve sat and had a conversation with someone it’s almost impossible to keep a straight face when their eyes narrow and they start waxing lyrical about where they want certain body-parts and what they’re going to do to them. Even words you didn’t previously find funny, like ‘plough’ or ‘drip’ for example, get ruined forever once you’ve heard someone practically sing them at 3am.
I suppose I could change tack, go for an all out offensive and start screaming at girls that I’m going to force feed them margarine and spaff sandwiches or something. It’s really not who I am though, and if she didn’t realise it straight away then she’ll realise it when I offer to cut the crusts off for her.
It’s even worse outside of the bedroom. I spent a hideous proportion of my school life watching girls virtually shit with laughter at the haphazardly spelt attempts some of my chums had made at sexting. In fact, every time I’m encouraged to send one myself my mind instantly reverts to being a 15 year-old boy leaning over someone’s shoulder in the dinner queue, wondering what the blue hell â€śSuk izâ€ť means.
My solution is, as it was then, to fire back something witty in an attempt to both charm and disarm in one fell swoop. It’s met with mixed success and if it wasn’t for that little winking emoticion I don’t know what the fuck I would do. Occasionally I’ve held my nose, taken the plunge and sent some serious smut back but if anything that was even worse. There was once an occasion when, desperate and in need of a saucy retort, I tried to find one on Google, but I’ve since agreed never to mention that again.
The trouble is that people change when you get their clothes off, and it’s a change I can’t make. For crying out loud ladies, you’ve only taken me home because you found me charming and occasionally witty, you never mentioned anything about having to morph into a ballsy cross between James Bond and PepĂ© Le Peu once I finished my coffee.
â€śWhat’s that? Oh yeah, haha, I have got one of those… uh-huh, yeah I suppose you could do that with it, it’s probably quite nice actually. Um… yeah sure, if you like… I’ll just… how’s that? Coolâ€ť.
Granted not everyone’s secretly a velvet-tongued maestro of verbal dark arts, but those of us who who’d happily be ball-gagged just so we didn’t have to provide a running commentary are now definitely in the minority. You’d never tell them apart in the street though, dirty-talkers are like werewolves: considerate and polite most of the time, they’ll hold a door for you or babysit your dog when you’re on holiday, but get them under the light of a full-moon (by which I mean, buy them a few Bacardi Breezers and slip them the finger in the bogs) and they’ll tear you apart.
But it’s just so ridiculous, I mean, no matter how filthy you think your new lady-friend is, chances are she’ll be someone’s gran eventually. Suspend your disgust for a moment and consider the following; in the not-so-distant future a staggering percentage of world’s humble old pensioners won’t be the headscarf clad, Werthers original vendors we’ve grown up with, but simply wrinkled versions of the foul mouthed, tattooed, sex-kittens who’ve been dry humping us in the back of nightclubs.
I appreciate that even our ‘butterscotch-wouldn’t-melt’ relatives had their day, but I doubt your Nana Margaret ever ended a night of doing the Jitterbug by burying her tongue in someones ear-hole and tugging them off in the back of a taxi. In this digital age, with all these home-made videos floating around on peoples phones, there’s a real chance of your grandchildren accidentally watching you getting frigged with a J20 bottle.
So ladies, please, next time you take some fragile, well-meaning young lad home, don’t give him a hard time if he can’t quite get the words out. Love your poor mumbler, he’s far more scared of you than you are of him.
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