March 9, 2008
These things I cannot say…


I myself am tongue tied. I can write filthy sweet nothings that make a grown woman keen inwardly. I can talk a tear of naughty shreds into a phone. I can, at innocuous moments, lean over, place my lips just thisclose to your ear and drop-whisper some dirty bomb mot into your ear that will make you slippery with lust in a wet hot second.

I cannot, however, do it in bed. In bed, my language leaves. My words fumble and falter. They can’t find purchase. In bed, or its desk/chair/bathroom/kitchen counter equivalent, my tongue trips and stumbles. I open my mouth and I am struck dumb.

Oh. Yes. I try to say. Your pussyfeels so…good.

Which I suppose is enough. But it isn’t for me. I want to sing improvisational pagan paeans to my lover’s nasty velvet vulva. I can’t. What am I if not my language, my pride asks in my ear. And I try again. Oh. God. Yes, Please stick…something…in me.

Stick it in me?

Each phrase I utter feels banal, bare and mundane as corrugated cardboard, stripped of any erotic light. Light dies before my uncreating word. I am a dunce.

Oh. God. Please, yes, fuck me. I say and flush red with embarrassment.

Fuck me? That is the best I can do? I say the words (oh, yeah, uh, good, cock, cunt, whatever) and they fail me. My words betray me. They used to be my friends; in bed I feel their betrayal. They leave my mouth, they drop like spit, they splat flat; they turn their backs on me. They put their hands on their hips. They look over their shoulders and they stick out their tongues.

“See? “ They say, “Fuck you.” They line the room like spectators at a prize fight; they stare at me blankly. “We no longer mean what you mean us to mean,” they tell me, meanly. Fucking words. They hate me in bed. They won’t do my bidding.

Little furry bastards.

And the greater irony is that I love being talked to in bed. My lover, bless her unselfconscious soul, will often keep a running commentary while we fuck.

“Your pussy feels so beautiful,” she tells me. “It’s so tight and so beautiful. Do you hear that? That wetness, that’s so beautiful,” she says. It’s repetitive as a lullaby. Her words rock me closer to coming.

“I love fucking you,” she tells me as she fucks me. “It’s not like fucking anyone else. Every time we fuck it’s like the best sex I’ve ever had,” she tells me as we fuck for the 43rd, 62nd, 221st time.

“You look so hott,” she says and describes in detail my hotness. My wide shoulders, my tapered waist, my flowering and good-natured ass, my tiny pink-brown asshole, if she’s behind me; or my bouncing breasts, my shoulders and my tummy, if I’m on top. (If she’s on top, she tells me how my pussy looks, its openness, its pink-brown greediness, its seashell smell, its general excessive opulence.)

When I am fucking my lover, I silently will her to speak. Talk to me, I telegraph in my head to him. Talk. To. Me. I never ask her to, as much as I love it, because somehow to ask for it would be to break its unutterable magic.

She hears my silent message. “Fuck me,” she says. “Ride my fingers. Use them.” She urges in gravel tones gently laced with her Jersey accent. “Go now,” she commands, “fuck me.”

She makes it sound so easy. “That’s right,” she says, “feel me filling you,” she says (I do and it’s good). I wonder why I can’t do that. I try, but when I whisper her plagiarized words, Oooh, I feel you filling me, it’s hollow. It thuds. It feels inauthentic. Like I should have a bouffant and white vinyl boots and an extra diagetic bow-chicka-wow-wow plunk-funking behind me.

Which is fine, but not exactly my image of my erotic style. My erotic style slumps with beat poet aplomb. It holds a pen that is longer than is necessary. My erotic style pauses to check literary references for accuracy. My erotic style has style; my erotic style smokes cigarettes and wears red lipstick. My erotic style is far better coiffed than I am. My erotic style doesn’t grunt.

I, however, do. In bed my language abandons me. It packs its bags and all it leaves behind are little dregs, the panties you’d never want to be caught in an E.R. in, mismatched socks, that shirt you bought on sale that isn’t really your color or your style but you were feeling low and the price was too. In bed my language leaves behind monosyllables.

I can’t say them without shame.

But, oh, how I love to hear them. “You are so tight around my fingers,” my lover says to me, and grunt that I am. “You are such a little slut,” she says, and I nod my assent. “You love to fuck me, I know that you do,” she says, and she is right. She talks on and I listen, her gutter utterances leading me by the clit closer and closer to sweet nothingness.

This lambent language falling like fire, flickering like rain, making me feel so dirty good.


Comments

3 Responses to “These things I cannot say…”

  1. billie on March 9th, 2008 5:50 am

    i don’t mind at all

  2. meridia on April 2nd, 2008 1:20 am

    thanks for giving me some good ideas! likewise, i can never find the right words in bed.

  3. Angell on April 8th, 2008 2:42 pm

    I know the feeling. I don’t know why, the words flow on paper (keyboard etc.) but when it comes to speaking them, I fear I sound stupid, like I’m parroting a bad porn movie.

    And I grunt too - not sexy is it?

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