7:51 a.m. - 2007-06-25
irony out the kinks
I have always disliked talking during foreplay and sex. When I first started exploring my sexuality, it was with another high school freshman. We (and by that I mean he) had no idea how to do these things. We just knew that if there was conversation involved, we would be caught by some teacher. If caught, there would be public disgrace and penance to pay. We went to a Catholic school—we knew all about penance. Public disgrace was a specialty of one of the nuns who taught there as well—she’d disgraced both of us frequently before our peers that year.
So silence, big eyed facial expressions, and blocking bad gropes were my standard mode of operation. Eventually I worked up to quiet moans of pleasure. Once, I actually screamed—I couldn’t help it. Balling up my t-shirt and shoving it in my mouth seemed to solve that problem though. We were learning quite a bit—me from books like “Valley of the Horses” and “The Cardinal Sins,” he from… somewhere. My educated guess at this point is “adult films.”
Eventually, I expanded my dating horizons to someone who would actually take me out—in public—on dates. But I still kept quiet and used all the non-verbal tricks to get kisses, gropes, more kisses where I’d been groped… etcetera. And I could block efforts toward penetration quite well after all the practice with my first… gropefiend.
My first deeply serious boyfriend, the first guy to ask me to marry him, was a bit more for talking during the proceedings. He would say things to me; I would blush and put something in his mouth—usually my tongue. I didn’t want to hear descriptive about the proceedings! I just wanted to fool around and enjoy myself and make him crazed with lust and ecstatic with release. The only thing I need to hear to know how I’m doing would be spontaneous moans, thank you very much.
My second deeply serious boyfriend, the man I eventually married, demanded speech from me. If there is anything more embarrassing to me than listening to a guy wax poetic about the proceedings, it is actually having to open my mouth and say something other than “don’t” or “stop.” Guess what I had to do in order to have sex with him the first time? Ask. Literally. Open my mouth and say, “Are we going to have sex now or are you going to make me wait for it?” Which seemed like a safe compromise between blinking doe-eyed and saying “make love to me” end of the spectrum and grabbing him by the back of the head and demanding he fornicate me now. He still laughed, much to my mortification. Had it been any less dark, I would have considered leaving. As it was, I just hid my head under a pillow while he went for a condom and wondered if blushing could be lethal—just this once!
Fast forward…many years… to a couple of weeks ago. After having neck issues for so long, adjustments needed to be made in the bedroom. Having put effort into meeting my demands, NMH decided to make some requests of his own. Guess who wants verbal descriptions of what his wife enjoys in bed? Vivid verbal descriptions. I was hoping it was just a “drunk in Haven” sort of thing. No such good luck.
Just in case anyone was wondering, blushing still won’t cause spontaneous combustion.
