So this is really an addendum to my earlier post. Jason is gone now. He left about 15 minutes ago. I came two more times after he left thinking about us going to a sex club and watching him fuck some chick doggy style while he had his fingers buried deep inside my clenching, soaking cunt.
He didn’t cum tonight and I’m wrestling with that. The good, horny woman in me says I failed. The logical, intellectual one is struggling to believe him when he says (and rightly so) that sex isn’t always about an orgasm. I hate it when I hear that bullshit from men even though it’s the very basis on which my own sexuality and sexual experiences are based. I don’t cum with men. Like, almost ever. I know it’s not all about orgasms. But it’s hard to shake a sense of failure when a man I’m with doesn’t cum.
Add to this the fact that I really, really, really tried. I love to suck cock. So this perceived failure of mine is lingering. I sucked his cock for minutes upon minutes using all my skill and determination until I finally asked if he could cum for me at all. He said he most definitely could and he grabbed his cock with his right hand and started to stroke while I fingered myself in front of him, soaked through my panties and filled my cupped palms with ejaculate then trickled it on his hand and shaft; suckled his ripe, warm balls; trailed my nipples along his thighs and around his pouch; and spit hot, sticky saliva on his head whenever he got dried out. And still nothing.
“I need you to talk dirty to me,” he finally says.
I don’t know how to fucking talk dirty.
Not even a little bit.
I tried hard not to derail the moment with my severe discomfort. I told him I didn’t know how. I asked him for some guidance. His obtuse answer was, “I can’t tell you that. It has to be genuine. From you.” MOTHERFUCKER.
After I tried — and failed — at sex talk, Jason gave me a B- for effort. I whacked him and laughed and he gave up trying to masturbate to climax. I had said things that I was comfortable saying, recounted fantasies I had about him while I masturbated. But it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t right.
“Look, Hyacinth, the thing is, is that you have to say things you think your partner wants to hear.”
“But I’ve never heard dirty talk outside of the typical catalog of ‘Oh, baby, your pussy feels so good,’ and ‘You’re such a good girl, Hyacinth, that’s right: a good girl.'”
I felt defeated and confused, slightly irritated, but also challenged.
He’d fucked me for 30 minutes in my room when he’d first come over, and then watched me use my vibe to finish myself off. Then we sat in front of my fire and I sat at his feet as he relaxed in the Fuck Chair occasionally stroking my hair or breast. He asked how I was and listened to all my stories. Then he started sharing stories about fucking a couple and other women and I found myself kneeling wedged between his spread knees, my lips hovering over his, our breath intermingling. This is how this whole mess got started. I thought we were connecting and then he asked me to perform outside my skill set.
I felt awful. Feel awful. But I’m also pissed. He used the example of the dirty talk he uses on me to illustrate that he says things to me he knows I’ll like (that he happens to enjoy, too). Like waiting for me in my parking lot for me to leave the house one day and then without a word just backing me back into my apartment to fuck me then leave me. His point was that his talk was catered to me.
But, I now realize after having had some space and solitude to mull it over, I’m transparent. I’m open and forthright and clear as a mountain stream when it comes to my motivations. This man is not. He’s opaque, like a fogged bathroom mirror. How was I supposed to know that me describing group sex with another woman and my mouth buried in her musky, delicious cunt wouldn’t turn him on? Most men would blow their wad in a second to hear a woman utter those words, words that he himself might whisper to himself while he’s got cock in hand.
Jason, however, is different. But I guess I knew that.
Eventually I gave up the discussion and just lay on my back, staring at the ceiling processing things. He stood over me, stroking my face. “Don’t worry, baby, we’ll figure it out.” And he rained kisses down on me knowing I was struggling.
I got up and kissed him, his arms wrapped tightly around my terrycloth robe. “You’re not mopey are you?” he asks.
“No, not at all. I’m just dazed. I’m horny, I’m tired, I’m confused. But I’m not mopey, I swear.” And truly, I wasn’t, but I was irritated that he thought so.
When the door shut behind him, the cold air striking my damp crotch, I made a bee line for my room and my Hitachi, and that’s when I let myself get inside his head; I was horny and irritated, lustful and confused. I have to say… not a bad list of things to be feeling. My orgasms were huge. Or maybe it was more to do with trying to please him (even after he’d gone). Maybe I’m more submissive than I knew. I imagined what he’d want to hear (like a good girl). His hand. Deep inside my pussy. My naked body witness to his impaling another. My desires his desires now. I think I get it now. I think.
What’s good dirty talk to you??