I played the flute for a good three years in middle school. While no one ever dubbed me a child flutist prodigy, I feel like I tooted a mean “Hot Cross Buns” in my prime. The instrument just never really grew on me as a hobby or an outlet.
That said, it’s appropriate to add that I also never made it to band camp. This is possibly the greatest tragedy in my sexual upbringing, as I hear some freaky stuff goes on there – especially for people with flutes – and at the very least I could have taken some notes early on to prepare me for what happened to me last week.
Seven days ago, I by chance ran into an old friend. Guided by my infamously bad decision-making, I invited him to get a drink. Two hours later we’re googily-eyed and I’m wondering why we didn’t do this sooner.
To quelch popular belief (in some cases, hope), I don’t have any crazy whips and chains stowed deep in my closet, nor do I line my shelves with kama sutra books and seventies porn. (You’d be surprised how often I’m asked that). I am, however, armed with probably the dirtiest mouth you will ever come acr … err … stumble upo … err … shoot.
I have a dirty mouth. Let’s leave it at that. There’s pretty much no filter to me. All kinds of crazy stuff flies out uninvited. To balance out my head, my ears can deal with mountainous levels of dirty talk. Making me blush is an accomplishment on par with getting Tara Reid to cover her breasts in public.
However, when I pitched this column to my fellow editors, there were a few dropped jaws and a surplus “uh-uhs” and “are you kidding mes” about just which words I could print. If Matt Donnelly can’t drop the well-deserved “B-word” in reference to Victoria Beckham, I have to suffer copy editing as well.
So, here is your dirty word dictionary for the rest of the article. As it’s approaching (past) deadline and my stomach’s growling, I’m going to opt for candy euphemisms.
So back to my pseudo-date with wannabe Ron Jeremy in Carson Daly clothing. We get to my doorstep, and he’s thanking me for the conversation and telling me how glad he is we met up. He leans in 90 percent as per Hitch rules, and I accommodate.
The goodnighter seems to be going well until we reach a brief pause and the dude gets the chance to unleash his inner beastial commentary.
“Wow,” he says. I smile. The night air is calm and a tipsy pedestrian breaks the quiet in passing with staggered footsteps on the pavement. It was serene.
“Wow,” he continues. “I can’t wait to get my hands on your jelly beans (remember to refer to dictionary for translations).”
“What?” I say, eyes snapping open into a scowl, hoping I had heard wrong.
“Yeah babe, but it ain’t gonna stop there,” he continues in a heavy rasp against my cheek. “I’m gonna get on that bubble gum all night. It’s gonna be the wettest snickerdoodle you’ve ever had.”
“Uhhh … don’t you think you’re being a little …”
“You get my beef jerky so wound up. Must be that marshmallow I’ve been staring at all night. I want to smack that marshmallow. You gonna let me smack it?”
I giggle because it is that uncomfortable, and there really isn’t anything else to do.
“What baby, you getting excited about my fudge pop? My fudge pop is excited about your dirty marshmallow. I can’t wait to get you upstairs and give you rainbow sprinkles all night until we falafel. Think you’re ready for that? You ready for the falafel? Tell me you’re ready for that.”
I’m shaking at this point trying to hold in the quakes of laughter surging up my throat. Things have gone from uncomfortable to comfortably ridiculous, and I carefully try to let him down easy. This girl’s marshmallow was not interested.
I don’t know what it was that drove this intelligent, articulate man into awkward pornographic banter. Maybe he was overcompensating for something. Maybe he wanted to be intimidating. Maybe he got the birds-and-the-bees talk from Jenna Jameson. The world may never know.
I’ve decided there should be some strict rules for talking dirty and that there are harsh consequences for breaking them. I lost all respect for the guy for several reasons.
To start, his timing was way, way off. A kiss goodnight on a first date is not the right forum for laying out your deepest fantasies. The only possible exception is that it’s the kind of date where you know how it’s going to end from the beginning, i.e. a one-nighter. You better be sure the other person is ready and accepting of that before you pull out the big verbal guns. That aside, there is a time and a place for talking dirty, and usually it’s in the moment when you’re not really sure what you’re saying anyway and hopefully you don’t let anything permanently damaging fly out.
Next, he barely even knew me when he decided it was okay to say things like that to me. It’s insulting to think that someone has you pegged sexually within the first few weeks, and even more insulting on the first night. It makes me seem shallow and transparent.
Even if I were (which I’m not), I don’t ever want to feel like I am. Don’t tell me how I like it. You don’t even know what my favorite color is. (Note: knowing what my favorite color is is not the gateway to telling me how I like it.)
Maybe I’m a virgin. Maybe I’m shy. Maybe I’m a space alien. Maybe I wait a few months before I invite you up to my place. In all honesty, that level of dirty talking probably never happens with me. It’s a personal preference. I just think it sounds forced no matter how you do it.
But, everybody’s different. Even dirty talkers have their limits on time and intensity. You need to know that person’s boundaries before you drop the beef jerkybomb on their marshmallow pre-falafel.
Finally, if you’re not comfortable talking dirty, don’t talk dirty. It will be obvious. “Uhhh, err, baby, could I uhhh … possibly … would you let me put my hot fudge pop in your sweet bubble gum because … sigh … nice jelly beans I guess … or something. Falafel.” Talking dirty is gratuitous to the experience. If you’re not doing it because it’s something that you or your partner really likes, it will seem unnatural and kill the mood.
I had three different editors come to me and ask if the included conversation was verbatim because it just seemed so insane to them.
For all you fact-checkers, I assure you that that conversation actually happened, and it’s as close to accurate as I can stomach. Just be glad it didn’t happen to you.
P-word (women’s genitalia) –
C-word (again, women’s genitalia) – snickerdoodle
D-word (male genitalia) –
C-word (male genitalia) –
C-word (orgasm) –
T-word (breasts) – jelly beans
F- word (four-letter bomb) –
A-word (bum bum) – marshmallow
Nadia Stadnycki can be reached at email@example.com.