He said it like he had practised in the bathroom mirror
Same place I do my face. Difference is, I am trying to look like myself. He was trying to sound like a clip.
You like that. Take it. Good girl.
I did not hate the words. I hated that they did not belong to him. You can hear it. There is a little delay, like he is waiting for a subtitle. Filthy is fine. Borrowed is not. I go slack in my head when a man starts performing a script he did not write.
Awkward and filthy beats cinematic and fake. I hear the difference immediately. Always have.
I do not need a monologue. I need you in the room.
Talking during sex is not an exam. You do not get marked on vocabulary. You get marked on whether you are actually here or whether you are doing an impression of someone who has had sex on a screen.
I like being talked to. Silence makes my mind wander. I start thinking about the rota, the bathroom queue, whether I locked my locker. A voice pulls me back. Even a clumsy one. Especially a clumsy one, if it is honest.
What I do not like is the greatest hits package. You are so wet. Take this. Who is this tight little thing. Good girl on a loop like he has one button and he is going to press it until the batteries die.
Some of that can work. On the right night, in the right mouth, with the right timing. The problem is when it is the whole personality. When there is no you underneath it. Just content.
I have been with men who barely swore in daylight and then, in the dark, said one true sentence and I was done. Not because it was clever. Because it sounded like it had come out of them by accident.
Porn taught him the lines. It did not teach him the listening.
I am not precious about porn. I have watched it. I have used it. I am thirty, I have a phone, I have had nights in a flat with thin walls and a lock that does not mean much. I am not going to sit here and pretend I was raised on poetry.
But porn is edited. Nobody in those videos is checking your face. Nobody is whispering are you still with me. Nobody says wait, my leg has gone dead, give me a second. The talk is product. It is there to keep a stranger watching, not to keep a person in their body.
So when he imports it wholesale, I feel like a stand in. Like he could swap me for the last girl and the sentences would not change. That is a grim feeling when you are supposed to be the point of the evening.
I want the sentence you would actually say. If your real voice is quiet, be quiet and filthy. If your real voice is a bit daft, be daft and filthy. If you only swear when you mean it, save the swear for the bit that makes your brain fall out. I can work with all of that.
What I cannot work with is a man doing a character.
Good girl is not a personality.
Look. Sometimes I like it. I will not lie and do the whole I am above praise thing. I like being told I am doing something well. I like being wanted in specific language, not vague moaning at the ceiling.
But if good girl is the only tool in the bag, it starts to sound like a dog treat. Same with calling me that as if he has never learned my name. My name is Ellie. Els if you have seen me with mascara half done. Use it. It lands harder than a line he heard through laptop speakers.
Tell me I look good from this angle. Tell me you have been thinking about my mouth since the pub. Tell me slower. Tell me you can feel me. Tell me you are close and you do not want to be yet. That is talk. That is two people in a room.
Take this dick is not talk. That is a caption.
I said that to a man once, after, while I was looking for my knickers with as much dignity as you can have on a bedroom floor. He laughed and then he got sulky, which told me everything. He wanted applause for reciting.
If you are scared of sounding corny, you will sound fake instead.
That is the trade most people make. They would rather be generic than cringe. So they hide in lines that have already been road tested by a thousand strangers.
I would rather you risk the cringe.
Say I cannot think. Say you smell good, even if it comes out stupid. Say I like your tits, if that is where your brain has gone. Say I keep looking at your mouth. Say I wanted this on the night bus and I felt like a menace. That last one is mine. I have thought it. I have not always said it. When I do, it is better than any polished filth.
Confidence is not volume. It is owning the sentence even if it is a bit wonky. The men who mutter something true into my neck do more for me than the ones who sound like they are trying to get to a million views.
And if you go quiet because you are actually gone, that is different. I can hear that too. Breath that changes. A swear that slips. My name said like it surprised him. That is not a script. That is a person falling out of his manners.
Ask. Then use what I give you.
The hottest sentence in circulation is still a question, if you can bear it.
Does that feel good. Do you want it harder. Do you want my hand there. Can I talk. What do you want me to say.
People treat asking like it kills the mood. It does not. Guessing badly kills the mood. Yanking my hair because a video told you hair is a handle kills the mood. Calling me something I have not agreed to, just to see if I will wear it, kills the mood.
Ask once. Watch my face. Then do it like you meant the answer.
If I say I like filthy, I mean filthy that belongs to us. Not a tour of every word you have ever heard a woman called. There is a difference between being used in a way I asked for and being spoken to like I am interchangeable.
I like being in charge sometimes. I like not being in charge sometimes. Neither version needs a monologue. Both versions need you to clock whether I am still with you or whether I have gone into my head to fix my face.
If I have gone into my head, stop performing. Touch my face. Say something ordinary. Even I forgot how nice your skin is will do. Ordinary said in the middle of filthy is how you get me back.
What I actually want to hear, if we are being specific.
Not a list you should memorise. That would make me a hypocrite. Just the flavour.
I want to know you can see me. Not woman. Not this body. Me. The makeup I spent too long on. The fact I came from a late and I still wanted you. The fact I am small and I am not fragile and I still like being held still if you ask first.
I want the bit after the line as well. The laugh when something is awkward. The sorry, cramp. The hang on. The you all right. People think that stuff is unsexy because it would get cut. I think it is the proof I am not in a scene.
I want you to tell me when you are close like you are warning a friend, not announcing a product launch. I want you to say my name when it gets messy. I want you to shut up if talking is making you fake, and come back to words when you have something real.
And if you cannot talk, make a noise that is yours. Do not perform the soundtrack either. I have heard that one as well. It is all throat and no body.
Aftercare is part of the sentence.
The talk does not stop when the interesting bit stops. That is where a lot of men clock off, like the scene ended and they can drop the character.
Water. A joke. A hand on my back. You good. That was a lot. Come here.
If you can talk filth into me and then go mute like you have posted the clip and closed the laptop, I notice. Of course I notice. Sex makes me feel chosen for a minute. The quiet after tells me whether that was mutual or whether I was a useful body with a convenient mouth.
I will take clumsy kindness over polished filth that evaporates. Every time. I have left rooms that sounded impressive and felt empty. I have stayed in rooms that sounded a bit silly and felt like I could take my face off.
That is the whole point for me, if I am not performing either. I do enough performing in the mirror before I leave the flat. I do not need to do it on my back as well.
So tell me the truth.
If the truth is I do not know what to say, say that. I can work with shy. Shy and present is hot. Fake and loud is just another man filling space so he does not have to be seen.
If the truth is you want something specific, use ordinary words first. I want your mouth here. I want you to sit on me. I want to go slow until you stop looking so arranged. That last one would undo me, if I am honest, because I know I do that. I know I tidy myself even when I am supposed to be wrecked.
If the truth is you like me more than the night was meant to hold, you do not have to make it a speech. Say it small. I will hear it. I hear everything. That is my problem and my talent.
Keep the borrowed lines for the comments. In here I want the sentence that would still sound like you if the lights came on and my flatmate put the kettle on too early.
Awkward. Filthy. Yours.
I can do the rest.
