It’s rare that I will explicitly talk about sex on this blog because:
- My father reads this blog
- My devout Catholic and Evangelical family reads this blog – I’d rather not draw their attention to my possible damnation
- My coworkers read this blog
Interactions with these people are easier when we all pretend that none of us have ever experienced penetration or even have the bits and pieces to indulge in such physical activities.
However. True WTF moments are hard to come by, and this is a blog about WTFery, so here goes oversharing.
I was indulging in some nighttime extracurricular activities with a gentleman-friend of mine. It was one of those more “energetic” sessions vs the romantic, passionate, loving sessions, and over the course of our exercise, my gentleman-friend gave me a hickey.
Y’all. I have ADD, yes? Well, ADD doesn’t stop during naked interactions. Regardless of the skillset of the participating dude, I get distracted. And that hickey distracted me.
That was fun, wait a hickey? I have to work tomorrow. How many turtlenecks do I own? Thank goodness it’s wintertime, it would be awkward wearing a turtleneck in summertime. I hope it fades quickly. Must remind Gentleman-Friend to limit his marks to non visible areas going forward. I wonder if instead of a turtleneck I could rock a silk scarf, knotted around my neck like a Parisian star? This is gonna be the most bougie hickey ever.
Maybe I should focus now.
So I focused.
As our exercise session continued,
Gentleman-Friend Hickster talked dirty to me. I enjoy that, especially since most of the time, talking dirty results in me collapsing into uncontrollable giggles because it sounds so stupid. I don’t do sexy, remember? Well, Gentleman-Friend Hickster is extremely skilled at dirty talk, and I appreciated it, while never reciprocating. Until this happened:
Oooooh baby, the next time you go to Paris on one of your trips, take me with you. You’re so smart. Take me with you and I’ll fuck you in Paris. You don’t have to introduce me to anybody, I’m a street nigga, I won’t embarrass you, but at night I’ll make sure you (insert x-rated description here).
I was SO shocked. Stunned, in fact. I stopped the ongoing process.
Don’t call yourself a street nigga. I know, I’m being Vanilla, I shouldn’t take anything you are saying in this context literally, but wtf. Street nigga? You think I’d be ashamed to introduce you to ppl?! How the fuck do you see me? How do you see yourself?! So what, you are getting off on the whole ‘she’s white, smart, out of my league’ thing? I get that it’s just an expression, I do. An expression that just made my vagina dry up.
Nothing spells sexy times more than witnessing the legacy of racism and segregation in the bedroom. Me, my body, my personality… not what was turning him on. It was my whiteness, my career and our supposed class difference.
We’ve established that I have, in fact, fooled around with black guys (and Arabs, bc I’m crazy like that – BAN THEM ALL!!!), yes? I never knew this street nigga vs white career girl could be a thing. I didn’t have a clue.
I did say I don’t do dirty talk, yeah?