I love when people i the corporate industry wish each other “Happy Hump Day” makes me snigger….
I mean, thats just my bodys natural reaction to the word “hump”!! How the word “humpday” has become so mainstream truly startles my mind. Maybe because my mind, in fact, happens to be a partially pretty dirty one. And when I hear hump, I think of sex. So when I hear people say they mean ”humpday” in an Oh it’s the middle of the week and it’s all downhill from here to the weekend! kind of way, I want to laugh.
And say Pity.
It’s a hell of a lot more fun if you choose to interrupt it in a more literal way. Particularly when a healthy amount of dirty talk gets involved in the whole mix. Because C*ck, F*ck, P*ssy, T*ts, Harder, Wetter and Faster? Yes please, I say.
Being an equality minded person who isn’t the type to preen over The Rules or making sure the guy always pays, I used to wonder if my predilection for dirty talk implied some deeper underlying issues.
Daddy issues. Men issues. Self-esteem issues. Masochistic issues.
Then I realized what fucking bullshit all that was. Because frankly, the reasons I like sex and have a penchant for dirty talk have nothing to do with needing some kind of validation and everything to do with the fact that it just feels damn good. And as long as it feels good, and it’s not hurting anyone but me, then I say “Hell, what’s the problem?”
Blame it on too many Gender Studies courses or Christian values infiltrating our minds, but once you remove the politics and over thinking behind sex, I think we can all agree that it’s difficult to argue against the merits of an orgasm. And hearing you like that big hard c*ck in your va-j-j don’t you just happens to be what it takes to push some chicks there.
Unless, that is, you’ve never had a good orgasm. Then I could see why you may judge and disapprove. You don’t know better.
Senior year in college, my closest friend (i dont believe in Best Friends) Sheetal – she of the Gender Studies major – became infatuated with deciphering the various inferences behind different sexual positions.
“Women need to stop having sex with men doggy style or, even, reverse cowgirl,” she lectured over our nth round of homemade margaritas one night.
“Why is that, again?,” I asked, entirely in jest.
“Because it’s degrading. The guy is having sex with you and he’s not even looking at your face. You could be anyone. All he wants is your va-j-j. Your brain doesn’t matter. There aren’t any positions that put men in such demeaning positions. It’s not equal.”
“Yeah? I wonder what Raul and Vivek would have to say about that.”
“Stop. That’s not the same. I’m talking about men and women right now.”
“You like doggy style,though. Doggy style, reverse cow girl, doing it standing up pressed against a wall – whatever. It all feels good. Honestly, Sheetal, do you guys really discuss the reverse cow girl position in your Gender Studies class?”
“That is also not the point. It’s carnal and savage and if a man respects you, he’ll screw you like an intelligent person.”
At this, I burst out in laughter. Sex is carnal and savage – the kind I enjoy anyway. Sex can be sweet and intimate too, if that’s your cup of (weak) tea. But I consider it a successful bout of getting naked and mashing bodies when screaming, sweaty orgasms are had. I’ll save discussing Chaucer and the lack of a sound political infrastructure in most African nations for dinner.
We had some tshirts made later that year – “F*ck me like an intelligent person” blazoned over the chest in honor of our friend Sheetal. I still own it and I plan to wear it even when I’m a senior goddamn citizen.
She had a point though. Sex of the rougher and talk of the dirtier varieties only feels truly – dare I say – rewarding when it’s done with a guy who respects the hell out of you. And cares about you. The type with manners and a good heart and shows immediate concern the first time you scream that “you’re so deep!” And asks if you’re all right and whether he should try to not get so deep next time. Because ultimately, dirty talk is fantasy in good fun – meant to be confined to the bedroom or kitchen or living room or elevator.
And lucky for me, that’s the type of guy I get to call my boyfriend. When i decide on one but really, maybe he’s the one that’s lucky, yes?
I shudder at the idea of a woman engaging in this kind of sex with a chauvinistic meathead – the kind that tells a woman her place is in the kitchen and that he doesn’t like how she looks wearing that dress because it makes her t*ts look small and doesn’t she know they’re about to go meet his friends and he needs her to look hot? (True story, this was something an ex-boyfriend of one of my girl friends told her. Of course, she is absolutely gorgeous. And he absolutely did not deserve her. But isn’t this too often the case?) The kind of pig that calls you T*ts and gives you an approving smile as you walk by him, all while stroking the nearby ass of his girlfriend who is glaring machetes at you. That guy probably does think that all women are little whores who are asking for it. And he probably also has a 2-inch c*ck, when its hard.
The kind of sex and dirty talk I like isn’t anything too out of the ordinary. It’s not like I need my boy to strangle my neck before I can orgasm. I don’t need to hear anything more unusual than some encouragement. I’m not trying to tell you that I have sex as I dream about dead corpses.
I just like sex as I think sex is intended to be liked.
It’s not too difficult for me to imagine that this world would be a hell of a lot less angry if everyone would just go enjoy some highly athletic fucking and stop worrying about it so much. Some ‘throw me down and bite my neck and scream my head off not because I’m trying to sound sexy but because I just can’t help myself’ action. Some sex that – once it’s over – you feel too damn tired to feel anything but stupefied content.
Well, everyone except for those old corporate women that wish each other “Happy Hump Day” and make me snigger in disgust all over again, who seem to think that not smiling for more than one full minute makes you a bad employee and has begun to talk about the sexy older men she’s been meeting through Shaadi (dot) com as though that is acceptable casual conversation in the office kitchen.
I don’t need to imagine that. That’s just not my cup of (oddass) tea.