Soap and my mouth are well acquainted with eachother. My childrearing happened in a household where even an utterance of a curse (or cuss) word's replica resulted in immediate parental correction. Should i have the unfortunate druthers to let slither past my lips one of the dreaded thoroughbreds of foul language, i could expect that my oral perpetrator would get a total sanitization. Whenever i think about the handful of times i spoke a dirty word in my parents' presence, i still get the salty, medicinal taste of the amber bar my parents used to make me suck on in the back of my throat.
As is the case for most things my parents forbade me to indulge in, i developed quite the obsession with expletives. I began to experiment with them in my everyday conversation, viewing the reactions i extracted from people when i colored my polemic with a strategically placed 'f'-word or 'G*d***ed' (truth be told, i was such a devout Catholic, that i replaced the word "god" with "gald" just so i didn't expedite my transport to Purgatory. I still do this to this day). Flash forward to modern times where this obsession has stamped itself all over my tongue, and my normal way of conversing would make the most disgruntled of sailors blush. I have a foul mouth, which unfortunately has no external censor, running its course even in front of the virginal and innocent ears of pipsqueaks. I try to curb it out of respect and decency for the company i'm in, but sometimes, the profanity overrules this attempt.
In the early stages of my romantic career, i joyed in whispering encouragements to my lover as we rolled around on the bed or sofa, telling her how soft her skin felt, how her perfume gave me tingles, etc. But i stopped at the edge of the profane, holding in what was a natural urge to emit a primal spray. I'd been warned my entire life to avoid the cruel act of calling a girl a name. Yet, here i was in the heat of the moment, and i could feel an arsenal of lewd artillery building at the bridge of my mouth. For the longest time, i held in this impulse. I feared it for two reasons. First, i was concerned what pain it might cause the girl upon whom i unleashed it and how this characterized my opinions of the fairer sex. Secondly, i feared the beast it would unleash in myself should her reaction be an unexpected positive and encouraging one.
This savage desire lay in slumber for many years, not to escape the tight shackles i chained to it. In college, i had a lengthy tryst with my French T.A. She was older than me, and in many ways, a woman in comparison to all the girls i'd dated. Because of her maturity and seniority over me, what she uttered one evening while we engaged in some very heavy petting took me by complete surprise.
Her lips were sucking on my earlobe, intermittently interrupted by the nibble of her teeth on the soft flesh when she uttered:
"Call me a slut."
I pulled back, taking my neck away from her mouth, "What?" I looked at her with disbelief.
"Call me a slut, call me a whore."
I couldn't believe that this dignified, educated woman would utter such things. I could've stalled longer, to contemplate her reasons for wanting this, but the ravenous fiend inside of me was busting to break free. I nearly blacked out from the frenzy the outpourings of filth caused me.
I engage in dirty talk quite liberally these days. I recognize the aspects of it that fit my passion for transformation. Many episodes of arousal have stemmed from me walking a girl through the evolution of nasty terms that define her wanton need for degradation. In fact, the impact of most erotica at this point is lost on me when so much of it describes just the physical actions between two characters. But should it turn to the edgier province of invectives, few things turn me on with greater speed. I revel in the initial offering to the girl in heat of what kind of needy vessel she resembles, to hear her hungry accordance, which only worsens the sex-crazed state she occupies. She responds quietly, letting the sounds coming from her own mouth shock her, then stimulate her, as she grabs a hold of the rush of electrocution this sizzling vocabulary ignites. The forceful call and response builds the lust to a higher and higher crescendo, morphing the boudoir into a bordello.
I've explored the great scandalous chasms of naughty expressions, compounding them with many of my favorite profanities which only serve to heighten the palaver as well as turn the recipient of my slurs away from the girl and more and more into a sexual object. In many ways, i've let the tongue have its way.