Dirty talk at dinner: dessert and coffee

Discussion in 'Erotic Literature' started by nicelynoosed, Jun 17, 2015.

  1. nicelynoosed

    nicelynoosed Member

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    'Thanks to the inspiration for this story: the 'Which Hole Would You Pick?' thread. Somehow, what should have been at most a six-or-seven word response became a roughly 6,500 word story. Hope you enjoy it. - NN'

    “Remind me again why you don’t have a girlfriend” E demanded, “I’d have thought you could have your choice of women if you talk like that in the sack.”


    I’d given my dinner companions a demonstration of my primary kink, which is talking dirty. It had been an aside in our larger conversation, one sparked when A, the slender, tall, dark-haired graduate student had asked why her boyfriend would turn down a complimentary blowjob. That had sparked a discussion about male orgasms, insecurity, and the relative merits of, to be incredibly frank, the various holes in a person that can be fucked.


    “I’m picky,” I responded to E’s question. Much more bubbly that E, she was also much blonder and shorter. Although her features were not as sharp as A’s, they were no less pleasing to look upon. E was a newly-minted engineer and therefore both pleasantly smarter than me and probably up to her eyebrows in male engineers, none of whom had, it’s possible, ever seen a girl in real life before. I had no reason to think she was available.


    “Not everyone likes how I tend to describe things, E,” I continued, “But I dislike causing discomfort and hate to bore people. That’s the difference between a gentleman and a shrinking violet. I like to treat ladies like princess in the parlor and tramps in the bedroom. That’s just one of the miracles of women.”


    “What miracle?” E demanded, “That you’re working in an office and not writing dirty romance novels for me and a million other women to read on the beach and the subway? That’s not a miracle. That’s a tragedy. Seriously, can you write down what you just said?”


    “Nah.” I admitted, “That was a one-off, off the cuff ad-lib.”


    A grumbled, putting down her fork, “The only thing miraculous about me is that my bra and underwear match four days out of seven.”


    “I have to agree.” E concurred, “I’m not about putting females up on pedestals. Isn’t that one of the problems with porn? Women are so objectified in x-rated stuff, just a bunch of …holes, to go back to the original subject. Just because guys don’t understand how we have babies and wear high heels and cure cancer and run companies doesn’t mean that we use magic to do it. We’re people too.”


    “Yeah!” A averred, “People with tits!”


    “You certainly are people,” I allowed, “And I’m sure all four of them here at the table are quite lovely. But it is a sort of miracle every time a guy gets to be naked with a woman. You don't understand that. You can touch naked women any time you want. But to have her so close and to smell her softness and then to get to touch her and taste her and kiss her and make her open and slippery and then to pierce her while being enveloped at the same time and to then have it understood that at some point one is expected to orgasm inside her...well, I usually can't believe it's happening. After a mystical experience like that, I’m not surprised men put women on pedestals. I’m frankly impressed that anyone bothered to invent pedestals…or the wheel…or fire, once they found out how fun women can be. Perhaps it’s true the other way around, but I personally would not be the least bit interested in a big, smelly, hairy man doing such things to me, although I know a couple guys who claim it is highly enjoyable.


    “A big part of porn is all about getting to do whatever you want to the lady or ladies involved without having to expend very much effort to get it. Take the rear passage for example, again. Most guys think that would be awesome and porn makes it look easy. So, they don't understand why the ladies they meet in real life aren't ready for it at a moment's notice. Spontaneous butt love is mostly a myth. It takes planning, preparation, and the four 'Shhh's'.”


    A rolled her eyes at me, a bit confused but definitely intrigued. “Ok, how the fuck do you know all about that if you've never done it and what the heck are the four 'Shhh's'?”


    “Yeah.” E seconded “You seem remarkably knowledgeable for someone who claims never to have gotten any ‘Option C’ loving.” I had tried an elegant euphemism earlier that was received with more than a little mockery.


    “It’s nothing too strange,” I explained, “There were a lot of books in my house growing up and zero porn. A psychologist uncle kept half his stuff at our place. I guess I got into the habit of reading non-pictorial, nonfiction sex manuals for adults. Between my house, the library, and bookstores, I learned a lot of very useful information, even if I haven't yet put it all to use.


    “The four 'Shhh's' are the bare minimum needed for bum fun. I learned this from a very wise, slightly drunk woman whose name I will not reveal because I've forgotten it. They are:

    One: Lubrica-shhh-on, and

    Two: Inebria-shh-on, and

    Three: Communica-shh-on, and

    Four: Jewelry.


    E looked confused “Jewel...” she began to echo.


    I completed the punch line, holding my finger to my mouth and interrupting her with “Shhhhh! Jewelry.”


    They laughed. Loudly.


    By this time we were halfway through our dessert and coffee. Putting her cup back into its’ saucer, A asked a followup question.


    “So you really just read a lot of textbooks?”


    “Those, and manuals, and academic works, and self-help books, and everything else,” I clarified, “I didn’t absorb every page, either. I just looked for italics or inset text or anything that indicated a ‘case study’. That was where the really juicy details were. I never cared about the graphs or medical terms or any of that. I was pretty highly charged, still am, and that was just where I started. I later found erotica and romance novels but in the case of the novels, I mainly just searched for the word ‘throbbing’ which meant sex, of course.”


    “Ha!” A exclaimed. “Of course!”


    “ I once read that the whole problem with men is that they’re so repressed when they’re young,” E offered, “Like, at age thirteen, a guy would be incredibly happy just to make out with a girl and feel her up. But by the time they’re in a spot where it’s socially acceptable, they’ve been frustrated for so long that they just rush past foreplay and want sex with as few preliminaries as possible.”


    “I think part of the problem,” A countered “is that thirteen year old boys are gross piles of hormones and shouldn’t be making out with anyone of any age.”


    I had to agree with A, but I’ve always had a ‘thing’ for ladies just a few years older than me and a few dozen IQ points smarter. Google Mark Twain and barrels, if you want my opinion.


    I answered A, saying “Most young men suffer from bad information or a complete lack thereof. We’ve got a whole generation of males who learned about sex from porn, for heaven’s sake. That’s like learning about science from Looney Tunes. I was …and am… a total horndog, but responsible education has at least given me a glimpse of a healthy, pro-female ethos of sex. Sex is taught poorly in almost every official way. Guys are definitely not given many clues about getting a lady’s engine running and properly lubricated. For your part, did any of the diagrams or descriptions you were given in school prepare you at all for the first time you had to deal with a naked man?”


    They exchanged quite the look.


    E turned back to me first, saying “You’re right about that, and it’s worse than what you said for women. Naturally, we get taught about our bodies and periods and bras and boobs and pregnancy. But we don’t get any details on what to do with a dick except anecdotes from sisters and friends. We’re supposed to instinctively know how to touch a boner and suck it and then let it just slip right inside of us and like it, which is not as easy as I’m sure you could make it sound.”


    “I totally could,” I smiled, “But yes, that’s just what I mean. It isn’t as though high school health class taught you about lube or different grips or the way a man’s package might seem like an alien creature there to inject you with its’ poisonous, parasitic offspring. I only remember some diagrams that turned out to be highly uninformative, in retrospect.”


    A covered her mouth for a moment, as though I had somehow been told one of the great secrets of the superior female race, “That’s totally right! I couldn’t even look at my high school boyfriend’s penis for like, a month after I started touching it. It was scary! There was this big, hard thing that wanted to poke around inside of me and get me pregnant, but I was supposed to treat like fragile china. Heck yes it was scary. Fun, eventually, but frightening at first.”


    Nodding animatedly, E agreed, adding “And balls are just so frustrating. Do I grab them the way I see guys do it? Noooo. That makes their poor, sacred manhoods hurt so bad they fall over and cry. But if I just touch lightly I don’t get any reaction at all.”


    I pursed my lips and gave my best commiseration face, “That is still another argument for pleasure-ed as opposed to traditional sex-ed. Let’s forget this 9 to 5 nonsense and start a school to teach grown-ups how to make each other feel good.”


    A sardonic crossed A’s features, “Great! I’ll call my parents right now and tell them that I’m going to be showing other ladies how to play the skin flute.”


    E mirrored her friend, “I’m right there with you. I’m going to tell my boss tomorrow that I’m quitting but that he can come by my fuck studio to teach his wife how to be a good little butt-slut for him.”


    “Meanwhile,” I announced, playing along, “I’ll have flyers made up advertising our remedial sex-ed classes. Then I’ll go to the sarcasm store and stock up. We’re running awfully low.”


    There was more laughter.


    [To Be Continued…]