Lisa Carver and Nerve.com
Learning to Cuss
His footsteps were coming down the hall but I felt afraid and couldn’t get up out of bed to meet him. My happiness and anticipation had mutated into a wordless, freezing terror. Then he was there in the room, a suitcase in either hand, ridiculous New Orleans beads around his throat, and he said, “Hey, baby,” and everything was okay again. What happened next was not “good sex” it was fast and furious and over and over again. You have to have patience and forethought to make good sex. We possessed neither. I think we did it thirty times over the next four days! On the fourth day, we tried to go see Cruel Intentions, but we left halfway through. It was too hard to care about the characters’ sexual problems when we knew there was a real-life bed only five minutes away.
While ripping my clothes off in that real-life bed at his place, I noticed the change: the easy patience was back in his posture; his pants-unbuttoning went along unhurriedly. He’d gotten his self control back.
He climbed on top of me and said, “What do you want?” He had that I can wait look in his eyes. “You have to say what you want.” He knows I can’t say dirty words. It’s a strange little anomaly: I can do anything in bed, and I make my living by describing it . . . yet I cannot say those words out loud. An ex-boyfriend once said I was like a wet but silent Catholic schoolgirl or a very shy prostitute that I had the abandon of a Baptist and the tight lips of a WASP. I thought of this as Dave and I hovered in pre-sex, the need spreading through my limbs. I said his name, I said “please,” but I could not get my mouth to say “fuck me.”
“You’re proud. But you have to learn to be nice. It’s important in life. Say it.” I tried to force him to have sex with me. I pulled him to me by the shirt and wiggled up onto the thing. I pulled him down until his whole body was against mine, I kissed him roughly and squeezed his cock good and tight inside my body. It felt like it expanded into something bigger than it had ever been before; I was sure he wouldn’t be capable of pulling back out but he did.
“Why can’t you say it?” he laughed, holding himself aloft of my squirming and fluttering.
“Can I just write it down on a piece of paper?” I asked.
“I’ll say it first: Please fuck me. There, see how easy it is?”
He was running the head of his penis up and down me, tapping against my clit, pulling back every time I was about to come. I tried to trick him by not letting him know when orgasm approached. But somehow he knew! When I was just about there, trembling on the threshold of perfect peace, he slapped my face and stopped moving. So I beat him on the head with the pillow, but that only made him laugh.
I tried the soft approach. I unbuttoned his shirt and took it off; I moved against him slow and sweet. I said, “C’mere. Come close. You know you want it.” “Say it,” he whispered. “I’ll like you more if you do. Please say it I’m begging you now. You won’t? Okay then, I’ll just come. What are you going to do then?” He closed his eyes and ran his hand up and down the shaft and I knew he would do it, the scoundrel. I knocked his hand away and he put it back and I was desperate and I gave up and said, “Please fuck me.” He said, “What? I don’t think I heard you. Could you say that a little louder please?”