I’ve decided to write a blog about dirty talk and translate it with different perspectives, including my own. This was written lightheartedly and isn’t intended to be fact. I’m sure some men actually do have intelligible babble while they talk dirty in the bedroom.
His Actions and Words: <petting her head as she sucks his dick> “Good girl.”
Her Prude/Feminist Translation: “He is petting me like I am a dog and saying good girl for doing a good job. First, I am a woman, not an animal or his child. This type of talk is makes him feel like a man and an authoritative figure. It brings out his caveman machismo, which is supposed to quench my instincts to please my man, it doesn’t. I am supposed to be happy he is awarding my good behavior, I’m not.”
My Translation: “I am his pet, his little girl with my tight little pussy and tiny mouth. It hurts when I have to stretch my jaws around his cock. I want to get recognition while I suck him off, so I will shake my little ass and wag my tailfeather for him. I love the way he pets me to show his affection and appreciation. God I love it when he calls me his good little girl. He’s the only man on earth that can call me that and make my pussy drip.”
What He Is Really Thinking: “Awwwwwwwwww ughhhhhhhhhhhhh ihhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhh awwwwwwwww (unintelligible babble).”
His Words: “Suck my dick like a porn star you sexy bitch.”
Her Prude/Feminist Translation: “First of all, you call me a bitch again and I will bite this fucking dick off. As far as porn star, I’m much better than a porn star. If I decide to suck your penis, because I want to, not because you want it, I do it because I love you, not to get paid. You should be saying ‘If you decide to continue putting your lips around my member, do it like you love me please.’ Any preconceived idea of a good blowjob from a disgusting adult video is the opposite of sexy.”
My Translation: “Oh he wants me to spit all over his cock and twist my wrists and see how hard it is to give him an indian burn with his dick all wet. He wants me to slam my face onto his shaft and open my mouth wide so I can lick his balls as I have his cock so far down my throat I can’t breath. He is in the mood for me to leave his dick sore from all the friction and movement. I’ll be your little porn star slut. Show this sexy bitch the audition room, Mr. Big Dick.”
What He Is Really Thinking: “Awwwwwwwwww ughhhhhhhhhhhhh ihhhhhhhhh ahhhhhhh awwwwwwwww (unintelligible babble).”
During work at about 2 P.M. I got a text message from Venice saying she had a bad headache and she was headed to the store to buy some Ibuprofen. It’s allergy season so I figured it was no big deal. At about 5:30 P.M. I see her car pull up to my office and she gets out and switches seats. I call her on her cell and ask what is going on. She tells me she is tired and needs me to drive her home. She felt guilty because she knew I wasn’t off yet and offered to sleep in the car until I was off work. Of course I immediately close down and go outside to see what is wrong with her. She asked if I could leave my car at work and drive her home. She can’t seem to stay awake. I agree, but ask if I need to take her to the hospital. Something just wasn’t right.
Years ago, when Venice and I were still dating, we explored each other’s bodies daily. I had never really touched my body, my testicles, and as I already mentioned in a previous article, I 
The doctor, an Asian lady that resembled Lucy Liu, asked if she was interrupting something. Like two shamed school kids, we both looked down and shook our heads no. She then asked me what my reasons were for coming in that day. I explained to her that we found a lump in my testicles and wanted to know if I was dying. She asked me to stand up and remove my pants so she could have a look.
Not to be a pervert, but I can see why Seargent Tucker seemed to be having so many penis problems himself. This doctor was adorable. I started counting sheep in my head trying not to think about anything sexual. I was extremely embarrassed about exposing myself to a doctor, as the only person that had ever seen me nude was Venice, but I guess you can say I have this thing for Asian women. Doctor or no doctor, I said a small prayer asking the Lord to please help me control my penis so it does not make any sudden movements. I pulled my pants down and watched the doctor eyeball my penis and testicles. She fondled me for a few moments and couldn’t find the lump. I asked if I could show her where, and she nodded. I put my finger on the area of the lump and she placed her hand where I was pointing. She confirmed she also felt a lump and asked me to lay down. I still had my pants halfway down to my knees and wobbled my way to the patient table. I looked over to Venice, who was making her tongue poke out the side of her cheek inside her mouth, to suggest a blow job, and gave her a dirty look. As I laid there naked, exposed to the doctor who was fondling my balls, with my girlfriend watching, I wanted to disappear from earth. I hated every second of it. I really felt even more stupid when I found out there was nothing wrong with my testicles and it was merely a bent vein in my sac that hardens (when my testicles are not fully sagging) when I stand up.
The other day, Ryan (Mahal) and I were looking through his box of memories. It was filled pictures of me through various stages of my life, movie stubs, receipts from local movie rental stores, postage from care packages, candy wrappers, and letters I’d written to him while he was away at college. Sometimes on a roll of cash register paper that he’d have to unfurl to read, sometimes on cardboard packaging, and sometimes on college ruled paper. We spent most of that night looking at his memories. He cried a few times as he remembered how in love we were, and still are. It’s like we blinked and we went from being giddy teenagers without a care in the world to being married, raising our young, and spending our days together doing yard work and taking vacations and caring for each other.
Ryan and I went out to eat last night at our local wings bar. As we made our way home, we saw a huge, gray mass in the sky hovering near our house. Flashes of lightning lit up the sky as we pulled up into the driveway. The wind picked up when we got into the house and I feared one of the pine trees in the backyard would surely topple over. Thunder shook the house; I thought Ryan was hitting the wall from behind the closet door. It felt was that close. As I put some french fries in the oven for everyone to eat with the hamburgers I made the night before, the lights flickered for a split second. But I wasn’t worried because this is very normal and very expected during a storm.
So I began moving my arms and legs. My mind started to feed on itself. “Is that a light out there? Or is that lightning? Is someone out there with a flashlight? Are they going to break in and kill us like in ‘The Strangers’ with Liv Tyler? How fast can I get in the house, grab my phone so I can call 911, gather my kids into Ryan’s closet while he gets the gun loaded? It’s the light again! That’s not lightning! What if my legs are too wobbly to make it out of the garage? What if I trip over the bottle water? There’s the light again! Can they hear my elliptical machine from out there? Should I tell Ryan? I don’t want to die without pants on! There goes the light ag–WHO THE FUCK IS OUT THERE?!?!”