Talk Dirty to Me

No Dirty Words — April

She was a nice girl, the kind that you would be told to take home to your mother, the kind your father would tell you to “Get on with it and ask her.”

Her dream weekend away she imagined to be spent sailing off the coast of Suffolk County. Her bicycle had a bell and a basket on it.

We first met in attendance of a debate between Christopher Hitchens and David Wolpe hosted by NYU where she was studying landscape architecture. I had been dragged along by friends to go and see the legendary drinker Hitchens in person, although he would remain sober that night. I cheered wildly each time he slapped Wolpe with a stinging rebuke. She considered both sides of the arguments.

After the debate there was a brief reception at which we somehow fell into a conversation. “So who do you think won?” I asked after saying hello.

“I think that both made good points. I’d like to believe that there’s more than just this, that there is some kind of order to our lives.”

“Well,” I smiled, “that certainly is very thoughtful. But you didn’t answer the question.”

She considered me for a moment and then said, “Humanity won.”

“Liar.”

She took the bait, I could tell by the way she tilted her head to one side.

“And who do you think won?”

“The rabbi, absolutely.”

She took a moment to look at my black t-shirt, faded jeans and two-day stubble.

“Liar,” she retorted. I couldn’t help but laugh.

“My name is Matt.”

She held out a delicate hand, “I’m Angela.”

We continued speaking for a while and then she excused herself saying that she needed to get back to her apartment, something about a roommate.


Three days later I found her profile on Facebook and immediately sent a friend request. Two days later she accepted and we started infiltrating one another’s social media worlds.


A few weeks later I ran into her on Union Square where she was buying croissants and I was loitering. I recognized her instantly and, after watching her for a few minutes, walked over.

“Hi, I’m not sure if you remember me. I’m Matt, we met at the Hitchens debate.”

“Yes. Hello.”

I was elated that she remembered me.

“I was jealous of your skiing holiday,” she had posted pictures of her family in North Carolina the previous weekend.

She laughed, “We were lucky to have good snow so early in the season. Do you ski?”

“Some. I’m more of a bobsled kinda guy,” I lied.

“A speed freak, huh?”

I pounced with a grin, “I don’t do drugs;” another lie.

She laughed and we walked through the square talking about the roof-grown vegetables on sale and where we lived.

We arranged to meet for coffee the following Thursday and I already knew that I would try to convert the innocent arrangement into something more dangerous.

That Thursday morning I messaged her with another lie, “I’m really sorry to do this but I need to fix a problem in my apartment. Can we do evening drinks instead?”

Her reply was simple, “Ok. Where?”

We met at a bar on the west side, one far more upmarket than what I would usually go to. I wore a button shirt. She arrived in an elegant coat which I took from her and carefully hung on a hook by the door. Two hours later we took the subway and I walked her to her apartment where I kissed her and she didn’t stop me.

The following morning I waited outside her building and when she came out I walked up to her and convinced her to go back inside; to skip her morning classes.

Once we were naked and pressed up against a tapestry hanging on the wall I asked her, “So what do you like?”

“Dirty words.”

I explained to her in detail what I would do to her, where my hands would go, how her body would respond and what words she needed to say in return. I moved her to the couch and used the words she was waiting to hear. I squeezed and pinched her body, pushed every button I could find as her voice became louder and her throat filled with the words she was waiting to release. Our breathing raced until we collapsed on the rough carpet and I finally held her tenderly and our words softened into laughter.


I’m not going to take her home to my mother, my father will not have the chance to advise me to propose marriage. I’ll keep her forever in this dangerous city, forever wrapped in my rough arms. I’ll keep her mind whirling with the dirty words that live inside her, the ones that she cannot contain, the ones that must come out into the light that casts its rays across her delicately straining body.

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