Sometimes Talking During Sex Just Isn’t Sexy
Here’s why.
We were making love. Eyes locked. His cock inside of me. My vagina holding him — tight.
I felt so connected to him. As he started to whisper in my ear, a surge of electricity ran through me.
When I heard his words my body went numb.
“I’m imagining you kissing another man. I’m watching. He’s rubbing his hands up your thighs. You don’t have underwear on. He starts rubbing your ass and you like it.”
My soulful stare turned icy. My whole body clenched up. His eyes suddenly seemed to be looking far away. The man I thought I knew had vanished. It suddenly felt as if a ghost was fucking me.
I remember he came but I didn’t. I let him. A part of me pretended he was still there because it was too painful to admit that he wasn’t — not fully.
He cuddled up next to me after he pulled out and felt familiar again. But I was still checked out — too shocked to even talk about it. I turned over so he could spoon me because it was too painful to maintain eye contact with him. I couldn’t even look at my reflection in the mirror next to the bed. I closed my eyes and pretended he never whispered into my ear during our lovemaking and I cringed my self into sleep.
It took me a week to talk to him about it, and when I did, he said, “It turns me on to talk like that.”
He didn’t hear me when I said, “It turns me OFF. Get it?”
He would do it again and again, always when we were having connected, romantic sex. It was like he flipped a switch that said, this is too intimate, so I need to make it more detached.
When I told him that I thought he might be scared of a real intimate connection with me, he told me not to psychoanalyze him.
“You always imagine another man when I’m so into you in this bed, right here and right now. Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“Is it insecurity? Because you know I’m super attracted to you, right?”
“I don’t know what it is. Can we talk about something else?”
I broke up with him because of the sex. The week I broke up with him, he called me almost daily for “coffee” dates. Coffee turned into, “Come back to my place for a bit,” which turned into sex. Sex turned into lovemaking.
He never talked about other men the last time we made love. Instead, he was with me. Completely. His crystal blue eyes boring into mine with an electric presence. I fell in love with him all over again during that last lovemaking session. I thought we were going to be together forever.
After we both orgasmed, I turned over and cuddled with him, smiling big. “I love you,” I said. He looked away, his face contorting a bit. Was he getting tearful?
He quickly shifted his voice and told me he had to get to work so I had to go.
That was the end of our relationship.
Months later he was dating someone new and told me he was in therapy for his relationship insecurities.
Maybe our relationship was the catalyst he needed to make real love.
After we talked (and after a good why-the-fuck-is-it-her-and-not-me cry), I sent out a prayer to the cosmos:
“May my role as psychanalyst of my boyfriends end with this one. May I open up to the one that wants to do the work it takes to continue to make love over and over again until the universe implodes. I know he exists.”
The next time a man whispers in my ear, it better be: “I love you.” No “baby” or “sexy” or “hot ass”. Just “you.” That sex talk will turn me on.
