On abandon

I had a lover once who tended to swear when he reached the point of having a Very Nice Time Indeed. And not the usual "Fuck, yeah!" or "Suck it!" or nasty name-calling sorts of things you expect in porn movies.

In the throes of friction and fleshy thumps, between creaks of the futon frame, I'd hear sweet nothings such as this:

"SHIT! Shit, shit... SHIT!"

"Fucking HELL!"

"WHAT the FUCK?! Are you fucking KIDDING me?!" (Upon hearing this I stopped what I was doing, concerned that he'd had a change of heart about said activity, but he urged me to ignore him and continue. Which I did.)

"Jesus CHRIST on a BIKE!"

"Fucking NOODLES of... FUCK!"

"Son of a BITCH!"

He also yelled something garbled once that included the words "My truck." I assume that was a glitch in the speech-producing framework, but I'm not entirely sure.

His odd expositions were never cruel or abusive, and they didn't bother me, although I found them startling at first. You see, he was a friendly, mild-mannered computer nerd in "real life." He was one of those people whom you'd never guess was sexual or... well, expressive in that particular way, unless you were lucky enough to catch the gleam in his eye.

And I felt entirely fortunate to have tapped into this hidden side of him.

I tend to be less verbal, myself. My expressions tend to be more subtle. But one evening, when he and I were getting busy, he pulled away and roughly turned me over, which inflamed and thrilled me rather intensely. Rear-entry love is a favorite of mine, and this particular fellow was equipped with the perfect combination of height, proportion, and angle. He also knew how powerful denial could be; he'd make me wait for it, perhaps ask for it by name. Sometimes he'd let weeks go by without indulging me from behind.

On this evening, when his flesh finally shoved in and shocked my wet insides apart, it felt so amazing that I couldn't help but reach back and try to pull him in deeper. The distraction of pleasure all but destroyed my motor skills, however, and what I actually ended up doing was this: I accidentally smacked him on the ass, loudly, as if to say, "Giddyup." It wasn't a hard slap, and didn't even leave a red spot, but the cup of my palm and the relaxation of his cheek in that moment produced quite an impressive sound. I still remember the way the sound ricocheted off the walls and windows in his tiny living room.

We both laughed. At the time.

We had a truly lovely session that night; the repeated peaks left me exhausted, sore, and giddy. But toward the end I noticed that he hadn't sworn for me, even once. Not even a single "MotherFUCKER!" to cheer me on...

The next morning, while we sipped our coffee, he was strangely quiet.

"Babe, please talk to me," I implored.

He stared into his mug, then at the table. After a few more long moments, he admitted:

"I can't believe you smacked me on the butt like that."

"I'm sorry. I was trying to pull you deeper, and I flailed."

"But you smacked me."

"I swear, I didn't mean to. Didn't you laugh? I thought you knew it was an accident."

"Well, yeah, I laughed. But still. You... you just smacked me." His eyes were troubled.

"Look, you're incredibly good at... what we do, and that particular moment was so hot that it made me clumsy."

"You know, don't worry about it. It's okay."

"I honestly didn't mean anything by it. You should have told me it upset you. I would have apologized right then if I'd known."

"It didn't." He shook his head, as if to clear it. "It's no big deal, really. It was just... a little weird, that's all." He returned to gazing into his cup. Bewildered, I did the same.

We took things a bit more slowly for a few weeks. Gradually, we began to fuck with abandon again, but the heat between us, unfortunately, faded fast. He never took me from behind again, and he never cursed for me anymore. I tried to coax him into the realm of the profane, with mouth and hands and fingers and hips that ground atop, but the most I could get out of him were a few moans and thrashes.

We split up soon after that. And in the years since, I can honestly say that I've yet to hear "Son of a BITCH!" again during sex.

I can't say that I miss the cursing, nor the awkwardness that grew from my own clumsy attempt at passion. But the sense of abandon we both got to experience, before the clouds rolled in... I'm fond of those memories.

Wherever he is now, I hope he's found someone who brings out his creative, linguistic self, and who won't deflate it so easily as I did. I hope he is inspired to curse like a longshoreman on a regular basis, at the top of his lungs.