[Ed. Note: It’s three years later and my thoughts on sounds during sex have drastically changed. Sure, I lapse into silence, but I consider sound a very important way of letting a lover know what’s working and what could use some work.]
I’ve been very heavy on the description in the Saga of J., but seemingly light on the dialogue. So, let me explain.
During sex, when I’m not using my mouth for pleasure, I keep it shut.
My enjoying of the silence stretches back to “the day.” When I was in my teens, my first lover lived with his mom, since he was my age. We were together for the better part of 7 years, on “breaks” often, hence the Saga of J. and other tasty delights (patience), but when we were together, the sex was the reason, aside from both of us being intelligent lit-types, of course.
Sex fascinated us and encapsulated our relationship. We’d have sex multiple times, never just once. I remember endless nights with five go-rounds. But, that said, geography was a bitch, and our encounters often needed creativity and discipline.
There were only two-and-a-half places we could count on for sex: my car, his place, and when the cosmos aligned ever so magically, though obviously infrequently, my bedroom at home.
The catch with his place, the most convenient of our options?
It was a loft bedroom with three-foot walls, and no door. The stairs led directly into his room. Their creakiness was a godsend, as nothing else would signal an impending intruder.
The culprit? His mom, this super-petite woman, 4’8” high, and weighed about a buck. She moved with the grace of a faerie. Meaning: We could never hear the bitch.
God, it was difficult. There we were, feircely sexual, exploring each other at our every opportunity, and no private place to do it in. Sex had to be absolutely silent.
But the silence had its uses.
The best attribute of his bedroom was just outside the sliding glass door, where he had access to the entire rooftop of his apartment building — strangely, he had the only access, except the always-locked utility door.
Sometimes, we’d pull his mattress out that glass door and onto the roof of the building, where we’d fuck under the stars during the spring and summer. We’d enjoy keeping it quiet since we’d hear the city bustling past below, during the act.
But we never spoke, we never urged the other on. Silence was as much a part of the game of sex as lube was. It helped us tremendously when we discovered what a turn-on sex in public places could be, but that’s another tale for another time.
Anything we said was said by our eyes or our actions or a select group of barely audible utterances. Such as: a shuddering gasp, stifled groan, a quick intake of breath, muffled moan, or exhaling sharply.
They’re all seemingly small and inconsequential sounds, but I assure you, they are well beyond communicative.
There isn’t a lover in the world who shouldn’t be able deduce what a shuddering gasp is trying to reveal.
The thing is, though, that when you have only a few perfectly concise sounds you emit in otherwise-silent sex, it’s very, very clear what’s working. But when you’re largely silent, the sex act itself becomes intensely focused on both the body language and the looks that should ultimately say it all, that should mean both players are utterly involved.
The memo I got said that was kind of the idea. Unfortunately, the memo apparently wasn’t widely distributed, since screamers abound.
In my humble opinion, noisy sex kills intensity. Instead, this potentially incredible moment becomes overplayed and insincere, almost a charicature of itself.
I’d far rather have a guy moaning under his breath or gasping and exhaling when I stop to tenderly nibble his shaft’s loose folds of skin in between base-to-tip licks than grunting, “Yeah, baby. Oh. Oh, yeah… God!”
Put a fucking cork in it, buddy. I’m working here. A little respect. Close your eyes. Focus on what it is I’m doing, and concentrate on nothing else. If I can hear you, you’re not in the moment, and I’m wasting my time and skills. Simple.
It’s obvious that a lot of lovers lack either experience or sincerity, and as a result, they overcompensate and let their voices do their talking when their bodies can’t.
Not in my bed. My lovers have always, to a man, converted to my way of thinking in the sack, if they didn’t arrive ready-molded.
Also, they have a very, very clear idea of what I like, and what I am like, before we even hit the bed, because I believe in talking about it before I do it. What I want to do, what I will do, what I want, more than anything, for them to do to me.
It’s not a lecture, it’s a very erotic conversation with examples and fantasies interplaying with handy instructions. And it goes both ways, I assure you. I love to learn about what my lover wants of me, and I try to ensure he receives it.
Naturally, after our conversations, before we even go bump in the night, they realize I’m going to be a very quiet partner, but that the sounds I do make can be taken at face value. And when a “stifled groan” means I’m sinking my teeth dramatically into their shoulder to quiet myself down, as I gutterally groan against their skin, I’m guessing they grasp 2+2.
Without a doubt, they discover within a few encounters exactly how communicative little talking can be, and how intense.
(*In response to comments about the photos: Those who’ve followed from my other blog know me to be an avid photog. Thus, you should know– none of these photos were taken by yours truly, but rather, have all been blatantly stolen from brilliant people who’ve mistakenly let a corrupt bitch like me gain access to their intellectual property on the web.
And for that, I thank them.)