Confession: How I taught myself to talk dirty using Google

I’m a terrible flirt.

You guys are probably like, “no way.”

Okay, so, maybe you’re not. But … I’m saying … yes, way.

I remember auditioning for a George Clooney movie a few years ago and the scene was that I had to flirt with some guy who was off camera and whose part was being read by a female casting director – which made it pretty awkward.

My agent didn’t give me the sides in advance, so I couldn’t really prepare with a Google search or by employing the help of any one of my female friends who could possibly teach me the art of flirting so that I knew what the hell I was doing.

And I’m not even sure what I did (think I twirled my hair, winked a lot and pretended to smack on gum), but knew it was bad because the casting director told me (in not so many words), “that was terrible; let’s read you for another role.” There was no re-direction.

It’s like she knew I’d be terrible no matter what angle she gave me. And she’d probably be correct. Either way, I wasn’t cast in that film – or in many others.

I also was not able to get out of all three traffic tickets over the years. But I digress.

This came up in conversation over the weekend when I was talking to a friend and I heard that Jason Derulo song, “Talk Dirty To Me.”  

That was another thing I was terrible at; you might as well have handed me a bat and told me to hit you. It’s just as painful to watch/hear. It was okay, because unless I was planning on a career in porn (which is scripted anyway) or as a phone sex operator, I didn’t really need to know how to talk like that.

Or … so I thought.

Because there was the time I dated a chronic sexter and I had to employ the use of Google to translate and reply.

It’s true. I did.

See, the guy I was dating liked to revisit the activities of the night before by rehashing it in pornographic detail the following day. That led into a marathon sexting session meant to prepare for the follow-up.

I had never sext before. The first time caught me off-guard because it went from asking if I liked it to what was my fave part to a series of dialogue from what I could only assume came from the potty mouth of a dirty porn star.

But it was directed at me – and accompanied by dirty pictures and videos.

It was meant to turn me on, but I was scared. It felt like an audition – a test. And I was going to fail because I had NO idea what to send back. He was def not getting pictures or video of my lady bits and I don’t speak porn.

So, I told him I was busy at work and would text later.

“Boo, no fun.”

That was almost a challenge. But seriously, who does this?

I decided to consult with Google on: how to sext. Which was a waste of time. The problem with Glamour, Cosmo and Vogue is they make a lot of promises and never deliver – however, they will write circles around the subject, quote experts and include testimonials on the etiquette of sexting. Just not actually what you’re supposed to say.

I needed to know WHAT TO SAY.  

And there was not a site called howtotalklikeadirtywhore.com.

Really, I was left with one other option – to consult porn for a reply that would be deemed acceptable. Even that wasn’t as easy as I thought it would be. As a matter of fact, it was the only time I paid any attention to the dialogue of a porn scene and found myself wondering why they even bothered writing a script at all.

But, I learned the preferred terminology for penis, vagina and breasts as well as slang words for different positions, fetishes and situations.

All my replies came between 5-10 minutes after his (no pun intended), because I kept getting distracted by work … and by what I was finding out via Google. It was the most porn I’ve ever watched in my life.

Him: so, what was your favorite part?

Me: of what?

Him: last night?

Me: (googling, watching, gasping, reading – DO PEOPLE DO THAT? DID SHE REALLY JUST SAY THAT?- oh yea, reply) um, you know … that thing

Him: you mean (telling me what that thing was he thought I liked)

Me: oh … yea, that’s it

Back to work.

Repeat.

For EIGHT F’N HOURS.

Ain’t nobody got time for dat.

I was getting annoyed and getting irritated and getting pissed.

One thing I wasn’t getting was turned on.

It got to a point that every time my phone vibrated on my desk, my vagina curled up and tried to hide inside my uterus, and I started to sweat and hyperventilate. This may have been the only time I half WANTED a guy to dump me and he eventually did because I stopped sexting  and – well, cheating douchebag.

No more scouring the net for material to sext.

It was useless material; when the hell was I ever going to employ this knowledge again?

I’m soooo glad you asked.

I’ve written previously about an ex and his addiction to porn star booty, porn, his penis and sexting – who still texts and sexts me even after I left him for being an asshole and it’s been almost two years.

The Ex-Chronicles: Sexting the masses

I didn’t find out his obsession until a year into it, when he left his email up on my computer and I saw that he had sent a picture of his junk to several different girls because his phone was not sending MMS messages. #dedicated

He even personally and pornographically captioned each one for each girl. And I was not one of those girls. Which may have pissed me off more than the fact that he sent the pics out at all. But I digress – different story.

Anyway, that’s how I found out he liked that stuff. And he was my boyfriend, so instead of dumping him for being a douche, I decided to actually employ what I’d learned and play the game so he’d play with me and not anyone else.

In hindsight, this may have not been the best course of action.

But I surprised myself with the amount of material I was able to call up from memory – and he liked it. I had to draw it out, though. Because, truthfully, everything you ever need to say can be said in, like, two sexts. So I learned to ‘loop’ around and say the same thing more than … twice, but in a slightly different way so it was like new.

It was work. But he dug it. A lot.

And in the beginning, everything was short and pretty tame:

I’d be sitting at my desk, designing the front section of the newspaper, dressed, FULL COVERAGE PANTIES, eating pop-tarts and drinking coffee. But according to the sext messages, I was “touching myself under the desk,” “short skirt, black thong,” and “so hot for” him. 

Blah, blah. 

He’d reply, "Sexy," “So hard,” “I’m coming,” and then in detail, describe his orgasm and where he wanted to put it. (Ew, no.) #youdidntpayforthat, #notapornstar, #checkyourselfboo, #Catholicgirl,

To which I’d reply, “That’s hot,” “love it,” which it was not and I did not. Then I’d say I’m almost there, put my phone down, do some work, check my email and talk to my co-workers. After a few minutes: “I just came, baby.”

I didn’t.

But after a while, he would get bored and push for more, so I’d have to get creative – which is where most of the looping came into play. No pun intended.

Mind you, when I was telling him all the dirty things a porn star taught me to say, at no time and in no way was I ever that hot for anything. I was usually working, working out, grocery shopping, hanging out with friends, watching a movie or anything other than what I told him I was doing.

Which means I wasn’t shaved, horny, made up or the girl in the pics he received (thank you, Google) sitting around with nothing better to do than sext him. #ratchetcatfish

But, it was my civic duty as his girlfriend, and honestly, I would have been playing Words with or Scramble with Friends anyway. So, I traded in one game for another.

But why did it have to last so long? One porn scene is like, 30-40 minutes (if you take out the set-up). One sexting session is like, hours.

HOURS.

Plus, you can watch porn when there’s time. I’d get ambushed by sexts in the midst of being busy.  Like I said before, ain’t NOBODY got time for that.

For the almost four years we were together, I studied, practiced and became proficient in the art of sexting. And I say art because I had to find a way to take dirty-whore-porn and turn it into something with a little class. Seriously, one more semester and I could have had a Bachelor’s Degree.

Could I open my own sexting line with that where I turned guys on with sexual text messages?

Because if I had to actually say any of that out loud, I’d not only lose my composure, I’d lose a paycheck afterwards.

I know I probably just ruined it for a lot of couples. But seriously, how often can you sext before it just gets redundant? Guys have to know by now that their ladies aren’t always walking around in lingerie, horny and waiting to send selfies of their lady business by request.

This girl def is not.

#sextingqueen, #couldteachyou, #butIdhavetocharge