So this evening, my fine, sweet, soft-spoken boyfriend and I decided to try something new in bed — dirty talk. Normally, this guy is silent during sex. Like silent silent. You’d think he was observing one-minute silence for Nigeria’s electricity. Like bro, why are you moaning like you’re in a library? Just “ugh… fuck” in low volume. Nothing more. No feedback. No commentary. No trailer. No full movie. Just quiet till he explodes. But today, I said, “Let’s try dirty talk.” Let’s awaken the beast. Let’s say things that would make angels cover their ears. So we started. As usual, man entered me with that calm, calculated stroke. Rhythm of peace. Kissed my neck. Grabbed my waist. I said softly, “Baby, say something.” Just small. A compliment. A threat. A hymn. Anything. Then out of nowhere, I hear, “Ho.” I paused like, did I just get called a “ho” mid-thrust? I looked up, lips parted. My brain said, abort mission. My coochie said, proceed. And before I could process, he kept going, “You dirty ho.” “I own you.” “You’re my dirty girl.” At this point, my brain was in a board meeting. My body was on autopilot.
My soul was humming praise and worship. It was giving: “Confused pleasure, sprinkled with vi0lence.” Then came the final straw: “B!tch.” “You’re my b!tch.” “Say it, you’re my b!tch.” I was like, wait, is this my boyfriend or a GTA character? My chest was doing, “God abeg,” but my kitty was like, “We die here.” And I can’t even lie, it was hot. Man came with thunder, and I followed him to the promised land. Afterwards, we were just lying there, sweaty and breathless. I looked at him like, “So this is the ev!l you’ve been bottling up?” Turns out his silence wasn’t because he’s shy. It’s because he’s been trying to keep his demonic inner scriptwriter locked up. Man had a whole dictionary of filth ready to drop like a mixtape. Honestly, 10/10. Would let him call me names again.
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