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Clare Mackintosh – US

Clare Mackintosh - US

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Sorry, I'm too posh to talk dirty

November 15, 2010 By Clare Mackintosh


Last week I had a heavy breather on the phone.  I think I was a bit of a disappointment.  You see, I can’t do dirty talk.  I once had a boyfriend who liked me to chat while we were having sex.  He wasn’t interested in the Boden sale or what I’d do if I won the lottery – he wanted to hear what we were doing right now.  He liked me to talk dirty.  The problem is, I’m not terribly good at it.  For a start there’s my accent – I never feel that porn works terribly well in the Home Counties.  I did try dropping a few aitches and flattening my vowels to take the edge of the poshness, but I ended up sounding like a Croatian prostitute.  The boyfriend of the time said he preferred me speaking with plums in my mouth.  But then he would.
Dirty talk does rather tend to make me laugh, whether I’m doing it myself or listening to someone else.   I’m far too coy to adopt the lexicon of seventies’ porn films, and have to resort to a Mills and Boon style narrative involving much grasping of manhoods and heaving of bosoms, which makes me giggle in a particularly non-sultry way.  
I do rather like the linguistic challenge presented by dirty talk.  It requires a certain level of inventiveness to avoid repetition – there are after all only so many ways I can tell someone I’m going to get intimate with their heaving manhood.  Ah – I may have confused myself there.  You get the picture, I’m sure.  
When I first picked up the phone to this heavy breather, I thought it may have been my elderly neighbour.  He has a habit of dialling and then leaving the phone on as he shuffles to his chair and gets comfortable.  However, when the caller asked me what I was wearing, I realised it was a genuine dirty phone call.  Heavy breather phone calls have rather gone out of fashion so for a split second I rather admired him for this touch of nostalgia.

“Oh”, I said.  “Um, some rather grubby tracksuit bottoms and my husband’s rugby shirt.”

“Tell me what you’d like me to do.”  The breathing became rather more laboured.  I wondered if he’d consider a request to mow the lawn.

“I’m terribly sorry.”  I told him.  “I’m afraid I can’t do dirty talk.  I’m too posh, you see.”

There was a pause.  The rasping breathing became more normal.

“Not to worry, love.  Thanks anyway.”

What a very polite man.  

Filed Under: Relationships

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