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.
“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.