There are lots of words I enjoy hearing during sex.
Hard, dirty words: Fuck. Cock. Cunt.
Softer words, full of aching need: Please. Now. Yesssss.
Words that command and words that beg. Words whispered and words pitched somewhere between a shout and a scream. Words strung together with a precise, casually devastating elegance, and words forced out in a jumbled, incoherent mess.
Words are good. All of them. Almost all of them. Because there’s one word I really don’t want to hear during sex: my name.
Before sex, yes, fine. When I’m kneeling naked on the floor and you’re in front of me, tossing out instructions: absolutely.
But not when everything is hot and smudged and blurry. Not when I’m pounding into you and there’s a buzzing in our heads, and both of us are struggling to remember our own names, let alone anyone else’s.
Not even if we’re draped naked around each other, a soft-focus tangle of limbs and sheets, barely moving because it’s enough to stay still and feel. When you say it then, it drags me out of the moment; I feel it float between us and cut at the natural intimacy that our bodies have created.
It’s not a horrible name, nor an ugly one. I like to hear it in the street, when a friend catches sight of me and shouts a hello, or to read it written down in a card from someone I care about. I’m identified by it – called by it – addressed by it, and that’s just fine.
In bed, though, I don’t need it for those things. Identify me by smelling my skin, or running your fingers through my hair. Call me by moving my hand down between your legs – or by placing yours between mine. Address me with your lips and your fingers, then press our bodies close together – believe me, I’ll pay attention.
Tack my name onto any of those and it suddenly feels out of place – a little porny, and not in a hot way. Like you’ve added it consciously – too consciously – to show that it’s me you want.
There are other ways to do that. Better ways. Hotter ways.
“Baby, say my name.”
Baby…please just don’t.