Do the Humpty Hump January 30, 2008

Overhearing Co-Worker Susie and all 65 years of her chirp Happy Humpday! to someone in the hallway just now has left me twitching involuntarily in my office chair.
 
I guess that is my body’s natural reaction to the word “hump” being uttered by the same grandmotherly woman who giggles about changing into her “go fast shoes” before leaving the office to get to the train station.
 
How the word “humpday” has become so mainstream truly startles my mind.  
 
Maybe because my mind, in fact, happens to be a pretty dirty one. And when I hear hump, I think of sex. So when I hear people say they mean ”humpday” in an Oh it’s the middle of the week and it’s all downhill from here to the weekend! kind of way, I want to laugh.
 
And say Pity.
 
It’s a hell of a lot more fun if you choose to interrupt it in a more literal way. Particularly when a healthy amount of dirty talk gets involved in the whole mix. Because Cock, Fuck, Pussy, Tits, Harder, Wetter and Faster? Yes please, I say.
 
Being a strong-minded female who isn’t the type to preen over The Rules or making sure the guy always pays or never wearing white after Labor Day, I used to wonder if my predilection for dirty talk implied some deeper underlying issues.
 
Daddy issues. Men issues. Self-esteem issues. Masochistic issues.
 
Then I realized what fucking bullshit all that was. Because frankly, the reasons I like sex and have a penchant for dirty talk have nothing to do with needing some kind of validation and everything to do with the fact that it just feels damn good. And as long as it feels good, and it’s not hurting anyone but me, then I say “Hell, what’s the problem?”
 
Blame it on too many Gender Studies courses or Christian values infiltrating our minds, but once you remove the politics and overthinking behind sex, I think we can all agree that it’s difficult to argue against the merits of an orgasm. And hearing you like that big hard cock in your pussy don’t you just happens to be what it takes to push some chicks there.
 
Unless, that is, you’ve never had a good orgasm. Then I could see why you may judge and disapprove. You just don’t know better. 
 
Senior year in college, my best friend Corey – she of the Gender Studies major – became infatuated with deciphering the various inferences behind different sexual positions.
 
“Women need to stop having sex with men doggy style or, even, reverse cowgirl,” she lectured over our nth round of homemade margeritas one night.
 
“Why is that, again?,” I asked, entirely in jest.
 
“Because it’s degrading. The guy is having sex with you and he’s not even looking at your face. You could be anyone. All he wants is your pussy. Your brain doesn’t matter. There aren’t any positions that put men in such demeaning positions. It’s not equal.”
 
“Yeah? I wonder what Benny and Chad would have to say about that.”
 
“Stop. That’s not the same. I’m talking about men and women right now.”
 
“You like doggy style, though. And I do too. Doggy style, reverse cow girl, doing it standing up pressed against a wall - whatever. It feels good. Honestly, Cor, do you guys really discuss the reverse cow girl position in your Gender Studies class?”
 
“That is also not the point. It’s carnal and savage and if a man respects you, he’ll fuck you like an intelligent person.”
 
At this, I burst out in laughter. Sex is carnal and savage – the kind that’s meant to be enjoyed anyway. I’m horny almost always and my God yes I want it. Sex can be sweet and intimate too, if that’s your cup of (weakass) tea. But I consider it a succcessful bout of getting naked and mashing bodies when screaming, sweaty orgasms are had. I’ll save discussing Chaucer and the lack of a sound political infrastructure in most African nations for dinner.
 
We had some tshirts made later that year - Fuck me like an intelligent person blazoned over the chest in honor of our friend Corey. I still own it and I plan to wear it even when I’m a senior goddamn citizen.
 
She had a point though. Sex of the rougher and talk of the dirtier varieties only feels truly – dare I say – rewarding when it’s done with a guy who respects the hell out of you. And cares about you. The type with manners and a good heart and shows immediate concern the first time you scream that you’re so deep! And asks if you’re all right and whether he should try to not get so deep next time. Because ultimately, dirty talk is fantasy in good fun – meant to be confined to the bedroom or kitchen or living room or elevator. 
 
And lucky for me, that’s the type of guy I get to call my boyfriend. (But really, maybe he’s the one that’s lucky, yes?)
 
I shudder at the idea of a woman engaging in this kind of sex with a chauvinistic meathead – the kind that tells a woman her place is in the kitchen and that he doesn’t like how she looks wearing that dress because it makes her tits look small and doesn’t she know they’re about to go meet his friends and he needs her to look hot? (Ed. note: True story, this was something an ex-boyfriend of one of my girl friends told her. Of course, she is absolutely gorgeous. And he absolutely did not deserve her. But isn’t this too often the case?) The kind of pig that calls you Tits and gives you an approving smile as you walk by him, all while stroking the nearby ass of his girlfriend who is glaring machetes at you. That guy probably does think that all women are little whores who are asking for it. And he probably also has a 2-inch cock, hard.
 
The kind of sex and dirty talk I like isn’t anything too out of the ordinary. It’s not like I need my boyfriend to pee on my face or strangle my neck before I can orgasm. I don’t need to hear anything more unusual than some encouragement to ride his cock harder or play with my titties more. I’m not trying to tell you that I have sex as I dream about dead corpses.
 
I just like sex as I think sex is intended to be liked.
 
It’s not too difficult for me to imagine that this world would be a hell of a lot less angry if everyone would just go enjoy some highly athletic fucking and stop worrying about it so much. Some ‘throw me down and bite my neck and scream my head off not because I’m trying to sound sexy but because I just can’t help myself’ action. Some sex that – once it’s over – you feel too damn tired to feel anything but stupified content.
 
Well, everyone except for 65-year-old Co-Worker Susie, who seems to think that not smiling for more than one full minute makes you a bad employee and has begun to talk about the sexy older men she’s been meeting through Match (dot) com as though that is acceptable casual conversation in the office kitchen. 
 
I don’t need to imagine that. That’s just not my cup of (oddass) tea.