Why men talk and act dirty in bed

A couple of days ago a reader wrote into my Facebook inbox asking for my counsel in addressing a rather complex problem that had cropped up in her two-year-long relationship.

“He calls me bitch every time we make out. He also gets aggressive the times I say I am not in the mood. There are days, you know, when I don’t want to be touched at all, or would rather talk. I am stunned and scared at his propensity for violence and worry what if he hits me… I have been single for a decade and he’s a nice guy otherwise… but… every time he calls me 'whore' or 'bitch’, I feel so very cheap."

Boundaries

I paused before advising her, since the boundaries of what is acceptable varies depending on individual relationships, and what is perfectly normal and consensual for someone, maybe hitting below the belt and feel hugely offensive for another. And yet, a part of me disagreed with calling a woman you love and cherish, a "bitch" or a "whore", given a certain sense of disrespect that seemed almost synonymous with the adage.

I think of if the reverse also perhaps held true. I mean, if a girl can also call a man she’s having an affair with, a "bastard", or a "gigolo". And if that will ever pass as playful or passionate. Also, since so much is now said and written about a woman’s consensual abilities, I wonder if the right to pleasure will ever be ours to own and order, of our free will. Also, does a man we are in love with have the full and final right to talk dirty to us, as and when he pleases.

Why do we, women, not articulate our likes and dislikes when it comes to sex? Why are we always the provider and thus in a position of receiving? Why can’t we stand up for our body? Why are we so worried that we may not fit in — and fear of being left out in the mad race of marriage and motherhood?

Last year I dated a man ten years older to me for around two-and-a-half months, almost accidentally — because I chose my craving to be loved by a man over my own gut instincts that were screaming out that he was just one more horny, middle-aged, divorcee who just wanted a warm body to cozy up with in his spacious Delhi apartment.

I remember one night on a call, when he suddenly asked me, how many partners had I had sex with? And before I could finish telling him that I wasn’t honestly comfortable as yet discussing my sex life with him, went on to ask me for how long I had been celibate, and if I liked bondage. "Whip, handcuffs, leather chains…" his SMS ended, as my heart sank.

Relationship

How he was really no different than my first boyfriend who stubbed his cigarette butts into my folded thighs when I said no to being groped in a parking lot, and why my second relationship also ended up with a man who almost raped me in a seedy hotel room the minute we were alone — how could have I not read the tell-all signs? Why did I feel like I was being strangulated and had lost my voice, again? Why was I continually attracting horny, oversexed men who saw me as a sum of my body parts?

“So where do you think this is going?” I mustered up the courage to ask over another call. “Just going with the flow… my last relationship after my divorce was with someone 20 years my junior. She had sex with two other people, confided in me…we remained close. She’s now getting married and wants to tell her spouse about us, and wants to be close to me again… ours was an open relationship,” he answered, a tone of casualness soaking his reminiscences.

Something that quite honestly, could even pass off as "cool", in the age of instant, no strings attached hook-ups, where single women aren’t marriage hungry, swipe and have casual sex in an Oyo room, split the bill, go Dutch on dates, send naked pictures on WhatsApp, sans a care — the walls between what is private and what is not, deeply digressing. A disturbing reality that is somewhat jarring. Where intimacy is mostly virtual, and chemistry, all about prowess and performance between the sheets.

Materialism

We are in a mad rush. We aren’t quite looking for soulmates, or star-crossed lovers, frankly. We seek instant sexual gratification — something to kill the innate boredom that materialism and technology eventually breeds. And so, what happens to us? Is saying no, now easy breezy? Is "bitch" a synonym for "honey"? Is sexting the woman in office no longer considered cheating, but harmless flirting?

“I don’t get a hard on simply by kissing…” the man smirked, one evening, after we’d made out, briefly, minutes after I stopped him when his hands pressed into my panty. It wasn’t as if I didn’t want it. I was being stroked by a man after years. But, I wasn’t ready. It’s what I told myself after I dumped him, sans an explanation. No fights. No drama. Just a polite blocking on social media, and from my caller-list. For the first time trusting my inner voice.

Also, looking back, I wasn’t okay being treated like an easy lay, and needed to be allowed my time before I got okay with sex talks, naughty pictures and spending weekends at his bachelor pad. Lastly, at 39, I was interested in commitment, and not being whipped with a leather whip.

Moreover, if he couldn’t get a simple erection after being kissed passionately, what guarantees were there that he would after I had stripped completely?

"He’s an a**hole!" I messaged my reader. Guilt-free!

(Courtesy of Mail Today.)

Also read: Why society likes to call single woman like me a slut