Dirty Talk and Me — Part One, The Bush Years



My first real experience with dirty talk came during what would later be known as The Summer of Dirty Talk. I had tentatively dabbled in dirty talk before, delicately saying things like, “You like that?” and “Yeah, you like that, huh?” (Clever!)

But my first real in-depth experience with talkin’ dirty was with a girl that we will call Stacy. Stacy was awful. She was the first Southern girl that I ever dated, and the first hardcore Republican that I ever dated.  To add extra angst to the whole thing, I dated Stacy in 2004, while I was living in New Orleans, during the precise middle of the Bush years; the year that Bush was running for re-election against John Kerry, the exact year that it started to seem like the whole Bush thing would just never end. (And indeed, it didn’t end for another four years.)

It was a bad time for our nation, but a good time — as it turned out — for my sex life.


By the summer of ’04, my hatred for George W. Bush had reached such hyperbolic levels that I would fly into fits of rage merely from hearing his voice on TV. So it was especially awful to hear Stacy drawling on endlessly in her Southern voice about how he was a “good man” who had “kept us safe” by invading Iraq. “Yes,” I would say, “he really kept us safe by invading the country next to the country next to the country that the terrorists came from.”

Sarcasm isn’t as effective in the South as it is in the North, though, and I was never really sure that Stacy got what I was saying. Plus, she was stoned all the time, so it was never clear that she understood anything that I was saying. Yes, Stacy was a Republican stoner, a rich girl Republican stoner; a rich girl Republican stoner who had never really worked a day in her life. Her very wealthy parents had bought her a series of fancy perfume and makeup stores which she would manage; she would wake up every morning, get stoned, and “go to work.”  Then, her stores would eventually run out of money and fail, and then her parents would buy her a new store in a different location.

In a sense, Stacy was George W. Bush: a rich drug-addicted none-too-bright fuck-up who would get bailed out over and over again by her wealthy family. With the crucial difference that she was also a hot blond girl with a flower tattoo on her tits, so that was a slight improvement on our then-Commander-in-Chief. Still, in a sense, when I was fucking her, I was fucking the Bush Administration, or at least working out my frustration with the neo-Conservative movement — or really, whatever metaphor works best for you, I really don’t care.

Plus, she liked dirty talk. And thus I discovered the first great truth of dirty talk; at least insofar as it concerns me; it kind of works better with someone who I’m fucking who I kind of don’t like — and I really didn’t like Stacy; thank god that I was shallow enough to go out with her just based on her looks; yay, me.


And so, Stacy and I moved through the stations of the cross of dirty talk — “Oh, yeah, suck my cock, baby”; “You like that? You like that tight pussy?”; “Uhh, fuck me harder — harder!”; “I want to taste my pussy juice on your cock”; “Fuck — you are the best fuck… ever”; “Oh, I love watching us fuck so good, baby” — I’m going to do this to you, I’m going to do that you, I am doing this or that to you, and on and on forever, world without end, ad infinitum. Sure, banking regulations were being slashed, we were caught in two endless wars, and being constantly monitored by NSA agents — but this was a really good time for me and my, uh, cock. If most of the country didn’t seem to care that we were being ruled by a moron, then why should I? May as well just let the good times roll and have some hate sex with a Republican.  And so: If Bush was the Decider, then I was the, um, Good-Sex-Haver, I guess.


….But all the time that we were doing dirty talk, I was trying to move the goal-lines. I had an end-game in mind.  I was moving us towards an invisible holy grail. I had a plan; a secret desire. And that secret desire was this:  “Who’s Your Daddy?

Yes, it is all very sad but true. I’ve been writing personal essays for about eight years now, and this is easily the most embarrassing thing that I’ve ever revealed about myself. I kind of think that the whole “Who’s Your Daddy?” thing is hot. YES I KNOW; THAT WOULD BE INCEST, IT MAKES NO SENSE, GROSS, WEIRD — DON’T THINK ABOUT IT FOR TOO LONG.

In the apartment next to my apartment lived a very hot Asian girl who would have ridiculously loud sex with her seemingly ‘roided-up boyfriend. And part of their sex talk involved the phrase — well, you figured it out already.

“Who’s your daddy?” her boyfriend would shout.

“You are… daddy,” she would yell back.

I really wanted to have sex with that Asian girl.


I was too shy to ever just leap into the phrase “Who’s Your Daddy?” like that. But I thought that by advancing our dirty talk by degrees, I would suddenly reach a point where Stacy and I would just sort of find ourselves doing the “daddy” thing semi-automatically. God knows why I thought this was the case, but I started introducing dirtier and dirtier phrases into our repertoire.

One night, I seized upon the phrase “Are you my little slut?” as being sufficiently dirty to advance the goalposts.  Again; God knows how or why I came up with this idea.

So, Stacy and I were fucking in the missionary position on her big canopy bed, and I said:

“Are you my little slut?”

But — oh woe is me, dear reader — I fumbled the ball. I hesitated. I stumbled. Here’s how it actually went.

Me: “Are you my little–” (Awkward pause followed by embarrassed hesitation followed by an incoherent noise.)

Stacy: “Huh?”

Me: “Are you my little … … slut?”

Stacy: “What?”

Me: “Are you my little slut.”

Stacy then frowned, rolled her eyes, somehow managed to shrug while still having sex, and said: “Sure, I guess.”

This is never the result that you want from dirty talk.


Thus, the Summer of Dirty Talk unraveled in much the same way that the Bush Administration unraveled — through hubris, lack of an exit plan, blind stupidity, and pride. Stacy and I broke up for good not too long after this. I had taken to breaking up with her approximately twice a week, because I couldn’t stand her, but then she would get stoned, call me up, and we would both act like it never happened, and then have hot sex. I had deluded myself into believing that this state of affairs would last forever — but then, finally, I broke up with her one too many times.  She refused to see me again, and that was that.

That autumn, after we broke up, Bush defeated Kerry and got reelected, despite some minor quibbles over voting districts in Ohio. Stacy started dating someone new, and so did I. Later on, Hurricane Katrina demolished New Orleans, aided by Bush’s idiocy, and I left the city forever. I never saw Stacy again. Many important things got washed away by Hurricane Katrina — lives, houses, belongings. The least important thing that got washed away was my era of hate sex with a hot Republican.

The hurricane marked the start of a dark time for George W. Bush, for the city of New Orleans, and for me. …But maybe some Hope and Change was waiting right around the corner?

Coming Next: Dirty Talk — The Obama Years

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