I am silent only when I am required to be. In public libraries, watching movies, attending funerals, and when I think someone might hear my screams of pleasure.
I am a lusty woman who grunts, groans, moans, gasps, pants, yells, and yes, screams her pleasure. I’m the woman who requires a hand over her mouth to muffle the audible proof of a job well done.
My orgasms are better when I can scream them out. Holding back my voice holds back my orgasm. They are not as gushy, not as wet, not as much when I force myself to be silent.
Every once in a while, silence is part of our mutual pleasure – as well as a constant requirement that comes from having little boys just down the hall.
But if I had my druthers, I would be a howling, yowling banshee screaming her pleasure for the world to hear.
Even when I attempt to be quiet, I’m not. Small huffs and puffs, low moans, rhythmic grunts, pants, “Ohhhhs” – you name it, and it’s a sound passing from my lips in the throes of pleasure.
For many, many, many years, I faked orgasms with the best of them. My ex-husband thought he was a sex god (/snort) because my cries were the proof of his manhood. After the divorce, I promised myself I would never fake an orgasm again or make a noise unless I meant it.
I’ve kept my promise. I just happen to have a man who’s learned to play my body like an electric guitar. It’s a rare day when I’m not making some noise of pleasure. I think we both like it that way.
Welcome to Wicked Wednesday! This weeks prompt is “Silence.” As you can tell, I’m not a fan.