When a noun morphs into a transitive verb and turns verbal

Just like we all come in different shapes and sizes, we also come with a variety of emotional, physical and psychological needs. May be that earned us the “queer” title? Sometimes we discuss and understand each other’s need before we jump into the bed, while many at times we discover each other’s kinks and fetishes in bed only to feel exorcised more than exercised. Here is an experience that created a little storm in me.

Sex as a noun sounds plain vanilla, while its usage as transitive verb sounds hormonal, recreational and exciting. I am sure you will not contest this statement of mine. I looked at his picture a dozen times and we also did the size talk before I decided to take him up on his invitation to sex. And finally when I rang the door bell, little did I know his lurking fetish for unparlimentary language behind the unopened door. I checked out the face and statistics to ensure it matched with the text and picture he shared and when it did, I started mileage counter with a kiss. Every step we made towards the bedroom there was a piece of clothing one of us shed. And by the time we made it to bedroom the house was strewn with clothes that couldn’t contain our lust.

Since we had sexted our preferences before I arrived, I didn’t have to do much courting. And when I was cajoling him to get into the perfect yoga pose, the downward dog, he turned around and asked me to abuse him in my native language. We had never discussed this before and now I was confounded with a challenging tasks and shooting from my hip and lip at the same time. For me anger and verbal abuse went together and not sex and verbal abuse.

I have abused men who ran into my car, who jumped queues, who honked from behind, but this was the first time I was asked to abuse during a sexual act. His fetish was unfathomable, but given his cute bubble butt how could I not make an effort. Without knowing what I was getting into I decided to offer him my choice of words in a few languages, while he offered me the rubber and lube menu.

I ripped open the plastic sachet and with pride dressed up my little man in a ribbed rubber suit smeared with strawberry flavored lube, but every time I tried to utter an expletive my mind turned blank, my tongue froze and my drippy hard went into the downward dog pose and failed to penetrate his tight ass.

How do I tell him that I don’t have a performance issue? How do I tell him that my body doesn’t secrete endorphins and testosterone while abusing his mother, his birth and talking ill about his sister? I had no idea how a man could be turned on hearing volley of abuses. I confessed that I am not good at this game and cajole him to give me another chance. This time I bargained to get inside him and then start the abuse.

I got him out of the downward doggie pose and with mutual effort and focus we got my boneless muscle back to the horizontal position. I realized the extra skill and effort one needed to turn a noun into a transitive verb and risks of turning it verbal.

Pictures and descriptions on gay men profiles have no forbearance to their behavior and most often what they share is their wannabe self rather than the real self. Irrespective of how you engage with gay men, horizontally or vertically, there can always be surprises. May be should we run a disclaimer like what those on the rear view mirror?