TYPING: My man-ho roommate has a saying, “When in Rome, speak Italian. When sex-starved, talk dirty.” He’s not the scholar you’d always find spearheading a research that would change the world. But then, he gave me a viable input for this blog, by asking the question——
“What is the language of sex?”
I swivelled my chair around to face my roommate, curiosity knitting my brows together. I had stopped typing up the Politics assignment for whose deadline was
Friday. “Um, French? Dagbani?”
“The language of sex is sex-talking. Also known as talking dirty…” He rapped away,
“… You talk dirty, a girl would let you fuck her brains out. That is the rule.”
My interest had peaked by now. “So you are saying——“
“I am saying if you tell a girl I want to ram you against your wardrobe, tie your favourite scarf around your lips and fuck you till you can no more wear that short skirt to attract my attention, you would be rewarding yourself with a quickie.” He smiled and went back to reading January issue of Playboy.
I was appalled, yet he didn’t care for the shock he’d given me. “The only girl who would fall for that has an STD and wouldn’t mind passing it on to anyone who isn’t willing to ask for her photocopied HIV test results she keeps in her purse.” I replied hotly, and went back to my assignment.
“You want to know my secret dirty-talk line that works every time?”
I didn’t respond. But he said anyway.
“Kobby, hide that boner of yours.”
I rushed to cover the bulge forcing to break through my zipper. But oh, my God, where was a pillow when you really needed one?
TYPING: What is the language of sex?
“Simple. Dirty-talking.” Maya, Raymond’s constant booty-call-girl answered upon meeting her on my way to a lecture. “It’s an easy fix for boys who haven’t received any action since 1957. Like you, I suppose.”
I didn’t waste my time disproving a truth. “So you are saying every guy on campus uses that to——“
“To arrange a quickie,” She interrupted, quickening her steps to her faculty.
“Especially the Muslim guys after a long fast, and lecturers after the summer break.”
She rushed on to her faculty before I had the chance to ask her another question.
TYPING: Are there lines that make the panties of girls instantly fall off?
I sidled up to a guy running late for the same lecture I was. I toughened my resolve to ask the question.
“I would so dig my hands into your holy shrine and bring it to my lips.”
“What?” I almost threw up at his answer.
“Some girls like it when their hoo-ha is tasted.”
“Did that line really work for you?”
“No,” he shook his head. “I got slapped.”
I sighed with relief.
“Then she rushed me to her hostel, threw me on the bed… and the rest they say is… Gynaecology.” He said triumphantly raising up his index finger. “Oh, then afterwards, she made me reframe, ‘I would so dig my hands into your holy shrine and bring it to my lips. While you watch’. Remarkable, isn’t it?”
My phone rang as he walked away. “Hello.” I answered the unknown number.
“Am I speaking to the blogger, Kobby?” A female voice.
“You are speaking to him.”
I stared at my phone in surprise after the disconnected tone rang in my ear.
“Hey, Kobs,” Grannie-Grandma had stepped in my way with her Fetish Priest Husband all white-teeth (—shocker) and smiling at me.
“What’s it Granny?” I asked coolly. “I thought you guys said you would be heading to Accra soon.” I loved my Grannie-Grandma, but if only she wasn’t everywhere I turned briefing me on her sexual escapades.
“We did.” Fetish Husband answered for her. “But the gods heard your cry. And we were teleported to give you an answer.”
Grannie-Grandma nodded as though that was the most credible tale in history. “We would vanish soon, once we are done answering your question.”
“I haven’t asked any question.”
“The gods seem to have a different opinion, “Are there dirty-talk lines that make panties of girls fall off?”
Oh, great. And the gods would know this.
“I sense a challenge,” Granny peered at me. “Hon, let’s show him the way you do it, the way you dirty-talk.”
Fetish Husband slammed her back onto his chest and began dirty-talking in a tune we are all quite familiar with. “Let me do your thing, eee-yay yay, yay, let me do your thing, when you are sleeping, I work hard…”
And you were wondering why there was only one greater God? I sensed Granny also shudder, hiding her look of distaste.
“And that always works because…” she looked like she was still recovering from the words of her husband. “… um, I do not wear underwear.”——
TYPING: Do girls also talk dirty?
“Hello,” I smiled as I stepped into the Evandi hostel room, outstretching my hands to the girl who had called me earlier.
“I do not shake hands.” She stared at my fingers in repulsion, and I was right, I detected a foreign accent over the phone. Something laced with French? “I do hugs.” She clasped me tightly against her chest, assaulting my senses with Chanel No.5.
And that was how my first encounter with Celeste went. I would describe her as an eccentrically-beautiful, vintage-chic connoisseur who always looked overdressed in outfits that looked like they cost a fortune stuffed with feathers and fur (“Yes, lots of animals were harmed in the production of every item in my closet.”)
“So, I was saying over the phone, I am a personal stylist here on campus.” I cast my eyes around her hostel room as she spoke, seeing endless racks of clothes I suspected were three seasons away. “I shop the clothes. I rent them out to students. They pay the full-prices for them. Then when they return them, I just take out the renting rates of the money they paid earlier and hand over the rest.”
“Wow.” I said, admiring a jacket I thought would look amazing on me. “So you want my blog for…?”
“I want to dress you up for the Death Day premiere.”
“That’s days away.” I said distractedly, stunned.
“I know.” She wasn’t listening to me. She’d walked off into her walk-in closet and I could hear her rustling clothes on hangers.
I used the time to type up the blog post that had to go up before eight on Saturday. But
sometimes writing about sex made you want to piss.
“Hey, can I use your bathroom?” I asked as she came rushing back with clothes she probably thought would be a good match for me.
“Pee all you want, but look over your shoulder just in case I might be hovering around to jump you.”
When I returned, I was met with her wide smile. A smile that sent me darting a suspicious glance her way. Before I could inquire about the origins of the smile…
She pulled me into her well-endowed chest and began speaking in a husky tone, “I want to slide my hands down your jeans, cup your balls, give them a squeeze and bend to blow your penis into exhaustion.”
I swallowed hard, making an effort to hide the growth in my jeans as she pushed me away and threw a bag of clothes at me. “So… where were we?”
She banged my laptop shut, and handed it back to me. “Just a mention on your blog about my business, you choose what clothes you think would be perfect, return the ones you do not select. I would see you at the premiere.”
I walked funnily out of her room.
TYPING: Girls talked dirty too.
I headed to my hostel with my head in the clouds, a new spring in my step. Celeste had broken my auditory virginity. But unfortunately, when I got to my room, my happiness seeped into thin air.
“Did you tell anyone about my line?” Maya and Raymond were already awaiting my arrival.
“Yes, his dirty line that worked on me minutes ago. From the lips of another guy! A cripple!” Maya exclaimed, then went silent for seconds in thought. “But then again, the sex wasn’t bad. There’s a lot you could do with crotches, I feel I must enlighten the world on that.”
Raymond glared at her, then turned to me. “I told you my secret line and you went around spreading it! How could you! Now every guy on campus is getting a quickie, and what’s annoying, I’m not even being acknowledged for it! I could sue!”
“I never told anyone! I haven’t spoken to anyone about it… I just went to lectures and...” my voice trailed mid-speech, my eyes went wide, “… Celeste!” I held on to my laptop feeling my privacy had already been violated.
“Celeste Bonnard?!” Maya and Raymond stared at me in horror.
They needn’t inform me. I was already imagining Celeste assembling a group of girls, holding a pointer and with Raymond’s dirty-talk line on a board, yelling, “Raymond Obeng is never getting into our pants again! He’s hurt us enough! We are never falling for this again!”, her audience would cheer her on, shouting “Preach on, sis!”. But of course, there’d always be the odd one who’d mumble, “We aren’t?”
TYPING: Lots of great people advice, walking the walk, and talking the talk. When sex-starved, dirty-talk your way into a quickie. You really do not have to mean everything you say? Because like French, some things sound better heard than practiced. Although, I really do hope some of you find sticking your fingers into wet places disgusting. (But then again, I really should grow up!)
You (or a loved one in KNUST) could win one of FIVE tickets to the Death Day premiere, if you comment on this post or send your feedback to my email, firstname.lastname@example.org with your mobile contacts please.
P.S: Want to know Raymond’s dirty line? Send an email to, email@example.com
catch SEX AND THE CITY CAMPUS every Saturday
catch SEX AND THE CITY CAMPUS every Saturday