I saw a comedy sketch taking the piss out of folk (women) who are noisy during sex and chining them for being fake.
It made me think of, like many things, how we’re picked apart whether we’re too noisy or too quiet— she fucks like a whore or fucks like she’s frigid. Judged and executed no matter what the fuck we do (or don’t). She needs to relax more, oh no, wait, she’s too relaxed!
As a vocaliser (I know, it’s always ‘the quiet ones’, right), holding back is a conscious effort during physically expressive acts whose essence, and one of the primary goals of exchanging sexual energy, is to create and build pleasure and ultimately let go. And submit to the little death (or a few, if lucky). Of course, there are times when we must, like when in a public place perhaps or as a guest, those times sneaking around and sex is against the rules. Times when desire is high, but outward expression must be controlled. But for the most part, exchanging sexual energy should not be the time for minding our oooos and ahhhhs, our grunts and growls, our moans and screams.
Personal anecdote time: That sketch reminded me of something that happened in my early 20s, where my vocal enthusiasm was subject to gossip thanks to an ex’s absolute lack of integrity and disrespect. Not just any ex, he was the first I loved. My younger sister was exposed to this gossip, which wasn’t confined to a single conversation. It spread. Honestly, when it came to my attention, I was mortified. Intimate details being talked about in such a crass way in a group setting by someone I trusted was disappointing towards their character and any emotional connection, I thought we had shared. I was disgusted, embarrassed, and hurt. This discussion was spread beyond a singular conversation. And I got hints of it before I knew when I was introduced to some folks by the loose-tongued fool. One of them, when we shook hands over the loud music, with wide eyes said, “Ahhh, you’re Natasha—the screamer.” Funny the little lines we remember, huh? From almost two decades ago, I can still hear that. Anyway, at the time, I crossed my brow, a bit confused. I guess I knew but wanted to see the best in people, so I brushed it off, he wouldn’t talk about me that way, would he? (Yes. He was a player. He would, and he did). It was a few weeks later, my sister shared with me that I was being gossiped about. Again, at that juncture, with our age gap, she was my baby sister, so I was seriously mortified that she was exposed to that discussion.
This could have made me insecure in how I sexually expressed myself, especially since this gossip was from someone I mistakenly trusted and thought more of. Thankfully, for me, it didn’t. But I know that such slights can impact many folks enough to hinder their openness and expression. Honestly, fuck that. And fuck anyone who judges your intimate expression. Let that heat shimmer, glimmer and ripple, the bubbles, the sparks that catch under your skin and prickle; let it build in silence or groan and moan and scream your pleasure. Let it pour out in whatever way is natural. These things aren’t always for thinking; they are waves to be ridden. That sexual pleasure and expression is yours to create. Yours to share. Yours to express. Yours to own. Yours to fucking scream (inside or outside your body)!
Personally, I love the noises folk make when they fuck. I am a creepy wee voyeur for listening in when I’m not part of the action. It stirs the ardour.
Clan Witch & Word Refinery 