Tired of Talking

Let’s skip the chatter and get straight to the bump and grind.

Communication and observation are integral parts of getting to know someone.

Not in a clinical scientific sort of way either in the way that shows invested interest in a person and how they can fit into your life long term.

I’m a big talker. I love the mental stimulation that we derive from conversing about all things.

For me, my love language ignites in the eloquence of how well a person can string a sentence together.

Express their thoughts on anything, from the mundane to the complicated.

I’m a sapiosexual. My Venus is in Aquarius. My interest piques with someone that has an excellent conversational aptitude.

Jean Phillipe, a guy I began dating from Tinder, rated high enough on the conversation scale. I remained interested after our first date.

He also had the attention span of a teenage boy with equal sexual enthusiasm and urgency. We talked a lot on the phone.

He was very good at keeping the channel between us open and showing his keen interest in everything me.

On our second date, I still wasn’t sure if I wanted to give up the goods just yet.

Jean Phillipe was insistent that our second date should have been low key. So I obliged and invited him over to my quaint studio apartment.

When he arrived, and I opened the door, he immediately pounced on me.

No preamble, a brief hello, decided to pass go and collect $200 when he should have been sitting in jail. I was immediately annoyed.

In today’s climate, this would have been read as a #METOO movement act. While I did invite Jean-Phillipe into my inner sanctum, I in no way consented to ravishment on the spot.

The audacity of him — to dominate me in my own space — without invitation.

I pulled away. Told him we should talk and ease into the night his response was intense, “I’m tired of talking; all we do is talk talk talk.”

I noted his frustration, but it wasn’t my problem. Panicked, I tried to appease him, so the night didn’t go completely south. It worked for a short while.

Before I knew it, he flipped onto my front. Next, moans beseeching whatever god would save me or not save from the ministration of his digits.

Goddess of Self Control intervened, and we went no further than foreplay.

I felt victorious at his visible frustration. Yes, I know this was a dangerous game I was playing, but I did not think that he was entitled to a full romp in the sheets yet.

In reality, he never leveled up enough to get it.

Afterward, he scolded me, a mild scolding rather, on keeping him waiting. Jean-Phillipe expressed his deep need for me.

I, of course, told him I wanted to take things slow. There was no reason to rush, which I was then blessed with a withering look that suggested otherwise.

I knew Jean Phillipe only wanted a sexual relationship from me. That was the sole reason I withheld sex from him. His disdain for conversation irritated me to no end.

It showed me that he was not interested in me as a person, but only what satisfaction my body could give him.

As I said in the first date story with Jean Phillipe, I was the object of his black girl fetish. I wasn’t his first. He made that abundantly clear the first night we went out. I wouldn’t be his last, but I was the current flavor he couldn’t wait to sample.

He was tired of talking — tired of trying to relate to me through words and thoughts made manifest. I was tired of being objectified and fetishized. I was tired of being only seen as the ebony cave he would spill his seed in and find release.

Far as I was concerned, Jean Phillipe was never going to be rewarded for his bad behavior. The reward was a round-trip ticket inside of me.

We went on a few more dates, and the last time I explained to him that we weren’t well suited. He was a Gemini, and I am a Capricorn, and it couldn’t work.

It was of no consequence to him; of course, he was only frustrated that he had to endure blue balls for so long.

I saw this experience as a sign of growth. The old hoe in me would have fucked him. Used him as much as he wanted to fuck and use me.

I would have fallen — the expanse of that emptiness shortly after that — to sate the beast that would have been awakened.

With age comes maturity, and life will always give you the lessons you need to change.

If he’s tired of talking after a short period, then he’s not interested in who you are. So much as he’s interested in shutting you up by sticking his dick in your mouth.

And the only utterance he wants to hear is the garbled moans of his name as he continues to impale you.

While sometimes that can be a lot of fun, trust me I’ve been there many times, at that point in my life that isn’t what I wanted.

That experience led to a celibacy stint. I felt I needed to cleanse myself of sexual conquests past — at least the laundry list of 2016.

It was refreshing. I never got tired of communicating with myself.

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