I’m So Wet

Prelude: I’ve had a few conversations about this post and I’d like to make it clear that it isn’t the woods, it’s the intent behind them. A statement of awe and amazement holds thanks and admiration inherent, no matter the syntax. A statement of possessiveness over my body’s reactions is arrogant, even if it’s got all the right words. I see this again and again with male friends and with clients: the ones who worry the most whether they’re doing things well are the ones who inevitably already are. You guys are the best.

We providers hear a lot of good things about ourselves. We facilitate incredible sensations and provide an easy place to feel them. Our clients get to unburden their shame and sadness, rejoice in their proud erections, experience whole body pleasure, and we manage all this with a smile. Why wouldn’t our clients say nice things about us?

Well, sometimes those nice things don’t quite hit the mark. I had a conversation recently with one of my sweet regular clients about dirty talk. I told him about the difference in my mind between “you’re so wet” and “I love how wet you are.” I told him that it bothered me when someone who I might not even know very well tries to tell me something about my own body, as if I were unaware of it myself, and is sometimes even wrong! He laughed, a big belly laugh, and said “I guarantee I’ve said that to you!” and I, somewhat chagrined, tried to explain what I meant.

Most people wouldn’t make the distinction. Among those who do, the observation is just as sexy as the appreciation. For me, there is a stark distinction between an observation about my body and the implicit claim over it, and a statement of sexual appreciation implying thanks. It sounds arrogant to my ear but I feel it nonetheless: I give out my body’s authentic reactions, not you. I will say when my body’s reactions are your gift to me. I know that the effort and mental energy I put into getting turned on is real and I will let you know when you’ve done it for me. And I will thank you.

Outside of the bedroom, what little time we linger there, I have similar feelings about complements. We only truly believe complements that we already truly believe. If someone tells me they like the way my hair looks but I’m dissatisfied with it, it doesn’t read as an authentic complement. I may smile and say thank you, but it doesn’t stay.*

Vague complements also don’t stick. “You’re so sexy” may be true, but it lies right up there with “you’re so wet” on the internal eye-roll scale. You know what feels really good to hear? “The way you look, lounging there, makes me feel sexy. I want to kiss you.” First: you’re giving me information I don’t already have. Second: you’re letting me know that I moved you to a feeling I enjoy within myself and that gives me pride.

And there it is: a complement that moves me, tells me I’m doing a good job at facilitating your experience, makes me smile, makes me want to kiss you back.

Instead of “you’re awesome” I want to hear “you are really good at this.” Instead of “You’re so smart” I want to hear “I love reading your blog.” Instead of “you’re so wet” I want to hear “I love the way you taste.”

Because you’ll never quite know if I really am awesome, or smart, or wet so telling me that… it just doesn’t sit. But you do know, and I want you to tell me, that you feel safe, you feel smart, and you love the way I taste.

*This is the root of street harassment. When a complement doesn’t ring true or when we’re not in the mood to accept it, we don’t want it. When we don’t accept it and the giver gets upset, that is the turn from genuine complement to harassment.