Dirty talk, according to The 100 Steps to Sexual Enlightenment, was the spice of sensuality.
Maxie Langford was not a spicy talker.
She was more of a medium salsa kind of girl—flirty, suggestive, but never fully plunging into the fiery depths of filth. Her idea of dirty talk until now had been limited to phrases like:
"I want you… to pick a Netflix show and stick with it."
"Oh yeah, baby. Do the dishes without me asking."
"I've been a bad girl. I bought throw pillows without a budget."
But Step Seven was clear:
> "To seduce the world, one must first seduce with words. Learn the language of lust. Make vowels tremble. Let consonants moan."
"Okay, Shakespeare," Maxie muttered. "Let's make some verbs horny."
---
The practice began in her bedroom.
Maxie sat cross-legged on her bed, holding a pillow like a supportive lover, and whispered:
"Yeah, you like that, don't you, you... fluffy bastard."
She cleared her throat.
"No. Sexier."
She adjusted her voice to a low, husky whisper.
"Take me right here, on these Egyptian cotton sheets. I've never wanted anything more. Except maybe carbonara."
Better.
She tried a few more:
"You feel so… soft. Like a peach soaked in regret."
"Do you like it when I… conjugate your irregular verbs?"
"I want you inside me. Like… deep inside. Like, next to my pancreas."
By the time she got to "lick me like I'm your favourite lasagna," she collapsed into giggles and rolled off the bed.
This was harder than it looked.
---
So she turned to inspiration.
She Googled "best dirty talk phrases," immediately regretted it, then narrowed the search to "sexy phrases that won't get you arrested."
She ended up watching a YouTuber with 3 million followers whisper phrases into a microphone like:
> "Tell me how badly you want to… rearrange my furniture."
Maxie paused the video.
"Why does that kind of work?"
---
Armed with courage and a very full wine glass, Maxie decided to practice live.
She opened her phone and pulled up a chat with Jasper, a casual situationship who'd once complimented her thighs while eating a churro.
She typed:
> "Thinking about you… and how much I'd love for you to wreck my lower back tonight."
Deleted.
> "Want you. Need you. Will beg for you like a Victorian orphan at a bakery."
Deleted.
> "Tell me how dirty your thoughts are. I'm on my knees. Metaphorically. For now."
Sent.
Her heart thundered.
Within seconds, he replied.
> Jasper: "Whoa. Damn, Maxie. I thought you were asleep."
> Maxie: "Not when my thighs are plotting a hostile takeover."
> Jasper: "Are you drunk?"
> Maxie: "Only on the scent of your body wash."
There was a long pause.
Then a final message:
> Jasper: "Uhhh. This is Mrs. Langford. I think you sent this to my son's old phone. We donated it to charity."
Maxie screamed.
Threw the phone across the bed.
And screamed again.
---
After hyperventilating into a bag that once held sourdough pretzels, she sent her actual mother a formal apology:
> "Please disregard any messages that may or may not have been directed at fictional scenarios involving suggestive food metaphors. Also, please don't call me. Ever again."
---
Later that night, Maxie stood in front of her mirror.
She tried again.
"Say it slower," she whispered to her reflection.
"I want you. No—I crave you. I ache for your…" She glanced at the open book, searching for inspiration. "...luscious, throbbing vocabulary."
Okay, maybe not that.
But she was improving.
Her tone was more confident. Her eye contact was fierce. And her thighs did, in fact, feel vaguely hostile.
---
Her journal entry:
Step Seven: Dirty talk isn't about being filthy. It's about owning your voice—even when it cracks like a pubescent saxophone.
(P.S. Always triple check who you're sexting. Seriously. Check. Twice.)