On the screen was a girl, not even a very pretty girl, not much prettier than me, touching herself and moaning and saying the dirtiest, naughtiest things. Things a good girl like me would never think of. Things I thought I could never make myself say. Even though I felt devastated and betrayed, I just couldn’t look away and then I looked at Kevin’s face and saw a smile like I’d never seen before. In a year together, I’d never seen him look so happy and masculine and satisfied. I know I don’t have to tell you how worthless and ugly I felt, how I felt like I could never measure up to his fantasies. I never even really knew he had, and I thought of the times we tried to experiment and I’d wanted him to try new things and he just grumbled like a sad puppy.
I acted like I was asleep when he came back to bed. Like I’d been asleep the whole time, burying my face in the pillow so he wouldn’t see the tears.
He spooned me and I shuddered and I had to bite my tongue so I didn’t tighten up. And I lay there for hours thinking and making a decision. I thought of how I looked in the mirror. I’d never be a supermodel. I’d never be 22 again, thank God. I’d never be a porn star and never wanted to be.
And lying there, feeling his breath on my neck, I knew I could do one of three things. I could ignore that this ever happened, bury my head in the sand and pretend we were happy. I could confront him. I could get mad at him for looking at other girls and thinking about other girls. I could be furious and yell at him and forbid him from ever looking at porn again and end up pushing him farther away.
Or I could make the choice I did. I could learn the secret fantasies of my guy, of all guys. I could learn the sexual psychology of men — why men want what they want, instead of sticking my head in the sand like most women. And I could learn to play his secret desires like a violin and inspire him to give me everything I’d ever fantasized about.
I fired up my laptop the next day excited at what I was going to learn. But quickly I got frustrated and then disgusted. All over the internet all I found were books and articles and YouTube videos by sleazy pick-up artist type guys and 22-year-old bimbos telling me that I’d act like a slut or nymphomaniac teenager to make a man happy. And I knew that couldn’t be the truth.
I knew that getting what I wanted didn’t have to mean giving up who I was. So I went on a mission to find out the truth. The next few months were a thrill and rush of revelations. I made myself watch porn and instead of being disgusted and judgmental, I acted like a scientist. I asked myself why men seem to need this stuff so much. I studied with the most popular porn stars in the videos whispered in their husky voices and discovered the secret rocket fuel for the male ego.
Through a forum, I tracked down a retired phone sex expert who played fantasy girl for thousands of men. She taught me the power of the feminine voice, the exact tone that bores into a man’s mind and what men are really seeking emotionally when they think they’re seeking sex. I got my best guy friends fall over drunk until they finally broke the Bro Code and told me what they really wanted and what they really dreamed of.
I booked time with a sex therapist all by myself and scribbled furious notes as she explained why men can become erotically impotent with women they love and how to keep it from ever happening to you.
I read books and websites and blogs and interviewed college professors about evolutionary psychology and why men are wired the way they are. I read smut written for men and studied exactly why some stories got five star ratings from guys while others I thought were really good were ignored.
And then with all this jumbling around in my brain, I started writing. I sat down at my laptop and boiled everything I’d learned and discovered into 33 powerful tricks and techniques that would wake up the animal in my man and fix his hunger right on me where it belongs. Thumbing through the finished file, I felt the heat through my whole body, my cheeks flushed with pride. I’d done it. I’d done what no woman had ever done before. I’d created an owner’s manual for a man’s most important erogenous zone: his mind, his imagination.
A few weeks later, Kevin and I were rolling around again, smiling, having fun. He didn’t even ask me to talk dirty this time. I guess he didn’t want to be disappointed again. He was on top of me, inside me, our faces just inches from each other. He closed his eyes and I knew he was miles and miles away, getting what he craved from his fantasies because he thought I couldn’t give it to him.
I took a deep breath and felt terrified like I was jumping off a bridge. But I said it — the Lust Mirror Phrase I’d discovered, a little trick that forces a man out of his head and right back into the moment by reflecting his secret desires back at him. His eyes flew open like he was just seeing me for the first time. He looked deeply into my eyes and I knew he was right there with me, seeing me, feeling me, listening to my voice. And I saw that smile again.
But this time he wasn’t looking at porn. He was only looking at me. Over the next hour, I took control of his fantasies, whispered naughty words in his ear, stroke his ego, teased him, made him feel powerful and desired and strong and masculine. And in return, he opened up and gave me everything. He made dirty amazing wonderful love to me, touch me, whispered to me, asked me about my fantasies and fulfilled them, gave me intense pleasure again and again that lit every cell of my body on fire and left me flushed and exhausted and happy in a way I never thought I would feel. I bet you could feel right now how wonderful that was. We both couldn’t stop giggling and laughing when we were done. We basked in the glow feeling connected and silly and happy and horny and in love.