The problem with not being a millionaire is that often I have to have the quiet sex. The quiet sex is the sex you have when you share a flat with someone, or the person you’re fucking is sharing a flat with someone, or (if you’re not a Londoner) the sex you have in your huge-yet-affordable semi-detached house when your parents happen to be visiting.
The sexiness of silence
Quiet sex can, on occasion, be one of the hottest things in the world. Some of the most thrillingly tingly fucks of my life have happened in tents at festivals. With my friends, and occasionally relatives, sleeping just a few layers of fabric away, being fucked by a guy with his hand firmly over my mouth. Long, slow strokes to avoid too much rustling of sleeping bags.
Or with me sat on top of him, cupping both hands over my mouth, grinding slowly down onto his solid dick, pausing when there’s a lull in the campfire conversation, in case they hear the whispering sound of us rubbing together, or the stifled moans.
In fact, now that I think about it, perhaps for any quiet sex to be good it necessarily has to happen inside a tent. Tents are hot.
Exhibit A: Some awesome sex that I had in a tent
I was quite near the beginning of a holiday romance with a boy. I say ‘holiday romance’, but what I really mean is ‘whirlwind of torrid fucklust’. We went to a beach party together, and were going to share a tent.
Rather unsportingly, a girl purporting to be his girlfriend showed up just as we were about to get on the bus to the middle of nowhere, and said she fancied coming too. I was less than delighted, as I’d been happily contemplating a weekend that involved lots of booze, dancing, and filthy party sex. But still, she came.
On the last night of the weekend-long beach party, I went to bed early. Exhausted and drunk, I collapsed in my knickers in my lonely, fuckless tent and prepared to pass out. After ten minutes, I heard the sound of the zip.
I sat up, getting ready to say ‘sorry, mate, this one isn’t yours’ or – if I was feeling incredibly brave – ‘rob my tent and I’ll bury you in the shallows’, but it wasn’t a robber – it was the boy. He put his hand to his lips, and let out the softest ‘ssssh’ I’ve ever heard in my life.
He crept in, making no noise at all, and I shifted the sleeping bag away. He didn’t kiss me, he didn’t touch me, he didn’t make a sound. He slipped off his shorts, and pulled down my knickers, then lay on top of me. Despite the gentleness necessitated by the quiet, I was dripping wet, desperate for him to put his cock inside me.
He bent down and put his mouth just next to my ear, whispered ‘ssssh’ again, and fucked me. With slow, soft strokes, he fucked me. I tried to push back, but every time I did something rustled. He held me down, and kept going – determined to keep the silence but equally determined to come.
I squeezed my cunt so I could feel every single inch of him as he came, shuddering and silent, deep inside me.
He put his clothes on, waved goodbye, and zipped up the tent. Five seconds later, rubbing my clit with a determined vigour, I heard the zip in another tent go as he joined his girlfriend next door.
Quiet sex in real life
But tent sex this hot is unusual, and the hotness of this kind of silent sex comes from the fact that it is necessarily rare. You wouldn’t deliberately choose to fuck with no noise – to move slowly so nothing rustled. In real life most people – while perhaps not prone to smashing their head against the bed frame screaming “Dear sweet mother of CHRIST that’s the BEST THING I’VE EVER HAD IN MY CUNT!” would at least like to moan or whimper every now and again.
Over the last week all the sex I’ve had has been quiet. Logistical necessity has meant that we have to fuck in bedrooms where I’m not allowed to moan, or grunt, or whisper ‘pleasepleaseplease’. What’s worse, the boy I’m fucking hasn’t been able to spank me, or groan as he comes, or shout ‘HOUSTON WE HAVE A PROBLEM’ when he reaches orgasm.
The first couple of times, like my tent-based adventures, were hot. I revelled in the calm domination that he used to keep me quiet. As far as dirty talk goes, ‘ssssh’, has it’s uses, and there’s nothing I love more than someone’s hand clamped over my mouth, just as he feels I’m about to come, to stop me from groaning loud enough to wake the house guests.
But like most types of sex, it only sustains my curiosity for so long. After a few fucks in the same style I’m tearing my hair out and rubbing my thighs together and longing for something different. Something hotter. Something louder.