“The quiet ones are the worst,” you often hear. It is a shock to find a shy girl come out of herself in bed and surprise you with the depths of her passion, the variety of her peccadilloes and her high score on my filth-o-meter.
A girl I met at a party was so quiet she didn’t even speak when she proposed we have sex. We were laying near each other, crashing out on the floor after a party when she handed me a condom and nodded. Not wanting to disappoint a lady, I obliged, with some difficulty in a room full of sleeping strangers. The restrictions of movement and sound made it feel like we were gagged and bound. It felt kinky, even if we were in Hounslow.
I’ve always wanted to repeat the situation, if only I could find a willing stranger in a library, or perhaps a lift. But why would we think the more outgoing girl is going to be more exciting in bed, any more than a peacock with the most blinging plumage is the greatest lover? They just have better marketing.
Gregarious girls are great fun, but the harder work of unravelling the thoughts, desires and indeed underwear of the laconic woman can be a rewarding experience.
Take Helena for instance, the quietest of four girls, three of whom where actresses. Tempted as I was by each of the performers, it was Helena’s quiet words that captured me: “I think you can do a job for me.”
She was right. Unpaid and with scant regard for health and safety I was used, abused and confused as this quiet beauty with a tranquil soul and breasts as big as a man’s head, turned into a wildcat of unquenchable passion. When she came, foxes complained.
A word of warning though: Quiet ones can break your heart and you won’t see it coming. I’ve been hurt by blindsides from the quiet much more than any slutty infidelity. Perhaps that’s not surprising as I’m all for slutty infidelity. As long as I get all the details for our re-enactment.
Last week: He likes them dangerous...
