Written by Some readers like a little TMI in a blog post once in a while, so if you’re averse to hearing the intimate details of my most intimate moments…well, you’re probably not one of them. But if you are “one of them” (looks daunting when I put it in quotes, doesn’t it?) then you might be interested in a little linguistic quirk I’ve only just noticed about myself:
When I come on my own, I come in French. When I come with a partner, I come in English.
Every time.
Weird, huh? And I’ll tell you how I made this “discovery” (though, this is something I probably should have picked up on over the years. I mean…really!) I only noticed when I slipped up one time.
I was in bed with my Sweet and I heard myself say, “mon dieu.” Not “My God,” but “mon dieu.” Something clicked. There was a moment…a jolt of…something. I don’t know if it started with Sweet or if it started with me, but there was a moment between us…a momentary…pause. It was almost like I’d shouted somebody else’s name. It just wasn’t the right thing to say.
We do get into patterns in bed, don’t we? Even linguistic patterns. Sweet tells me she knows I’m about to come when I start calling her “babygirl.” LOL. She’s right, though. I hear it now. There are go-to terms, catch-phrases we have, that only come out when we’re really excited. That’s one reason I never fake orgasms–I figure, with a partner who actually listens to me, it would be transparent.
So this incident of “mon dieu” was out of the ordinary simply because my language light flickered momentarily. I just think it’s funny that I can call my girl a dirty slut or ask her, “You just love it when I rub my pussy all over your face, don’t you, you little whore?” and she’s all yes, yes, yes, but I slip into French one time and everything comes to a standstill.
It wasn’t actually a big deal, more of a curiosity. In fact, for me it sparked the realization that, in an intimate sense, French is a private language. It’s something I hold back. I almost never speak French in public, though when I’m at home it’s language in which I talk to myself, and even to my cats. I keep it inside because…well, even in Canada there are English-speaking stereotypes about the French and (what I find to be strange) conceptions around the French language: that people speak it to show off, to demonstrate superiority, illustrate educational status, etc.
I’ve always been the type of person accused of reading too much in to everything, and maybe that’s why I’m dissecting what could just as easily be written off as a quirk. Out of context it would seem a little odd that I would subconsciously reserve a language for my own personal use, but in light of external perceptions? Maybe it’s not strange at all.
French food for thought, hmm?
Hugs,
Giselle
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