Matthew Shovlin

A Conversation About Loud Orgasms

“You know, about two days into my freshman year of college it was brought to my attention that I’m an incredibly loud orgasmer.”

“Like, what, you moan?”

“More like scream.”

“Christ. Who told you?”

“The kids in my dorm.”

“Oof.”

“They started calling me Scream Queen. At first I thought they knew about the vocal showcase series I put on YouTube in high school.”

“That would have been better, somehow.”

“I know.”

“But how didn’t you know? About the loud cumming, I mean.”

“I don’t know. I don’t feel like it’s loud. I guess I just get swept up in the moment. Like when you yell at the TV during the Knicks game.”

“Woah now. That’s different. I’m in full control of what comes out of my mouth.”

“Your neighbor almost had you evicted last year, the things you said were so vile.”

“Okay maybe now and then I lose my cool.”

“But that’s just what I mean. You can relate, sort of.”

“Okay, sure.”

“And you know what the worst part is? No one in my family ever said anything to me about it.”

“Figures. That would be quite the uncomfortable conversation.”

“More uncomfortable than listening to me scream my way to climax for, what, like five years before I went off to college?”

“No, not that uncomfortable. You’re right.”

“I didn’t know how to face my parents when I got home from school. I swear my mom sat me at the end of the Thanksgiving table so no one would have to use a serving spoon after me.”

“That seems passive-aggressive.”

“Yeah so anyway I drank a lot at Thanksgiving that year, you know?”

“Naturally.”

“I was kind of…well I guess the best word would be ‘distraught.’ I was distraught. I didn’t want to talk to anyone about anything, so I binged red wine in silence at the end of the table, separated from the adults by all the little cousins.”

“You don’t have the youngest sit down at the end?”

“I think the rule of thumb is that the table is seated from most desirable to eat with to least desirable to eat with. So that leaves the high-decibel masturbator in the caboose.”

“That seems to make some sense, on the surface.”

“Yeah well after all the guests had gone home I didn’t think it made much sense at all and was quite frankly furious that my parents had let this go on for so long–my loud orgasming, I mean.”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“So I downed maybe another glass or two of wine quite quickly and staggered up the stairs to my room. I was alone, drunk, angry, upset, and the lights were off. Needless to say, this all made me incredibly horny. So I waited until all was quiet in the kitchen and went at myself. I knew my parents could hear me and I wanted them to. I wanted my screams to haunt their minds. I know that’s kind of fucked but I was angry and as I said quite drunk. And it’s not like it was anything new–they’d heard me violate myself god knows how many times before.

“But this particular time I was quite savage with myself. Borderline self-abusive. Assaulting my crotch like some shit you’d find on a controversial porn site. Every ounce of energy and anger went right between my legs. I screamed, of course. I think I started crying too.”

“Sounds pretty intense, all that.”

“You can’t even imagine, I wouldn’t think. So I’m screaming, tears running down my face, body tensed so tight I can feel blood rushing to my eyes, and my dad kicks in the door. Literally kicks the latch right through the doorframe. It wasn’t even locked. Wood splinters rain down in front of my dad as he cocks a fucking shotgun and flips the light on with his front hand. He’d thought I was being murdered or something, but there I am, lying alone on top of my bedspread, my right hand entirely inside of myself and my left slowing like an abruptly unplugged chainsaw.”

“That’s some strong imagery, the chainsaw thing. What did he say, your dad?”

“Nothing. He just stood there shocked in the busted doorframe, shotgun still cocked and raised. I was certain he was about to shoot either me or himself, understandably. But he eventually turned back into the hall and shut the door, as best as it could be shut. We’ve never talked about any of it. I still sit at the far end of the dinner table.”

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