The coming chaos, or, reluctantly empathizing with Extreme Top

Oh, Extreme Top, how I loathe him. His scattered focus. His casually brutal use of the N-word for erotic purposes. His appalling treatment of me and the dispatchers, from a customer-service point of view. His teeth-gritting sense of entitlement, GUH.

And yet…

I learn from him occasionally. I don’t want to, but I do.

My learning from him this week came after one of our 60-minute-plus calls. These are the calls that really wring me out. I always get pissed about his handling of the 30- or 45-minute sessions, for any number of reasons, but the long-form calls are just physically exhausting, and toward the end, we inevitably get to a point where I’m just repeating a certain set of statements, over and over, like a mantra:

she’s a good girl she’s a slut she’s a whore Tiffany is a bad mommy she’s a good girl but a bad bad mommy Tiffany is a whore she’s Daddy’s good little whore…

Like that. I never bother putting periods in between those short sentences, because when I say it, there are no sentences. There are no pauses, there is barely time to breathe. I can’t stop, because I can hear it in his voice that he is almost coming, and the more often he has to interrupt his brain to put two coherent words together—literally “don’t stop”, whenever there is the smallest break, like, a one-second break—the longer he will be on the phone with me. And I don’t want that.

So I just roll on through, spitting out that steady stream of good girl-whore-slut-mommy. I just assumed that he got stuck, especially because he wants to hear me say her name, I assumed he got stuck on Tiffany (who apparently actually exists in his world), and needed to hear her name over and over. I am the needle stuck in that grove, or something. I never really thought about the function of that particularly method of delivering words into his head. I mean, why that way? What about that barrage of a closing makes him get off every time?

And it hit me yesterday, as I lay there and caught my breath, thinking about the chaos that I just created. That chaos happens for me, too.

When I am approaching orgasm, my mind floods with thoughts and feelings and images, not separately, but layered on top of each other. I, too, am extremely aural, so when I am with someone, I encourage them to join in the chaos, to add the audio layer to an already seething mess of consciousness.

If my partner won’t do it, I will, and it works almost as well: The talky-talky noise-noise both reflects and enhances the fracturing mirror of my orgasm brain. When the mind is making like a kaleidoscope, this stream of verbiage, for some of us, is actually the only thing that fits. And that’s Extreme Top, too. Our scripts at the end differ, but we’re going after the same sensation, an echoing in our ears that matches the rolling images and feelings in our heads.


I don’t want to understand Extreme Top. I hate him better when I don’t get it.

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