The Weekly Mindfuck: Say My Name

My name isn't something I think about much. It's necessary, like my Social Security number—it exists to differentiate me from someone else, to make it easy for them to refer to me or track me down when my existence itself becomes relevant. I like my name, but I usually consider it a label no more special than "soup" or "paper" or "sofa."

My name, to my own ears, does not become beautiful until I hear it during sex. It becomes more than beautiful, actually—it becomes multidimensional, something more than a word or a sound or a even a moan. When I do something that makes my partner say my name in that guttural, involuntary tone, I can see the letters of my name spread out in front of me and listen as he moves his tongue over each one. My name becomes topographical, a map of sorts, something with ridges and valleys and oceans. You can pull it apart, examine each part, and mold it like PlayDoh, creating a flower or a castle or a smooth, soft, incongruous cloud. 

In bed, my name is music, not just something I hear, but something I feel. I can count the decibels, trace the crescendo, feel the minor chords shift to major. I hear piano keys, guitar strings, the pulsing beat of the drum. It's short, but during sex, my name is an entire song. It reverberates, and its energy moves through my ears and into my hands and legs and tongue. 

In that moment, my name is a caress, a cry, a yell, a command, a request, a thank you. It's connection, emotion, elation. For me, it's often the climax of sex entirely. 

Because when I hear my name, I know he isn't just experiencing sex. He's experiencing me. 

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