Where did the fantasy first arise in my life of having sex with someone who doesn’t speak English and whose language I do not speak? Was it the Love Actually subplot where a British befuddled Colin Firth has an awkward-yet-romantic dalliance with his Portuguese housekeeper Aurélia? Was it the lesbian erotica story I read in some anthology whose name has been lost to time, where an English-speaking tourist meets and seduces an exclusively Spanish-speaking woman at a nightclub while on vacation? Did I see it in porn somewhere and internalize it? How did this become one of my formative ideas of the magical heights of romance?
Though the lingual disconnect is played for laughs in Love Actually and spun into lusty wonder in the erotica story, it obviously poses many real-life logistical issues that could prove unsurmountable. These romanticizing tales want us to believe love (or lust) is the ultimate human “language,” that it can overcome cultural barriers and connect us even in the face of communication obstacles. This narrative erases and harms asexual and aromantic people, and it isn’t even accurate. Humans developed language for a reason: we need it. Sex and romance are nebulous enough already, even when you do speak the same language, because often these feelings are difficult to put into words, even for yourself. Being reduced to gestures and facial expressions when trying to explain your feelings to someone seems like hell, especially for someone like me who thrives on words of affirmation.
Not to mention: in our recent (and less recent) cultural conversations about consent, it’s become clear that verbal consent is the gold standard for ensuring a sexual encounter is on the up-and-up. There are certainly ways to acquire and give consent non-verbally, and arguably most consent is given and gotten in this way, but I think it only works because it’s usually combined with some verbal element. Sure, you can read someone’s body terrifically, but at some point you’re probably gonna ask, “Is this okay?” or “You like that?” or “You want more?” and it’s hard for me to imagine navigating sex safely and responsibly without the ability to even do that.
That said, I’d be lying if I claimed this fantasy never crosses my mind anymore. Like many fantasies, it’s unfettered by logistical considerations when I ponder it in private moments. I can imagine that me and this other person can read each other’s bodies perfectly, almost like we’re reading each other’s minds, without needing a common language to know each other’s most intimate wishes. Afflicted by anxiety, my brain often floods with worrying words during sex – the very activity that’s said to steal your words away and quiet your mind – so it’s, in some ways, a comfort to consider sex wholly without words. Who would I be, and what would I feel, if I could quiet my mind and focus only on my body and someone else’s?
I think another movie, Before Sunrise, fanned the flames of this fantasy for me. In it, two travelers – who are from different continents but both speak English – have a chance meeting on a train zooming through Europe and embark on an impulsive all-night adventure in Vienna. I’ve longed to go to Vienna since seeing this film; the landscapes and locations strike me as achingly romantic. And because I’m a perv, I imagine that if I met an attractive German-speaking local there, we’d somehow flirt non-verbally, kiss under an Austrian sunset, and wander into a sex shop or Fleshlight store together to look at the “mini vibratoren” that we would then use in a majestically-lit hotel room later on.
Verbal communication is pretty much the only type I’m good at – and sometimes not even that – but somehow, in my fantasy, I get by just fine without it. And there’s a lot of kissing and orgasms and maybe some giggling atop a giant Ferris wheel.
Do you have any fantasies that you know wouldn’t work in reality?
This post was sponsored. As always, all writing and opinions are my own.
