I am a screamer. After years of waking up to awkward and inquisitive glances from strangers down the hall, I could no longer tune out this truth. I guess it all started in the early nineties. It was a different time back then, and everyone was more accepting. In those days, I could scream all the way through Thunder Mountain Railroad, and the worst punishment was a cough drop to soothe a half-day of laryngitis.
Pleased with these experiences, I gradually applied this logic to more mature diversions. Neighboring friends created sound-proof pillow forts and cruise-ship security made concerned phone calls. I lived in this state of denial until my boyfriend's hallmate casually asserted, "Your girl is loud."
"You can hear her across the hall?" my boyfriend queried, a little too proudly.
"No, actually I heard her from my room.four doors down"
Yep, I am a screamer.
Despite the public embarrassment of screaming, I would still rank ear-splitting yells low in the hierarchy of awkward sex noises.
Consider the Golden Retriever Method. This tactic denies years of human development by reverting back to animalistic panting and breathing. The effect is as if the individual has been chasing tennis balls across the yard all day.
Further up the totem pole of sexual cacophony, Labored Moaners redefine the mixed message. When you encounter a Labored Moaner, it will issue an agonized sigh and leave its partner confused as to whether the moaner is at the height of orgasm or suffering from a flesh-eating virus. Forgoing intelligible phrases, they create sounds suggesting every thrust is bringing them closer to a slow and painful end.
Sufferers of Broken Record Syndrome seem to get off by repeating themselves with ever increasing fervor and enthusiasm. Females are particularly susceptible to the syndrome because repetitive sounds are easy to fake without interrupting mental replays of Gilmore Girls.
Finally, Dirty Talkers have become infamous for their unusual and uncomfortable bedroom demeanor. A vocal minority, Dirty Talkers provide the primary source of fodder for fraternity listservs and sexual tall tales. With few unifying characteristics, they are difficult to identify outside the bedroom.
Faced with the alternatives, I'll gladly embrace my screamer lifestyle. That being said, I should probably respect the bedroom (or the cruise ship) as the only social arena where we can say whatever we please. Given that our public lives are circumscribed by a code of political correctness that censors our basic instincts, the things we express with our clothes off may be the only real things we say all day. So, I plan to keep screaming. You, on the other hand, should buy some ear plugs.
Brooke Hartley is a Trinity junior. Her column runs every other Thursday.
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