Pretty Lynne Writes

I rarely get called [real name].

I don’t know why, but it has always been the case. 

Even my parents don’t call me by my name. My mother has been calling me “chicken,” for as long as I can remember. Other people close to me call me a variety of nicknames. It may be because my name is a bit dated and not at all melodious; it doesn’t roll off the tongue like so many lovely names. 

Nicknames themselves are a form of affection, of course. One doesn’t get a nickname out of ambivalence. The nicknames people have given me are very special to me. They connote closeness, and belonging to an ingroup. 

In my smutty life, I am referred to as Lynne. This took some time to get used to, since it isn’t my actual name, and some people out there do know me as [real name]. 

But even then, I don’t hear Lynne that often.

When I was 18, I met a traveller on a bus in Tasmania who recommended that I read Bruce Chatwin’s work The Songlines. I fell in love with Chatwin’s books – he wrote about travel and culture and mixed in a dose of memoir and fiction, and I delighted in his ideas and way of seeing the world. 

In The Songlines, Chatwin discusses his travel through Australia and his experiences with Aboriginal people there. He recounts the theory that the first language was song, and that the first people sang the world into existence by naming all of the landmarks in songs. Those who possess traditional knowledge can still travel the songlines.

I loved the idea of singing the world into existence. I still do. Many native cultures and religious traditions, as you may know, tell the story of speaking the world into existence by naming things. Naming things gives them importance, weight, meaning, and an identity separate from other things. 

There’s something incredibly erotic about being named in quiet, private moments. The phrase, “you say my name,” comes up often in my erotic stories. It’s a turning point for characters; the point at which they begin to tune their bodies and senses to their partners. It’s like a hand drawing you close, hearing your name from your lover. Hearing it moaned is even more beautiful. 

I used to participate in a spicy poetry activity some Saturdays, and one week the prompt was “when you say my name.” I don’t write very good poetry on a good day, but this prompt completely stumped me. I couldn’t write anything that expressed how vital this concept is to me, how arousing I find it to hear my name in intimate moments. 

I have written before about my difficulty using figurative language, that I struggle with flowery imagery, and that I tend to write plainly. I could not think of an analogy or metaphor for hearing my name from a lover’s lips.

“Hearing my name makes me feel good” makes for a boring poem. 

What I did with this prompt was make a pillow talk audio about wanting to feel close with someone. It makes an appearance on Literotica today. 

To make a point of using someone’s name is to say “I see you,” to pay attention to them, to let them know they matter. It can be a way to take control, or to express submission. It can be pleading, or teasing, or plaintive. 

One thing is for sure: at the right moment, it is sexy as hell.