Full text of the trance, with the time each section begins. Stage directions and pauses are left out.
Before we begin
Before we begin, a short note. Don’t listen to this while driving, operating machinery, or anywhere you need to stay alert. This recording is for adults. It talks openly about desire, and about the words people use in bed, without getting graphic. It doesn’t replace therapy or medical care. Find a time and a place where nobody needs you, ideally somewhere you could whisper without being overheard. Later on you’ll be invited to try a few words, quietly. Every one of those invitations is optional. And if at any point you need to be fully awake, you can be, right away. Open your eyes, press your feet into the floor, and say your name out loud. Nothing here ties you to this voice, and nothing here can be switched on by anyone else. What you take from it belongs to you.
There is no script
Most people who freeze up when it comes to dirty talk have the same problem. They think there’s a script. Some list of the right things to say, and they don’t know it, so their mind goes blank. Or worse, they reach for something they’ve heard somewhere, and it comes out sounding like somebody else. Here’s the thing. There is no script. The best things anyone has ever said in bed weren’t clever. They were true. Somebody noticed something real, in the moment, and said it out loud, in their own voice. That’s what a dirty mind actually is. Not a head full of filthy lines. A mind that notices what it wants, and lets that show. And dirty talk is just that mind, out loud. So today you won’t be memorising anything. You’ll be finding out that the words are already there. If some part of you feels a little embarrassed just hearing this, good. That part is welcome. It’ll learn something too. For now, get comfortable, and let your hands rest wherever they like.
Going in: one spot, one breath
You can begin with your eyes open, resting on one spot a little above eye level. Anything will do. And as your eyes rest there, you can hear my voice. And as you hear my voice, you can hear the quiet underneath it, the small sounds of the room. And as you hear those sounds, you can notice your own breath, going in and out by itself. It’s interesting how much your body already does without being asked. It breathes. It swallows. It keeps your heart going. It even makes the words when you talk, all those tiny movements of the tongue and lips, and you never have to think about any of them. And your eyes are getting a little more tired of that spot. Maybe they blink. Maybe the edges soften. Maybe the spot swims a little, or stays perfectly still. All of that is right. And when they’re ready, in their own time, your eyes can close. That’s it. And every breath out from here takes you a little further in.
Warmth, from the feet to the hips
Let your attention travel down to your feet. Just notice them. Where they are. What they’re touching. And as you notice them, maybe they get warmer. Not hot. Just warm, the way your feet feel under a blanket on a cold evening. That warmth can spread into your ankles. Your calves. Long muscles letting go. Up through your knees, into your thighs. The warmth gets fuller there, heavier, slower. Into your hips. Your pelvis. The whole lower half of your body, settling into whatever is holding it. And you might notice that warmth has a way of moving where attention goes. You look at a place, and it warms. You stay there, and it warms a little more. Your belly softens. Every breath out, softer. Every breath in, a little more room. Warm, or getting warmer, or simply quiet. Whatever you feel is exactly right.
Chest, throat, mouth
The warmth climbs into your chest. Your chest rises and falls, and each time it falls, it falls a little further. Your shoulders can drop. Your arms grow heavy and warm, all the way down to your hands. And now your throat. This is a place most people hold tight without knowing it. It’s where words get stuck. Where a sentence turns around and goes back down. Let it open. Let it soften, the way it does just before a yawn. You might even feel like swallowing. Go ahead. Your jaw unclenches. Your tongue lies soft and heavy in your mouth. Your lips part a little, or stay closed, whichever is easier. And the small muscles around your eyes stop watching, stop checking, stop scanning. An open throat. A soft mouth. A warm body. Nothing to say yet. Nothing to get right.
Noticing the change
And you may already notice that something has shifted. Maybe your body feels heavier, or warmer, or further away. Maybe the sounds in the room have faded, or become oddly clear. Maybe time has gone a little strange. Or maybe you just feel calm and ordinary, and that is often exactly how it feels. Whatever you notice is your sign. It’s working. And it keeps working while you listen, and while you drift, and even while you stop listening for a while.
The staircase
Now imagine a staircase. Wooden stairs, worn smooth, going down into a room where the light is low and warm, the way light is late in the evening when someone has turned the lamps on and the day is over. Somewhere down there, music is playing quietly. You can’t quite make it out yet. In a moment you’ll walk down, one step at a time, and with every step you go deeper. Ten. Your hand on the rail. Down. Nine. The air is warmer here. Eight. The music a little closer. Seven. Each step easier than the last. Six. Deeper. Five. Halfway. Nothing to hurry for. Four. The light is gold now. Three. Down. Two. Almost there. One. And you’re in the room. Soft light. Low music. A place where nobody is watching, and nobody is keeping score.
Deeper, and quiet
And from here, it can deepen by itself. The warmer you feel, the deeper you go. And the deeper you go, the warmer you feel. Every word I say takes you further in. Every breath out takes you further in. And the words you miss, the ones that drift past while you’re somewhere else, take you in as well. There’s no wrong way to do this. Some part of you is listening, and that part knows what to keep. I’ll be quiet for a little while now. Just stay in this room, and let it hold you. I’ll be back.
How you learned to talk
A long time ago, you couldn’t talk at all. You made sounds. Little noises, bubbles, nonsense. And the people around you didn’t wince. They leaned in. They were delighted by every sound you made, because every sound meant you were trying. And then one day a sound became a word. Probably not a perfect one. Half a word. The wrong word. And someone laughed with joy, and you said it again. Nobody gave you a script. Nobody handed you a list of correct sentences. You listened, you played, you got things wrong, and somewhere along the way, without noticing when, you could talk. And here’s what’s interesting. Your unconscious mind still remembers exactly how that works. How a mouth finds a sound before it knows what the sound means. How a feeling in the body looks for a word, and finds one, and tries it out. You’ve learned to speak once already, all on your own. And something that has been learned once can be learned again, in a new way, much faster.
A second language
And there’s a particular kind of language that most people never learned properly. Nobody taught it at the dinner table. Nobody practised it with you. So when the moment comes, a lot of people discover they’re trying to speak a language they’ve only ever heard in films, with an accent they’re embarrassed about, using phrases that don’t feel like theirs. It’s like being dropped in a foreign city with a phrasebook. You say the line exactly as written, and it sounds stiff, and everyone can tell. But you know what happens if you stay in a city long enough. You stop translating. One evening you’re tired and happy, and you say something without thinking, and it’s right. Not perfect. Right. And later you realise you dreamed in that language. The language of desire is like that. It isn’t learned from a phrasebook. It’s learned by living in it. By listening to what your body is already saying, and letting a few of those words slip out, in your own accent. And your accent is the best part. It’s the part nobody else can fake.
The shyness can stay
And maybe your conscious mind has some opinions about all this. Maybe it feels a little shy. A little exposed. Maybe it remembers a time a word came out wrong, or it imagines someone laughing, or going quiet, or looking at you strangely. That’s fine. Your conscious mind can feel as shy as it likes. And while it feels shy, your unconscious mind can get on with something else entirely. Because your unconscious already knows what you want. It has always known. It has noticed every glance you liked, every touch that made you catch your breath, every voice that did something to you. It kept all of that, quietly, somewhere warm. And you don’t have to decide which part of you is right. The shy part can stay. It can even keep you good company, a little colour in the cheeks, a smile you can’t quite hide. Because a little shyness, mixed with wanting, isn’t a problem. It’s one of the most attractive things there is. It tells the other person that this matters to you. So the shyness can stay. It just doesn’t get to hold the door shut anymore.
The deepest room
And now you notice a second staircase at the far side of the room. Shorter. Darker wood. It goes down to a smaller room, even quieter, even warmer. Let’s go there now. Five. Down. The music settles into the walls. Four. Warmer. Slower. Three. Everything you’ve heard so far is sinking in. Two. You don’t need to remember any of it. It’s yours now anyway. One. The deepest, quietest room. Or just deep enough. Whichever is right for you. Rest here a moment.
The dirty mind speaks by itself
Down here, you can listen to something that’s always been running in the background. Your mind talks to itself all day. Mostly about small things. What to eat. What someone meant. What you forgot. But underneath that, there’s another voice. Quieter. Warmer. It notices the curve of a neck. The way someone laughs. A hand around a glass. It says things like, I like that. Or, look at them. Or simply, I want. Most people barely hear it. They talk over it. They’re polite to it, and then they ignore it. That voice is your dirty mind. It isn’t crude. It’s honest. And it doesn’t need to be invented, because it’s already there. And now something can happen that happens in deep trance all the time. Words can begin to rise on their own. The way, in some trances, a hand begins to write by itself, and the writer just watches. You don’t have to choose the words. You don’t have to check them. You just let them come up, like bubbles in warm water, one at a time. And your conscious mind can sit back and watch, curious, as if someone else were speaking.
Inside
So let someone be here with you. Someone you choose. An adult who wants you, and whom you want. Maybe someone real, maybe someone your mind puts together just for tonight. Let them be close. Close enough to feel the warmth coming off their skin. Don’t do anything yet. Just notice. The way they breathe. Where they’re looking. What their hands are doing. What you like. And notice what your dirty mind says about it. Not what you think you should say. What it actually says. Maybe it’s very simple. You look good. Come here. I’ve been thinking about you all day. Maybe it’s something only you would say, about something only you have noticed. Let one sentence rise, and hear it inside, in your own voice. Not mine. Yours. And notice how it feels to hear yourself think it. Maybe a little warm. Maybe a little shy. Maybe both. All of that is part of it.
Lips, then a whisper
Now, if you’d like to, let that sentence move a little closer to the surface. Let your lips move with it, silently. No sound. Just the shape of the words. That’s all. You’ve just said something you wanted to say, with your body, and nothing bad happened. The room is still here. You’re still here. And if you’d like to go one step further, you can whisper it. Just breath, with the words riding on it. Quiet enough that only the person next to you could hear. Or keep it inside. Or move your lips again. Whatever you chose just now is exactly the right step for today. And notice your voice on the whisper. A little lower than usual. A little slower. That’s the voice. That’s the one people lean in for. Not a performance. Just your breath, carrying something true.
Half aloud
And one more step, only if you want it. Choose the simplest sentence of all. Something like, I want you. Or, come here. Or, don’t stop. Whichever one is yours. And let it come out half aloud. Not loud. Just enough that you can hear your own voice in the room. However that went, it went right. Maybe your voice came out lower than you expected. Maybe it cracked a little. Maybe you smiled, or laughed. Laughing is good. People who can laugh in bed are almost never creepy, and they’re very rarely boring. And maybe you didn’t say anything out loud at all, and just noticed that you could have. That counts too. Your unconscious knows the way now. You’ve done the thing most people never do. You heard your own voice say what you want. And the world didn’t end. It got a little warmer.
The voice
And the voice that carries those words has a few secrets of its own. It’s slower than your everyday voice. Not dragging. Just unhurried, the way you talk when there’s nowhere else you’d rather be. It’s a little lower, because it comes from further down, from the chest and the belly, instead of from the throat. It leaves a small gap before the word that matters. I want. And a breath. You. And it leaves a little silence after, so the words have somewhere to land. Most people rush to fill that silence. You can let it hang there, warm, and let the other person feel it. And it lets the breath be heard. A breath before a word is a way of saying, this costs me something. This is real. You don’t need to practise any of this. Your unconscious has been listening to voices it liked for your whole life. It knows how they sounded. And it can simply start to borrow from all of them, until the result is entirely yours.
Noticing, not performing
And now that the words can come, there’s a quieter skill underneath them. The difference between dirty talk that lands and dirty talk that makes someone wince has very little to do with the words themselves. It has to do with where the words come from. Words that come from a script are about the speaker. They’re aimed at the other person. Words that come from noticing are about the moment. They include the other person. So you keep your attention on them. How their breath changes when you say something. Whether they lean in, or go still, or smile against your neck. One sentence. Then a pause. Let it land. Let them answer, with a sound, with their body, with words of their own. And then you follow them. If they warm up, you can go a little further. If they go quiet in the good way, you can stay there. And if something doesn’t fit, you notice that too, and you soften, and you ask. Asking can be very hot. Do you like that? Tell me. More? A good question is one of the most intimate things you can say.
The dimmer
And there’s a rhythm to it, like turning up a dimmer switch rather than flicking on the big light. It can start with something you’d almost say in public. You look good tonight. I like your mouth. And it can grow from there, a little at a time, as the evening grows. Their words are the best guide. When they say something, give it back to them, a little warmer. When they make a sound, tell them you heard it. I love that sound. Do that again. You’re not delivering a speech. You’re having a conversation in a language made of breath and touch and a few words. And the most powerful words are usually the plainest ones. Their name, said slowly. Yes. Just like that. Look at me. Said in that lower, slower voice, from a place that actually means it, those simple words do more than any clever line ever could. And your unconscious can keep learning this, every time you’re close to someone, without you having to think about it at all.
Time drifts forward
And now, while you rest down here, time can do something a little unusual. It can drift forward. Not because I tell you how far. Just far enough. Some weeks. Some months. To a time when all of this has already settled in. And you can find yourself there, somewhere ordinary. Making coffee. Walking somewhere. And thinking back. Because from there, from that later time, today is in the past. This recording is something you listened to a while ago. And quite a lot has happened since then. You don’t need to know the details yet. You can let them arrive by themselves, the way memories do, a little at a time. A picture here. A sound there.
A memory from the future
And from there, looking back, you might remember a particular evening. Someone close to you. The light low. And at some point, without planning it, you said something. You don’t even remember deciding to. It just came out, warm and plain and true, in that lower voice. And you remember their face. The small intake of breath. The way they pulled you closer, or laughed, or said something back that made your whole body go warm. And maybe you remember thinking, afterwards, that was me. I said that. And it was easy. Maybe it wasn’t only one evening. Maybe there were several. Small moments. A word here, a sentence there, a question whispered at exactly the right time. And somewhere along the way, it stopped being something you were working on. It became something you just do. Part of how you are with someone you want.
The line that missed
And you might also remember a moment that didn’t go perfectly. A sentence that came out wrong. Too much, or too soon, or just plain clumsy. And there was a little pause, and for half a second the old embarrassment started to rise. And then one of you laughed. And you laughed too. And you said something like, okay, that came out wrong, come here. And somehow that was the moment everything got closer. Because that’s the thing nobody tells you. A word that misses isn’t a disaster. It’s a chance to show that you’re a real person, paying attention, who can laugh and adjust and keep going. People don’t fall for perfect lines. They fall for someone who’s actually there. And you remember how easy it was to recover. How little it mattered. How the evening went on, warmer than before. And from that later place, you know something you didn’t know before. That you’re allowed to get it wrong. And that getting it wrong, and staying warm, is part of getting it right.
Who you are then
And from that later place, you can notice what changed in how you see yourself. Let these sound inside you, in your own voice, as things you already know. Keep the ones that fit. I say what I want. My voice belongs in the room. I don’t need the right words. I have my words. I notice, and I say it. When I’m shy, I say it anyway, and the shyness makes it sweeter. And maybe a sentence of your own arrives now. Plain, simple, yours. Let it settle next to the others. These aren’t hopes. From where you’re standing, later on, they’re just a description of how things are.
Back with the knowing
And now you can drift back to today, to this warm room, carrying the knowing with you. The details of that later time can stay soft and vague, the way dreams do. You don’t need them. What comes back with you is the feeling of it already being done. The sense of having been there. And the strange thing about remembering the future is that it quietly starts arranging the present. The way a path through a field makes it easier for the next person to walk the same way. Your unconscious has seen where this goes. It knows the way. And it can lead, while your conscious mind simply comes along, a little surprised, a little pleased.
In the days to come
And sometime in the coming days or weeks, in a moment you don’t know about yet, you might notice something. You’ll be close to someone you want, and a word will come out before you’ve had time to check it. And afterwards you’ll realise it was exactly right. Or you’ll catch yourself just about to swallow a sentence, and then, with a small smile, you’ll say it instead. Or you’ll notice the opposite. That you’re about to say something that isn’t really yours, something borrowed, and you’ll let it go, and say the plainer, truer thing. Any of those will do. They all mean the same thing. And all of this belongs to the intimate moments you choose, with people who have chosen you. At work, on the street, with strangers who haven’t asked, your words stay where they always were. The dirty mind keeps its own company until it’s invited. That’s part of what makes it so good when it is.
Coming back together
And now it’s time to come back up, bringing all of you with you. The warmth, the words, the voice you found, those belong to the moments you choose for them. They wait for you, like music you can put on whenever you want it. What comes with you everywhere is something simpler. A throat that’s a little more open. A voice that’s a little more yours. And you’re you. Your own name. Your own age. The room you’re in, the day it is today. The weight of your body on whatever is holding you. Your feet, wherever they are. And now the stairs are there again, and you begin to climb, easily, one step at a time, toward the surface.
Coming back up
I’ll count from one up to five. With every number you come back a little more, and on five your eyes open and you’re fully awake, clear, and alert. One. Climbing. Your breath gets a little deeper. Two. Feeling comes back into your hands and feet. Move your fingers and toes, if you like. Three. The sounds of the room. The light on the other side of your eyelids. Four. A deep breath. A stretch. Almost here. Five. Eyes open. Wide awake. Clear, alert, and back in the room. Take a moment before you get up. And if you like, say one ordinary word out loud. Anything. Hello. Notice your voice. It’s yours. Welcome back.