Miscommunication Wilts the Willy

Few things throw a wrench in the cog of eroticism more than miscommunication. There you are — or I am, as the case may be — lying sprawled across the bed on my back, a lovely minx between my legs, tending passionately to my cock with her mouth. Oh, the pleasure is intense — and rising. In the heat of the moment, despite entering a place where language no longer functions, I manage to moan or mumble or murmur: "Oh, yeah, lick my balls."

She, of course, can't hear me: she's got a cock ramming in and out of her mouth. So, polite interlocutor that she is, she removes said cock, looks up, and asks: "What?"

The moment is gone. My willy wilts.