"Why did I tell you to do it? Because it makes me cum hard," Dirk replies immediately, his mouth operating on a line of processing inaccessible to his conscious control. There's some other kind of function leading his words, a series of choices he's making that make sense until he makes them. Like the conversation he'd like to have had, the words he'd like to use and the explanations and theories he'd like to give, simply don't exist. Not for him. He's noticed this about himself, accepted it a long time ago. But it burns in his chest with everything he can't say or think or be or do.

"As for why I can't get off unless I'm on some sicko shit, the answer is 'there's a lot of science behind why that is' but it boils down to the fact that I'm twisted by nature and perverted by nurture and if that makes you feel ill, then congratulations, you're probably healthy. It's normal to get into stuff that you were exposed to before you're actually ready for sex. But I've been--like, that's not even the bad shit. I've tried to keep things pretty--uh. Pretty excusable. So I know. So don't apologise. It's repulsive, I get that. I do. I'm. Aware."