"That's disgusting," says squirming Jack Shaftoe, but not with any great conviction: Jack Sparrow's heard greater sincerity from his love on a number of matters, including but not limited to rum, efficacy of as a tool of Seduction; Imp, corporeality, ethereality or wholly imaginary nature of; Jack Sparrow himself, his wit, good looks, general and specific desirability -- all right, Shaftoe's tone's been sarcastic, often as not, but many a true word spoken in jest, eh? -- and his, Jack Sparrow's, many talents and accomplishments in carnal matters, as now when (with his tongue teasing hotly into Shaftoe's wonderfully nerve-laced flesh) Jack draws back just enough to murmur, "de gustibus non est disputandum, eh?" to which Shaftoe responds with an irritable writhe and a demand for Jack to speak plainly, "an' not with your mouth full, either," he appends, somewhat raggedly, as Jack takes the opportunity to swipe his tongue 'round the ruffled, creased skin of Shaftoe's testicle: "de gustibus," repeats Jack with a final lick, propping himself up on his elbows and gazing up the sweaty, tanned length of Shaftoe's torso to the white glint of his smile, the blue glint of his gaze, the redness of that mouth that's presently so very under-utilised, idle when it could be tasting Jack the way that Jack's tasting its owner, "non est disputandum," finishes Jack, with a wicked grin that dares Shaftoe to admit his ignorance -- never a commodity of which Jack Shaftoe, who owns it in abundance, is visibly 'shamed, though he's greedy for new knowledge (and not just of the delicious depravities that can be visited by one man 'pon another, an arena in which Jack, still, is confident of his intellectual superiority) and happy enough to discover whole new continents of enigma that open up, from time to time, through something that presents itself to Shaftoe's eyes, or mind, or heart -- and simultaneously invites him to counter the challenge with some other argument: and Jack's not disappointed (another characteristic of Jack Shaftoe, that: he never disappoints Jack in any way at all, though that's not to say that Jack's not frequently surprised, and not infrequently infuriated, by him) when Shaftoe leers down at him, and says, "I shan't dispute about disgust, Captain Sparrow: far be it from me to claim that the, haw, gusto with which you molest the less salubrious parts of my anatomy is in any way forced or falsified, though I have to say it ain't to my taste;" to which Jack Sparrow, caught between admiration of the sheer agility of Shaftoe's unlettered mind (drawing out the sense of Jack's Latin, though Jack'd lay he'd never had it beaten into him) and the nudge and swell of the man's half-a-cock 'gainst Jack's throat, is inclined to offer a multiplicity of arguments, examples and demonstrations, but not 'til he's put his mouth to Shaftoe's Remnant and felt the waxy scar-tissue, tasted the salty musk of Shaftoe's skin: only then, temporarily satisfied (a state that's only ever temporary where Jack Shaftoe's concerned), can he lift his mouth, and lick his lips slowly and deliberately -- which wins a slow blink and a smile from Shaftoe -- and say, "Well, Mr Shaftoe, gusto's certainly the word for the fervour with which I indulge that particular sense, being taste, in your company, and though I reckon you like it well enough when it's my tongue busy in your arse --"; "as opposed," interrupts Shaftoe merrily, "to your tongue busy with all these learned words;" "you like it well enough when it's me tasting you, Jack," insists Jack Sparrow, "whether it's that earthy heat," he demonstrates with a slick finger, and wishes -- not for the first time -- that he could taste Jack Shaftoe with every inch of his skin (though, come to think of it, there's less delectable flavours he might thus savour, such as mouldy sailcloth, rat corpses, Tortugan tavern fare: but why think on disgust, when its opposite is here in his bed?) "just there -- seasoned most palatably, I must say, by a certain sauce I've recently delivered -- or the proliferous piquancy of your own emissions, Mr Shaftoe, when I do thus and thus," which brief interlude, Jack's fingers and mouth, and even some other portions of his anatomy, concertedly busy 'pon Shaftoe's corpus, wrings no protest whatsoever from Jack Shaftoe (unless that groaned "O Jack, mmm, yes," could somehow be considered as complaint) "or the, oh, the taste of your sweat, Jack, all yeast and salt and musk," and Jack licks a long wet stripe from Shaftoe's hip-bone up to the tangled reddish snarl of his armpit, provoking a laughing moan, "or the taste of your kiss," and Shaftoe pretends aversion, pressing his lips together 'gainst the gentle invasion of Jack's tongue, but can't pretend it either prolongedly or convincingly when his hips are rocking up against Jack's, his half-a-cock pressed against Jack's whole, and soon he's opened wide and is kissing Jack back; his mouth tastes of oranges and salt and spice from their dinner, and more vividly of Jack's own seed, served up as a kind of savoury dessert (Jack laughs into Shaftoe's mouth at the thought of such a menu, and is bitten gently for this evidence of distraction and / or mockery), and Jack's most greedily eager for the next course, though he does truly intend to explain his Argument to Jack Shaftoe, even as a more physical Argument develops in a more southerly location: "'tis all," he murmurs against Shaftoe's hungry mouth, "to do with taste, Jack: for there's that old Latin saying that has to do with there being no accounting for taste;" "and you're trying to tell me that I'm talking Latin when I speak of gusto, or disgust," says Shaftoe mockingly, "but I'm surprised that I have to remind you that I'm a complete illiterate, an' Latin weren't spoken in the hovels and cots of the Isle of Dogs; though I'll concede, Jack, that I'm learning ever such a lot from you, even if so very little of it's worth remembering," and Jack, bringing up his knees 'til he's stradding Shaftoe, and wondering if they can try that half-a-fuck experiment again (for it's delicious to be penetrated, or even half-penetrated, by any part of glorious urgent Jack Shaftoe), says, "I'll teach you another trick, mate, if you pass me the rum," but Shaftoe's shaking his head, grinning like a maniac, saying, "No, Jack, I'll need it myself, I fear," and before Jack can string together a suitably pointed enquiry he finds himself pushed back and down, sprawled with his head at the foot of the bed, his foot hooked over Jack Shaftoe's shoulder, all open at Shaftoe's mercy, for his delectation: and Shaftoe takes a gulp of rum, and sets the bottle aside, and leans down and Jack cries out at the stinging burn, the wicked bliss of Shaftoe's tongue where he never thought to tempt it; cries out in sheer triumph at somehow having (and he's not entirely clear, himself, on his strategy, but it's patently a successful one) persuaded Shaftoe to sample and savour this new taste of Jack.
I can't believe it's nearly six months since the most recent Language Lesson. Blame Real Life: I do.