GUYS. Sexting? Is awesome. I am a HUGE fan of sexting. *Disclaimer: If you are a teenaged girl, please do not send naked pictures of yourself to your boyfriend. Teen boys are helpless douche-nozzles, especially when it comes to boobies. It’s not their fault. They are biologically obligated to show their friends, and YOUR NAKED PICTURE WILL END UP ON THE INTERNET FOREVER. Just don’t do it.*
Anyway, I, a fully-formed and mostly-functioning adult, love sexting. And I don’t mind telling you, I’m pretty goddamn good at it. It’s so easy, when you have the right playmate. Think about it. The only thing that needs to be looking hot or smelling fresh for me to KILL it sexting is my vast Pervertian Lexicon, which is – not gonna lie – top-shelf. I can be sending the filthiest, Penthouse Forumiest content to my cellularly intended whilst wearing flannel pajamas, coke-bottle glasses, TMJ mouthguard, tube socks, and two cats on my head, with a nosebleed. He doesn’t need to know that instead of writhing around in a vat of strippers, cherries, and coconut oil as advertised, I’m watching Saved By The Bell and eating Bugles (Witch Fingers!). Here’s why I’m so good – it’s because I actually mean it. If given the chance and the miracle of good timing, huge lady-balls, and a lawless society, I would be doing exactly what I say I’d be doing. To exactly whom I say I’d be doing it.
I am not an indiscriminate sexter. I don’t sext with anyone I wouldn’t actually have All The Sex with, given the above conditions. I am totally monogamous, sextually speaking. And there have been exactly 2.5 people with whom I’ve sexted over the course of a decade or so. It’s fun. It’s secret. It’s clean. I don’t *do* actual Sex Outside of Relationships. Never have. It’s far too dangerous and it’s just…well, awkward. The ONE time I decided I’d really go wild and have totally safe, protected sex with someone who wasn’t my boyfriend or husband, the condom came off and got STUCK IN MY VAGINA FOR 24 HOURS (the thing’s like a steel trap, what can I tell you?) and I spent the entire next day – as per instructions procured on the internet – shooting warm water up there with a turkey baster and fisting myself in an effort to retrieve the lost condom without a visit to the ER. Like there’s even an insurance code for that. I made the grave mistake of sharing this – um, mishap? – with a close male friend, who still refers to me as “Old Southpaw” and swears he’ll never come for Thanksgiving.
Sexting can be a very good option for someone like me, or you! Generally, sexting is a lot cleaner, and not just bio-hazard-wise. It’s emotionally cleaner as well. It could be someone you haven’t seen in years, or as is the case with my most recent sexting partner, someone you know well enough to trust with your naked selfies, but don’t really *know.* There’s nothing to lose, really. It’s the whole point. You can see them however you want to see them, or however their Facebook photo album wants you to see them – and vice versa. There’s no backne or halitosis or sauerkraut BO on his end to contend with, and frankly, you don’t have to wax or aerate or hide your wobbly bits in order to get handily rogered via sext. You don’t have to worry about accidentally farting in the middle of it, or accidentally farting in your sleep afterwards, or accidentally farting in the morning when you pee in his bathroom because you’ve held in the fart all fucking night long and it just slips out because it won’t freaking wait any longer and FUUUUUCKKPPLEASETELLMEHEDIDNOTJUSTHEARTHAT (he totally did). Sexting is virtually worry free in the Fart Department. Fart away! He’ll never know. And all the while, YOU know it’s all an illusion. And your heart is as safe as your lady business.
But what happens when, at like, 1:30 in the afternoon on a Tuesday, you find yourself wondering what kind of sandwich he might get for lunch that day? Or how many brothers and sisters he has, or what makes him laugh – really laugh, from the belly – not just LOL, as evidenced by the yellow emoticon indicating hilarity. What happens when you realize that you almost just actually water-shat your pants when he texted unexpectedly because you have managed to work yourself and your stomach up into such school-girly knots over him that your bowels are no longer your own? What happens when you find yourself reasoning that the ridiculous age difference between you or the geographical impossibilities of your arrangement or the fact that you have good reason to suspect he might be a Republican are nothing but mild nuisances? What happens when you realize – to your abject horror – that you actually LIKE him? For fuckssake, then what?! This was not part of the plan. You never like anybody. WTF?
How would that GO, anyway, for argument’s sake? I mean, how would one even begin to move the conversation in that direction? “Baby, I will make you a nutritionally sound breakfast SO hard.” Or, “You can watch while I slowwwwly pull up to the curb, take off my seatbelt, and pick up your mother for her optometrist appointment. Mmmm…” Or, “I am soooooooo hot right now, babe. I think it’s the pre-menopause.” Yeah, it’s awkward. Not to mention the fact that the only way to find out if your cursed “feelings” are mutual is to risk a) cocking up a perfectly thermonuclear tickle party in your pants and b) getting really hurt and terribly embarrassed – which defies the Ultimate and Universal Law of Sexting: It’s Just Sext, You Idiot.
Plus, HE OBVIOUSLY SMELLS LIKE SAUERKRAUT. He has to. He just has to.
The problem is, of course, that once you *feel* something, you can’t really just *unfeel* it. You’ve crossed a line, and the course goes in one direction all the way to the end of the story. The options are few: carry on as is and pretend you don’t care while you water-shit your pants every time you hear from him, or fess the fuck up. Great. Death by Krazy Glue sounds better than either of those. So I ask you, dear readers: Why is it so much easier to say, “Baby, I am gonna ___ your ___ until you ___ and then I’m gonna ___ while you ___ my ___,” than it is to say, “Hey, I kinda like you. For real.” ??? (I confess, I have no idea what to do with that, grammatically. Which is upsetting.) Finally, there is the choice just to stop. Disappear into the ether, never to be sexted from again. And that’s the worst one of all. But it’s the one I will probably choose, if I’m being honest. Unless he happens to read this post, in which case I will most likely just kill myself.
So sext away, friends. Sext away. Strengthen those thumbs and get good at taking naked selfies. But make no mistake: however disengaged you intend to remain, however detached you assume your tech-only affair will keep you – your heart is not, in fact, as safe as your lady business. Take it from this intrepid sexter, who for once finds herself deep in a pickle for her cause, and not the other way around. Way to go, ass-hat. Way to go.