6 Unfortunate Things You Should Know About Sexting With Me
I love a good sexting romp. Low effort, lots of flattery. Sexting requires zero actual physical nonsense to worry about. There is no anxiety-producing pre-sex date scenario, no awkward un-hooking of the bra. The magic is all up in our heads, and the imagination is a sexy sexy tool. The back-and-forth cadence, the long-distance sex poetry- it’s a beautiful thing. But I take the low-effort aspect pretty seriously. Here’s the truth about my general situation when you are sexting with me.
I am wearing not only ALL my clothes, but unflattering ones. My default truth-stretch regarding sexting wardrobe is to say that I’m wearing a tshirt and nothing else. Sexy image, right? A lady sitting around, totally nude except a flimsy, soft t-shirt. Very Mary Ann, girl-next door. I know it conjures up a good picture. In reality, my modal outfit of of choice when sitting home alone is my oversized “Trust me I’m a doctor” t-shirt paired with shorts made from cut-off Christmas pajama pants. This is a legitimate outfit, I can provide photographic proof.
I am also eating string cheese and pickles, and watching a National Geographic documentary about mastodons. I have too many attention-deficit issues to sit around in the buff, getting cold and just waiting for your lurid replies. As a busy modern-type woman, I am first and foremost a multitasker, and thus you will always be getting only about 17% of my cognitive load (no pun intended). There are far too many B-list 90s sitcoms on Netflix for me to focus solely on you, darling.
You should also know that regardless of where I am sexting you from, ⅔ of the time I will be eating. It is likely to be something processed, like a gas-station burrito.
Whenever you think the I am long-distance-masturbating along with ya: I’m totally not. I am flattered by your enthusiasm. How can I say ‘no’ when you ask if I’m touching myself yet? You’re working so hard over there, it’s just so darn cute. I get that you are excited about the idea of us simultaneously jacking off. I’m sorry to break it to you, at best you are getting my nipples at half-mast. I’m all for masturbation, but on my own time, with my own tools, and without your nonsense talk about pussy slapping. (Seriously, who LIKES that?)
I am blatantly lying about how easy it is for me to get off. When you talk about how excited you are to molest me senselessly into climax, I am stifling a yawn and taking another nom of my string cheese-pickle sandwich. In reality, you would spend 10 minutes with your face between my legs, treating me like a dog would treat spilled turkey juice, while I clench my fists and try to think about naked Game of Thrones characters. After a cunnilingus fail, you will put a penis in my vagina parts and receive a skeptical look when you mention “g spot.”
I am really not that excited about putting your penis in my mouth. I don’t want to be a downer (pun intended?), so sure, I’ll pretend to be as excited about fellatio as you want me to be. It would be a total mood killer for me to respond with my gut “Meh” when you inquire about how much I like swallowing the salami. I’m not saying I won’t do it, or even that I don’t like it. Heck, with a small enough penis, it’s pretty darn easy, like a throat culture. I’m just saying there better be a shit-ton of cuddling in it for me. Post-coital cuddling, and a ball-sweat free situation down there. That’s all I really ask.
That picture of my boobs? I didn’t just take that for you. It was taken 6 months ago and sent to my entire roller derby team. For a myriad of reasons, it is more gratifying to send a nudie pic to a swarm of responsive, supportive women than one moderately hairy man. 90% of my nudie pics (yes, I keep quite a few on hand) were taken for girls with pretty eyes and athletic prowess. There is something empowering about getting physical validation from an individual who shares the same parts. It’s like how straight dudes feel like champs when homosexual men hit on them. And again, as I mentioned that I am generally fully-clothed when sexting, I have all the more reason to rely on my substantial, female-driven archive.
I want to end each one of these points with a frowny face, as I realize I am being a colossal bummer. The fact is, I DO enjoy your sexting and am inner-squealy about all of the positive attention you are giving me. I’ll even respond to your sexts with the requisite “yay!”
I wouldn’t trade your sexts for the world, Boy, and in fact, I will encourage them, like you, to keep coming. I like knowing that I’m making you happy and that we are hopefully generating some killer mojo for the times when we do get to hang out together (without our Christmas pants). And you know, I would be willing to bet that you are doing some exaggerating over there on your side too. Like when you say that you just got back from jogging and are all hot and salty? I assume that in reality, you just have meat sweats from an Arby’s binge. Let’s keep the beautiful lies going, my dear. I’ll see you in the Matrix.
You should follow Thought Catalog on Twitter here.
A | A | A
It is so much more simple to say, “Stop caring what a man thinks, ladies, you’re beautiful as you are,” than to address all of the myriad reasons why that likely doesn’t apply to her.
These discourses, these models of life, are insidious, egregious, and soul crushing.
I cannot see the middle of a relationship at the beginning, but I can see the end from the middle. I know that there will be an end. There has to be. This is just a stop on the road.
I could walk to Celebrate Brooklyn all summer along. I’d learn how to start running. I’d eat meals of happy chickens at the commune across the street.