I went out for giant margaritas on Friday with a few friends from college in celebration of Cinco de Mayo. One of my biggest fears in life is that things will never be as good as they were in college so, it was nice to spend time with old friends getting plastered and professing our love for one another.
There was an old man at the bar that reminded me of a story I told on the blog forever ago. He was old, white, wearing a boat captain’s outfit and dancing with any young vag in the room. I was kinda sad that I didn’t have it in me to volunteer my tootsie-rollin’ services.
The girls and I went to a club that hasn’t been graced with my presence since my fly and flashy 21 year old days. Ain’t shit changed.
I did hear something new when I left the club, though. A man named Tony told me I was beautiful then suggested I take down his address. When I looked at him cross-eyed he asked, “When you gon’ come see me?”. Now, as fucked up as Tony might have me, I do appreciate such a forward approach because, with a clear cut request, there’s an even clearer response: “Walk away, Tony”.
But errmahgerrd!!! I saw my internet crush on Saturday! I’ve been in love with him over Twitter for at least a year but I fear things have become too real life. Like, we’ve met. And that’s bothersome only because I suck at mystery and intrigue and subtly. You all know this! Like, if we know each other in real life, I’m going to tell him I like him (summer camp style) and ask him to make out with me behind the van. And now I’m a stupid fucking sexually active grown up who can hardly ever (never) “just” make out with someone. And once/if/when we ever have sex, all the fun is over.
Life is really hard.
On my way home from work I walked behind a couple that had their hands in each other’s back pockets. I wonder if either of them actually liked what was happening or was it all a story they’d later tell as “and all of a sudden his/her hand was on my butt”? I let someone do that to me once in a grocery store. He wasn’t my boyfriend at the time… or really, at any time. We were standing in the aisle trying to find a can of chili WITH beans (because I’m a really picky eater, duh!) and he just put his hands in my butt pockets. I let it ride for the experience.
Mastering the art of sexting takes realizing that sexting is indeed not an art. It’s so easy to get caught up in the seemingly grand moment of sending naughty notes through text because we fucked up and gave it a name. I blame MTV. Every time I think of “sexting”, I get tense with the pressure of articulating an entire porn scene via iPhone. So, why don’t we just call things as they are? What is a sext? A FREAK ASS TEXT MESSAGE. If you call it that, your brain has no way of misconstruing things and you’ll know exactly what to send. The intimidating thing about sexting is the idea that you have to be creative. With a more base and fitting name like “freak ass text”, it’s clear that almost zero creativity is involved. Get straight to the point.
Women often forget that men are easy, because we’re, obviously, so complicated (we’ll assume for now that I just mean sexually). Men are visual. All you have to do is paint them a picture. But this is probably the one time in life when you don’t want to start with a blank canvas. Build your picture on top of visuals he already has. For instance, he should know what you look like naked, right? I have not nor will I ever describe my naked body via text message. At the point of sending freak messages, said recipient should be familiar enough with the swing of these breasts that I can save my thumbs the trouble. Sending freaky messages is as simple as an “I’m naked”. With just that, I bet yours will be the most interesting message he’s gotten all day. Sexting is about intrigue. You’re not going to sit there and have text sex, are you? No. It’s about birthing naughty ideas, building excitement for later in the evening, making him hard at a work meeting, etc.
Use visuals they can easily recreate in their heads. You could say something like, “I thought about you in the shower”. Water, soap, naked body, crowd pleaser. The point is to be graphic. No need to keep things cute. If you wanna tell him he made you feel like a woman last night, do that, but this is something completely different. Sexting is not for describing sensual and more intimate moments. Sexting is for freaky shit only. And let it come naturally. Like, sometimes my laundry days are ill-timed and I’m really not wearing underwear. So, I’d tell him I’m not wearing underwear and benefit from my life as a sloth. If you thought about him bending you over the dresser, tell him that. Getting bent over things is kind of my go to image anyway so, that works for me. Desks, tables, counter tops, bar stools— boom!
I would also encourage taking advantage of the fact that sexting allows space enough for you to not be embarrassed at the things you say. Get buck wild with it. Embrace your inner ratchet. Say you want his balls in your mouth and then delete the message if you can’t stand to look at it. But I promise he will appreciate how out of (or in) character you’re willing to be.
Thoughts? Questions? Sexting 201? ASK/COMMENT
I’ll write ya a SEXURDAY ;)
Can’t say I have. Have you or are you one? What’s that life about?
I don’t know. There were times when I thought I knew. But I don’t. I’ve gotten this question a few times and I attempt to answer but…I don’t know. I’ll let you know when I find out.
I bought my very first wedding present a few weeks ago. I walked through the home goods floor of Macy’s, staring at all the bedding displays, feeling the same as I felt when I was a kid. The beds are still too big for me just not so much physically. And I still can’t afford them.
I bought my friend bowls. Because she asked for bowls. I bought her all the bowls she asked for. It was weird…’cause she asked for bowls and I’m sure if I were getting married I’d figure out some way to get these snakeskin Wang’s that haunt my dreams. And with that, I realize I’m in a whole ‘nother place in my life.
I’m forced, each time I log onto Facebook or scroll through Instagram, to evaluate what I’m doing with myself as I watch my peers get betrothed or give birth. Like, why wasn’t it me? Not that I’d be too into getting married at twenty-four but, like, it’s happening for real life people that I know and I honestly wonder WHY NOT ME?!
With this most recent birthday, I’ve come to the conclusion that dating is my plight in life. I was built for dating and as much as I complain, I enjoy it. In college, there was no such thing as a date. Now, suddenly, dudes wanna pay for my frozen yogurt and I’m into it. And really, what would I do if not for the feeling of a man’s hand on the small of my back? Not to say that finding one man’s hand isn’t the ultimate goal, but I’ve got a few willing to guide me through doorways and I’m finished not seeing the complete and utter win in that.
It may be premature but I’m loving 24. I know I’m totally Mary J. Blige-ing right now but life is good.