Remember those cute little “I love you” notes your high school girlfriend would stick inside your locker? How endearing were those? Just her way of letting you know you’re always on her mind. Sometimes there might even be a naughty little hint included and off you’d go to last period, your mind drifting in and out of your girlfriend’s orifices while your lesbian Chemistry teacher with her little boy haircut drones on about ionic and covalent bonds. Huh? What? Oh, the difference between ionic and covalent bonds? I don’t know, Dykebert Boyle, I’m fantasizing about 16-year-old cooch over here. I know you can relate to that, so cut me some goddamned slack, huh?
Well, that was all once upon a time. Now it’s 2013 and the average 12-year-old knows what DVDA stands for (double vaginal / double anal, for those of you 11 and under). So, yes, of course I want you to sext me. Sexts are the “I love you” locker notes of the 2010s. Yeah, yeah, cartoon hearts and a little innuendo on a Post-it used to get the job done, but so did slave labor. It’s a new dawn, it’s a new day, and it better be at least full frontal for me if you’re trying to get me to give a fuck.
How will I know you care without an incoming pic on my phone of you fingering your own asshole in the mirror? There’s a new measuring stick for emotion in this technological age. The deeper inside your vagina I’m able to see, the deeper I’ll know your love is for me. What is this? One titty? That’s all you’re dropping on me on a late Wednesday morning? You don’t even care anymore. You used to fit your full anus and vagina, both juggs, a substantial portion of your ass, a big smile, and your pet Beagle all into a single sext shot. Now it’s a single tit and some half-hearted smoochie lips? i thnk we shld c othr ppl. SEND.
And no, of course I don’t want any non-nude pics from you. Jesus fuck. Between your Facebook, your Twitter, your Instagram, and whatever other self-aggrandizing mechanisms exist for you remind yourself that you exist via relentless self-photography, why in the non-nude hell would I ever need to see another photo of you that could be posted on websites not requiring age verification? You act like enough of an asshole with all the frivolous texts you already send and wonder as to why I never respond, now text me a photo of your actual asshole already. At least that’s mildly interesting. I don’t care that you just got out of work – I care about your girl holes remaining the focus of our communication. When that “downloading media” screen flashes across my phone, I expect a penetrable orifice to appear, not a solicitation for my opinion on how some low-IQ-cut jeans from TJ Maxx look in the dressing room mirror. They’ll be indistinguishable from all your other jeans once they’re around your ankles and I’m looking at what you should have sent me in the first place.
I’ll be honest about this whole sexting thing. The first sext you send me is the beginning of the end of our “relationship.” Once you cross the sexting threshold and beam your digitized tits and vagina off of a satellite in outer space and back down to my phone, you set a certain precedent. That precedent being; from here on out, at least once a week, I expect a new photograph of your genitals to appear on my phone. And each time, the ante must be upped. But there’s only so far you can take sexting, and once it reaches its apex – that being self-digital penetration of both holes… insertion of foreign objects is never sexy – we’ve quickly reached the point of my diminishing genital blood flow. I’m bored with you. Sure, it was great for the four weeks worth of incoming nudes that genuinely excited me, but, ultimately, nothing makes me think about your vagina less than constant photographic access to your vagina. The mystique wanes rapidly. I come over, take your pants off, and what do I see? The same vagina that’s been clogging up my phone all week. You don’t mind if I put my phone on your pelvis and look at pictures of this new chick’s vagina while I eat your boring old one, do you?
Sext me. I want you to sext me. It would delight me to field your sexts. But – just a word of advice – you absolutely shouldn’t sext me. Not if you don’t want to be on the clock. Not if you don’t want the entire rise and fall of our sexual potential to transpire well inside the waiting period for a herpes test. Which I don’t have, by the way. Which I don’t think I have, by the way. Make your life easier, don’t waste your effort Yoga-posing all of your holes into frame, and vastly expand the sustainability of your desirability by not sexting me. But, still… sext me. ttyl ;)