No Sext September lasted only until 11:45 p.m. on August 31st. My original plan was to—originally—go the whole month without sending a single sext, a sort of Lenten discipline to curb my entirely postmodern dependency.
Did I say dependency? I didn’t mean that. I don’t want anyone to think I am, or ever was, dependent on sexting. I wouldn’t faint if I went two days without sending one. This isn’t food.
All it is is the most prevalent way I use my allotted monthly data. How I willfully chose to. So when I said I was going to stop, I didn’t tremble or fret. I just decided to stop. It’s pure coincidence and entirely not my fault that on the evening preceding No Sext September, I got an unexpected text from someone who rarely, if I recall ever, sexted me. It felt rude to ignore, like if you were going to not drink one night, but your father uncorked a rare and expensive wine.
Declining would be offensive. To him and her and me. So I wrote back, and it was during a flurry of explicit exhanges that August ended and September began.
Pfft. Whatever. That didn’t count. It was Saturday night. No. Sunday morning would be the real beginning. Eight a.m., September 1st. It would be easy to start that way. Proper. Not on a Saturday night.
Because Saturday night is when I most frequently did it. Start drinking, keep drinking, then go for my phone and start messaging one or two or three or four of the four or five girls I was talking to at the time.
Which, no. No one should ever be able to mass sext, which is totally something I never did. Yes, I hit them all up at the same time. But I personalized my messages: I wanna fuck you, Sarah. I can’t wait to fuck you, Jess. I wish I were inside you, Laura. See? You see why maybe 30 days off wouldn’t be the worst idea?
I would deflect any overtures which came my way, the same way the average woman is so innately adept at deflecting unrequited digital advances, with non-sexual LOLs, obviously fake Hahahahas and generally not responding.
I caved six days later. No one took my abstinence seriously, most of all me.
Eff it. I wasn’t harming myself. This wasn’t quitting cigarettes straight up, then, after a month, purchasing a pack in a fit of frustration. This was just texting. About sex. The only awful thing it did was make me feel gross about myself. Because I’m … kind of a gross sexter?
Not gross. That sounds gross. Graphic? That sounds bad, too. Detailed. In depth. More so than the average person. Oh, fuck it. Let me just pull up an example.
“I want to spend the rest of the evening fucking you,” which isn’t even close to the worst one, it’s just the last one with the most recent person. A lady, I should add, I had no ability to have sex with that night. For when I moved last year for a job, the people with whom I sexted and occasionally slept with did not (that’s not how the economy works). But I didn’t stop my interactions. Now, instead of it being ‘Let’s talk dirty with the expectation that we will enact upon these feeling when we soon meet,’ it’s ‘tell me you want my dick because I need to be validated.’
(If there was ever time for an impish shrug emoticon…)
Why do I enjoy it so much? Well, this will sound weird, but I like it better than sex. At least, sometimes. Sex is great. I love doing it. But at the exact same time, sex requires effort and traveling to someone’s house and small talk and possibly going to the bar beforehand to have drinks, all the while thinking ‘when are we gonna fuck?’ except you can’t ask that because that’s rude and then, afterward, you have to stay an extra 20 minutes because even though you know you are leaving and they know you are leaving, you still have to pretend you don’t want to leave because the last time you put clothes on and departed almost immediately after coming, the girl texted to tell you you made her feel like a prostitute.
Now might be the time to mention I haven’t been in a relationship in over six years. Except with sexting. And sexting—sexting!–now that is fun. I can roll over and go to bed as soon as it’s over. In my own bed. But still with the knowledge that the person on the other end will or would sleep with me, which, although it isn’t actually sex, is enough to count towards my monthly masculinity score, which exists solely to tell you you are nothing if females aren’t fellating you on the reg.
Plus, I like sending pictures of my dick.
I remember my first one like it was yesterday. It wasn’t yesterday. It was six years ago this August, which means I’m due for a celebratory cupcake or something. Maybe with a candle in it.
I had myself a Samsung flip phone with a one megapixel camera and was fighting a cold. Awfully congested and a little feverish. I remember, because I started shivering when I pulled the covers down to expose my torso and thighs (and penis!) for the shot. I was sending it to my then girlfriend, who was coming to visit in a few weeks. This was my way of letting her know I wanted to bone.
Because how else would she find out?
I was so nervous. I trusted her, but this was a different time, before dick pics had pervaded our every day. Is mobile data safe to use to send these? Will someone try to hack the digital message? Such concerns.
Now, it’s just kinda rote. Basic, in summer 2014 parlance. At least to me. I guess that’s natural when you’ve sent enough shots to enough girls to write a Lou Bega parody song.
“A little pic of dick makes me your man.”
Which, it did. It was most often a prelude to screwing, which is why I kept doing it. It works, so let’s roll with it, which is fine, until you look back upon yourself and realize 13 women have seen your cock shots.
That’s a lot. And if you factor in a two-brunch sharing by each woman, with an average brunch attendance of seven ladies (including the girl with my dick on her phone), that’s like over 150 women who have seen my penis. Talk about engagement. And reach.
I don’t even have a cool one. Or a good one. Just a normal dude dick. If I had a giant one, I would share it with erryfuckingbody.
Despite how rude that would be. Because it is rude of me, drunk on the weekends, thinking it’s fine to just text a girl I slept with once four months ago about how ‘I like the way you suck my dick,’ when she’s just out, like, I don’t know, trying to eat oysters with a couple girl friends at a really cool oyster bar.
What is she supposed to do with that newfound knowledge? Tell her friends?
‘Hey, so… this guy… David, you don’t know him, but he likes the way I suck his dick.’
Nope, nope. They’re just like, hey, it’s the shitty dude, who sexts me on the weekends unsolicitedly. Which is kinda shitty, being that shitty dude. But it’s worth it for the off chance you hit one winner. When you send out those feelers and a girl is like ‘Yea, let’s sext,’ and then you spend the rest of your night not talking to anyone, furiously checking your phone, scurrying off to the bathroom to type and waiting and waiting and waiting for responses. That’s good living. I once left a wedding afterparty to plug in my phone to keep sexting someone. I was like, I’ll just get some juice and text for a bit, then go back to the party. But I couldn’t leave my phone. She was sending me boobs. So I stayed by it. And that’s how my friends found me in our hotel room, huddled in a corner next to an outlet, phone tethered to the wall, pants unzipped and me, passed the fuck out.
I don’t think the bride and groom even knew I left, though.
Come to think of that, that was right around the end of last summer. When I woke up and realized I need to take a break. Hence: No Sext September.
Maybe I should give it a try again.
[Image via Shutterstock]
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