I’ve only just popped my sexting cherry.
What kind of a horrible, boring Gen Y-er am I? Didn’t my people found the Age of Sexting?
So I stayed away.
‘Why bother?’ I asked myself. I have a good sex life, one certainly satisfying enough for me to not see how exchanging poor quality crotch shots could ever possibly turn me into some highly-evolved sex deity. (Wait, you mean that’s not one of your goals?)
But then life threw a spanner in the works of my love life’s well-oiled engine.
My partner and I were going to be apart for a combined four weeks.
Perhaps not a long stretch for some couples, but this was about three weeks more than we’d had in four years.
By week three, something had to give. I found myself plunging into the rabbit hole that is sexting.
Not because my partner begged and pleaded. Not because I was coaxed.
He didn’t even nudge me with an eggplant emoji. Sexting has just never been part of our groove.
But when a friend asked while we were geographically separated whether we’d been sending cheeky messages, she’d planted the seed.
I had the time, the curiosity and the unfulfilled desires to see what all the fuss was about.
And you know what? I’m glad I did.
Firstly, in the moment it actually does wonders for your body confidence, which can only be a good thing considering how rare that feeling is for so many of us.
And secondly, I won’t go into nitty-gritty detail, because I’m not here to sex shame anyone and I’m probably already giving you the TMI shakes.
But I’m pretty sure my brain relocated to my muff because bonking was my raison d’être and I started counting down the days with my super-charged libido (which I nicknamed Brand Russell, because I’m not at all creepy).
And my at-long-last reunion with my partner was
ON FIYAH yeah, good, thanks.