IN WHICH THAT LITERARY SPORT OF POLITICIANS, SEXTING, MAKES AN APPEARANCE IN MY BOX, AND IN MY REPERTOIRE.
Dave: When are you gonna come belly dance for me?
Belly dance had been invaluable in switching on my sexual chakra — now it was proving equally adept at turning on male interest. Like other men who were chasing me on OKC, Dave loved that I belly danced, something I, Mrs.Hot and no fool, made sure to mention in my profile.
After purposely detouring onto another subject for several exchanges, I wrote, teasingly, “I will consider your belly dance request.” Immediately, Dave shot back, “I’ll bring the doobie snacks u bring the belly dance.”
From there, Dave asked me to text him — he didn’t feel comfortable referencing weed, as well as wanted to get more intimate out of the sight of OKCupid moderators. Once we were texting, then he really stopped beating around my bush.
At one point, late at night, he’d tried to dick pic me and I’d told him no, so he sent me a more PG pic of him in the bathroom after a shower, naked and hot, with a towel just barely, tantalizingly covering his junk. I found myself looking at this visual every so often during the day, sometimes with a need to reprise the pleasure this eye candy inspired, with a physical pleasuring of my own.
Then, one night about a week into our messaging, things started heating up; there would be no going back. He asked me what perfume I like, and how he would like to smell that, and me and, in fact, taste me. All of a sudden we went from texting, to sexting, a pursuit I’d only read about and deemed incredibly stupid. Now I’d find it to be stupid, mad fun, especially late at night when we were in bed:
Dave: If I were there with you now I’d be smelling and tasting every single inch of you.
Me: (Demure, new to this and besides, always wore my white gloves till now — though one was already off and Dave would be tearing the other one off in due time) WOW!
Dave: I’m spreading you wide, you’re so wet already I could take you now, but I’m licking and sucking and lapping up every drop of you.
Me: OMG! (This was moving so fast, I didn’t know how to respond, though I couldn’t help liking it.)
Dave: Mmm, you taste so good. I want you bad. If you could see me now the thought of you has made me so hard.
Me: You’re making me hot, too. (Yes, the gloves are both off now; in fact, they lie smoldering where I’ve burned them, along with other remnants of my pre-sexting, antique past in a self-inflicted nunnery.)
Then there was silence from Dave. But I knew what was coming, alright: There it was, blasted through cyberspace to take the stunned cherry of my iPhone: DICK PIC.
Yep, there it was, with Dave’s hand wrapped around it and a hairy leg stretched out below, a huge pink stump with a perfect cone sitting atop, a selfie for the ages.
Me: Oh no you dint.
Dave: Oh yes I did.
Me: Well now that you’ve whipped it out, what are you going to do with it?
Dave: Can I put it in your mouth?
Me: It’s already there 😉
Amazingly, I’d said that without missing a beat; clearly, I was going to enjoy this new literary genre.
I would be saying goodnight to Dave, and good riddance to inhibitions that no longer served a lusty, sexually-empowered goddess.
And so, in short order, we mutually came to a conclusion.
Yours truly,
