Diary of a Sexter


Sexting is my new phone sex. And when done properly, can be really fucking hot. I keep one of the 50 Shades books readily accessible when I want to escape into fantasyland... and it doesn't look as awkward on the nightstand as my glass dildo. But sometimes imagining Christian Grey tying me up just isn't enough. Sometimes I need someone at the other end of my fantasy, telling me what he wants to do to me. That's where sexting comes into play.

I've blown off my yoga class and been humorously late to brunch with the girls because I was having the most lascivious sexting sesh ever with that guy. Emphasis on 'that' because he's my go-to. We all have to have one. You know, the one whose stare makes your legs shake and a naughty whisper makes you combust. That guy. The dirt on mine: we've had an ongoing sexual relationship for over eight years, sans commitment. Hands down, the best sex of my life. Thinking about his name coming up on my screen makes my insides tremble. Our sexual chemistry is undeniable even over SMS. Because sexting is all about words, you have to speak the same language. Just like with physical chemistry, in order for sex to be tantalizingly delicious, you have to be in sync. There is something about texting dirty that can be so satiating. Seeing that person’s desires spelled out in front of you is such an aphrodisiac and an incredible substitute when there’s distance between you. Plus, it’s so simple! You can be in your sweatpants and still feel irresistible. And it’s convenient! You can sext at work (guilty as charged) or anywhere for that matter. My only suggestion, just master your poker face.
It was Sunday morning and I woke up with the lady’s version of a hard on. I reached for my phone and sent a cute text to that guy to get it going, kind of like foreplay. And before I know it, I’m having an incredible orgasm, hanging on to his every word, imagining him doing all of those things to me. It was like he knew exactly what to say that would put me over the edge. And then, “Text Message from Nicole: Where are you?” pops up... shit. So I reluctantly scurry off, run the seven blocks to the restaurant conjuring up a reason of my tardiness, but when I arrive I know it’s written all over my face. “Hey, sorry, I was having the hottest sexting sesh ever!”
If we're going to live, work and breathe with our phones attached to our hands, we might as well be getting off, too.

Text, don't call.


Sammy Jones

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