Everything I Need to Know About Sexting I Learned in AP English
Throwing it back to this time last year in celebration of forced celibacy. Names have been changed, because it’s not Brett’s fault that I overshare.
There was no doubt about it, Brett the account executive had game. Not only could he maintain a conversation, but he also asked questions back. He was, in short, a dating app unicorn.
My AP English teacher would call this hyperbole, as Brett wasn’t actually a unicorn, he was an active six foot Virgo who wanted kids someday.
Back in high school, I never thought AP English would actually be of any use in the real world, boy was I wrong.
Brett and I had been messaging for a few days, and had covered my job, his job, my insecurities about being in quarantine for the rest of our lives, and his parent’s dog.
It was late in the evening when Covid celibacy came up, and counting the days until the end of the social distancing era. There may have been crying emojis involved.
Things escalated gradually, and like a frog in boiling water, I didn’t jump out.
A metaphor, my friends.
Gentleman that he is, Brett offered me “words of encouragement.” And I accepted his services as a sexy cyber climax coach.
It’s an unwritten rule in the book of How To Be a Woman, that during sexting, no one’s actually doing what their slutty thumbs say they are.
We’re eating kale chips and scrolling through our feed. But quarantine had shifted my priorities away from kale chips.
Brett’s first instruction for me was to not come until he was ready to as well. This is what my AP English teacher would call foreshadowing.
In this example, we’re foreshadowing how Brett thinks the clitoris is a button you push that shoots fireworks.
As it turns out, penning a one-handed narrative while the other is getting all up close and personal, is a logistical nightmare. Seeing as messaging and manual labor both ideally require two hands, there’s really no practical solution.
The protagonist’s dilemma indeed.
Eight minutes after Brett volunteered his services, he asked what would push me over the edge. His virtual eggplant wasn’t even inside of me yet.
He’d been flexing his aptitude for foreplay earlier in the conversation and priding himself on knowing what women need. Apparently what I needed was eight minutes of “writhing as his mouth caressed the soft skin of my vulva.”
Oh dear.
I think Brett may have been going for romanticism, but unfortunately the wordvulva only makes me blink a little wider.
When I finally got the D, it was in the form of a throbbing, rock hard cock.
How’s that for dicktion?
The sexiest part of all was when he misused ‘your,’ only to go back and correct himself with ‘*you’re.’ Good grammar gets me every time.
Things continued southbound after that, and not in a good way.
It really shouldn’t have come as a surprise when he sent a dick pic. What did startle me however was how poorly executed of a dick pic it was, for someone so eloquent.
Seeing as he’d clearly been using quarantine to brush up on period romances, I half thought it’d be dressed in a cummerbund and spring flowers.
To my dismay it wasn’t wearing anything but a necktie of unruly pubes, and was pointing straight up like it was about to gently bop me on the forehead.
In the narrative arc of the story, this would be the point of greatest tension, where the action is at its fullest and most robust.
Or, dare we say, its tip?
When Brett told me to imagine him grabbing handfuls of my breasts, I knew it wasn’t gonna work out.
Here’s the thing: My breasts don’t have handfuls. If you squeezed them together you might be able to get half a palm at best, on a good day. They’re delightfully perky, but handfuls, there are not.
Several minutes of silence from my end likely led Brett to believe I was on the verge of ecstasy. Meanwhile, I debated the best way to remove myself from the conversation.
I’d given up trying to get any sort of turned on back when he told me he was “lusting for the sweet flavor of my wet pussy.” But had stuck around more for curiosity’s sake — I’d never seen the word lapping used to convey so much imagery.
I’d been responding with obligatory eggplant emojis (yes, symbolism) and the occasional “mmmm” in an effort to buy myself some time.
This was the part where we simultaneously orgasm, and he sews his cyber seed inside of me.
I knew what my lines were. They were made even easier to deliver via messaging, and involved a foolproof script of a few fuck’s and yes’s. I just couldn’t bring myself to type them.
The thing is, the last time I’d gotten laid (granted, thanks to Covid, it’d been a minute) I’d decided not to fake it anymore. I was over pretending to be anything I’m not, and who was I even faking it for anyways? I wasn’t trying to impress Brett from Bumble, and I definitely didn’t owe him an orgasm.
“Just not feeling it rn,” I typed. Plot twist. “It’s not gonna happen.” I pressed send, wondering if anyone’s ever not faked it over sexting.
Brett immediately asked if it was the wrong approach on his part, and I told him I’d spent too much of my life faking orgasm, so I didn’t do it anymore.
To his credit, he said he respected that. And that he was better in person. And that he owed me one.
I asked him if he came, and he said he did. I guess Brett wasn’t as much of a team player as his thumbs would have liked me to believe.
I unmatched from him the next day. There was no way I could ever keep a straight face in person knowing that the warmth of his virtual eggplant had once filled me in one fell thrust.
And that, my friends, is what my AP English teacher would call anticlimactic.
Well, for one of us at least.
Not Enough Middle Fingers is a weekly newsletter that comes out every Friday. Unless I’m in emotional turmoil, in which case Saturday is a very nice day to receive a newsletter indeed.
