I am a perv. Let's just establish that right up front. My entire adolescence was spent asking strangers in AIM chat rooms, "Wanna cyber?" I was having internet sex for a long time before I had real sex. As soon as the house was quiet, I'd sneak to the computer room and look for strangers to dirty talk with. Looking back, it was unsafe, but as a young girl, I had no other way to channel my sex drive. It was somewhat of an obsession. I was sexting before I knew there was a word for it. When I grew up and f*cked people IRL (way more fun!) I forgot all about my cyber identity.
Until Thanksgiving 2015. No idea what got into me. Blame it on the tryptophan? The fact that it was Thanksgiving has no bearing on the larger story, but I thought you should know, because, like WTF is wrong with me? I had just gone through a breakup with my ex-girlfriend and was heartbroken. I wanted sex but the thought of dealing with a flesh and blood person was just too much to deal with.
I accidentally scrolled through porn on my phone while sitting at the dinner table. The desire washed over me suddenly. It was like a switch — I was unable to focus on anything else. I excused myself from the table and locked myself in my room. I opened Tinder. All the women I had been conversing with were lovely. I hoped to meet them for a drink. I’m sure they were just as interested in sex as me. But to try to sext with them felt weird. Disrespectful. Flat-out strange. I needed some healthy distance — so I changed my bio to read, "Looking to be respectfully dominated" and switched my settings to match with men. I swiped a few times and every single one was a match (being straight seems so easy!). And what do you know? They were all down AF to sext.
I threw on a strappy bra and took pictures of my MacBook, frantically sucking in my stomach and scooping up my boobs in between shots. A daddy type named Anthony messaged me. Then I matched with some dom with a beard who made fun of me for liking Mumford and Sons, but told me I was hot. The messages kept rolling in, and they were all sexual. It was so easy; it was almost ridiculous. I’d send an Apple Photo Booth picture and bam! We’d be sexting.
There was no anxiety because I truly did not care about their impressions of me. I just wanted no-strings-attached dirty talk. I knew men couldn’t hurt me because I didn’t like them.
I scurried back downstairs for my wine glass and the bottle. I made a big show of taking a sip each time I crafted a sexy response. I was having way too much fun. Then Anthony wanted to call me. My phone kept buzzing, making my heart pound. It was now or never. Would I like phone sex? I was willing to find out.
"Yes, daddy?" I answered the phone. I sipped more wine. I wished I had a long dramatic robe and a cigarette holder. The drunker I got, the more I felt like a fabulously seductive actress playing a part. "What would Lana Del Rey do?" I asked myself, calculating my next move.
"Will you buy me a present?" I purred, briefly nervous he’d say no.
"Since you were such a good girl, pick something out."
I frantically dug through my drawer for my vibrator — I couldn’t stand how turned on I was by the thought of a stranger buying me gifts. I picked out an expensive black lingerie set and I could hear him typing his credit card numbers in as he ordered. My nipples got hard.
Then he said, "We'll have to meet so you can pick this up." I swear I felt my vagina go dry. Meet up? That was not part of this plan. I felt disgusted and ashamed — not because of what I was doing, but because the barrier had been broken and reality hit. I hung up the phone immediately.
My sexting with strangers had come to an end. It was a thrilling hour or so — a demented way to revisit my old hobby — but was ultimately unfulfilling. Now when I’m single and feeling turned on, I keep it safe and stick to Pornhub. I know that sexuality is complicated and nuanced, so I’m gentle with myself in my desire to experiment and explore. I'm glad I'm sexually confident enough to honor my curiosity and my sexual desires. But at the end of the day, I wouldn’t try it again. I wasn’t cut out to be a dirty-talker or a sugar baby. I just wish I’d kept it going long enough to get the lingerie he bought me — it was cute AF.
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