No, instead this is a post about my vagina. (Again: you're welcome.) My vagina and texts, which makes it kind of like Wiener's wiener and tweets. But not. Less, wiener-y for one thing. More vagina-y.
Really, this is a post about how many times I can say "wiener" and "vagina" in three paragraphs. Which, apparently, is quite a lot. Wiener.
There's been a lot of Internet chatter lately about sexting, prompted, in large part, by that whole Wiener's wiener thing that we're definitely NOT talking about. (Not sure why it moved so quickly into a conversation about sexting, since Wiener tweeted his junk, but I suspect it's because no one's figured out a clever way to combine the word "sex" with "tweet" yet.) Aside from the prolific conversation around Wiener specifically—which we're still not talking about—a number of general questions regarding sexting have been raised repeatedly, including this one: "What kind of person does that anyway?"
It's this question, often asked with clear distaste, that I'd like to address. Because I have an answer for that. Two answers, actually. The first: a lot of people. The second: me.
ME. I have sexted. Plenty. I have engaged in everything from slightly flirtatious to overtly sexual conversations via text. I have even,
What of it?
If I want to entice my man to skip out of work a little early with a bit of suggestive conversation, what of it? If I'm feeling a bit more urgent and simply let him know that I could use a good fuck, what of it? If I decide he deserves a nipple shot from time to time, what of it? Maybe he might like to see more. Maybe it's a good old fashioned crotch shot he's after. What of it? Does it make me a whore if I comply? Am I some sort of kinky sexual deviant? Pffft.
You heard me. Pffft! It's my vagina, and I'll text it if I want to.
(Also, "kinky" is funny. It sounds like some old-timey word my mom would use to describe having sex with the lights on.)
But there are dangers in sexting, you say. And of course, you're right. For one thing, The Man's name used to be right below my former (very, very Christian) boss's name in my phonebook. One slight slip of the thumb could've easily resulted in a rather uncomfortable work environment, a thought which honestly just makes me laugh. (Now his name is safely swaddled between the names of two of my lovely lady friends. So be prepared, Jacque and Kellie.) And I know we're dealing with cyberspace here, where nothing ever really goes away. Those texts could fall into the wrong hands, it's true. I know this and—as someone who has experienced the embarrassment of nudie pics being seen by someone(s) other than the intended recipient (this back in the old fashioned days of Polaroid pictures)—I know how not awesome that it. I also know I'm capable of getting over it.
So now you know what kind of person does that. The me kind. What of it?