Sexting
I’m sitting in my chair watching a recorded episode of The Soup. Alyna and the kids are asleep. It’s 11:43 P.M. My phone buzzes and I see that I have a new text message. It’s from Holly and it reads, “I can’t stop thinking about last night. I love your cock.”
Other than the immediate involuntary reaction of starting to get a hard-on, I have no idea what to do. I know sexting is the focus of a segment on local morning shows every other week, and plenty of people get caught sending pictures of their genitals to people they’re fucking, but I’ve never experienced any of that, because I’ve been married for the entirety of the techno-sexual revolution.
My first instinct is to reply with a text that reads, “Thank you,” but that can’t be right. I think it’s probably better to respond with something equally sexual, something that conveys my interest in fucking her as well. I type out, “Your pussy is incredible.” It looks wrong. I read it out loud and it sounds even worse than it looks. I start to think I’m taking too much time to respond. I wonder if she’s been fingering herself since she sent me the text or if she’s just out with her twenty-year-old friends trying to get me to reply with something stupid so she can show them. I immediately discount the last thought and rationalize it away as false insecurity by reminding myself that she actually fucked me. Not only did she fuck me, she gagged on my cock and forced me to put my finger in her asshole. She’s into this.
I think briefly about texting something like, “I really liked my finger in your asshole,” but that sounds too nice, almost clinical. It’s not dirty or visceral enough to carry the same level of sexual desire as her text. I wonder if I should play it cool and respond with a question like, “Yeah? What do you love about it?” I type it in and read it over. It doesn’t sound as bad as the other shit, and it seems to put me in some position of power in the conversation, without having to use profanity or vulgarity, which seem awkward in a text message. I send it.
A few seconds later she replies. “It’s big and hard and I love the way it feels in my wet little pussy. Does that turn you on?”
I have a hard-on before I finish reading the text. I contemplate replying by letting her know that, but instead opt for telling her, “Everything about you turns me on.”
She replies with a text that reads, “Carly’s at the library and I’m fingering my pussy right now on my bed and thinking about you fucking me from behind,” which starts me imagining what her perfect little ass must look like doggy-style. I wonder if her asshole is the same color as her skin or if it’s darker. Either way, I realize that I want to see it badly. Seeing it means I’m going to have to fuck her again. Fucking her again means I’m going to have to cheat on my wife again. I wonder if I can cheat on my wife again, and if I can, what that will mean. I know that if I do it again, I’ll be able to do it several more times after that. I assume it will become a full-blown affair and I’ll have to start leading a double life, which has to be a difficult thing to do.
I type, “Holly, we can’t do this,” then stare at the text, knowing that a little farther up the 405 in a dorm room at CSUN the hottest girl I’ve ever fucked in my life has her finger in her perfect little pussy and she’s texting me—not some douchebag her own age—the dirtiest shit she can think of.
I erase it and type in, “Is that how you want me to fuck you next time?”