Never Realized It Was Sexting

“Keep writing. Get frustrated.”

Photo by Maria Talks on Unsplash

Not gonna lie: Didn’t even know sexting was a thing when I was writing things on my phone that would make my girlfriend wet. Almost every night. And some mornings too, when she would still be on her night shifts. She could not resist me. Why are you so addictive, she would say.

I had just read a lot of books — Bukowski, Roberto Bolano, Miller too. And I had a natural taste for eroticism. Obviously, I had a vivid imagination too. All of these combined, I almost held the key to female orgasm. Or if that sounds too grand, at least female sexual excitement.

They love the pace, the slow burn; coupled with the unpredictable turn of events; the curiosity more than anything; the expectation, the wait. They were almost always wet before I had even undressed them fully. Virtually, of course.

Later on, I realized they called it sexting. But the term is downright degenerate. That’s not what I did. What I did was like playing the violin. Art.

My words, the strings. Their desperation, the music.

Photo by Matthew Henry on Unsplash

Honestly, I wrote erotica so I could at least write the truth. Any other way would have been a giant lie , and without magic. No love letters, no poems.

No, I am not crazy about you. You do not make me crazy any bit. In fact, you’re a nuisance, everything considered. A headache, a royal pain in the ass, as Holden Caulfield would call it.

And I can stop thinking about you, yes. When you cease to be a problem. But since you’re a 24x7 walking problem, I have to solve you. It’s a headache, as I had said. Or a puzzle. A mission. My mind is a heat seeking missile destined to solve problems. Just that you’re the problem right now. You don’t make me crazy about you, I just want to solve you. Moment I solve you, you’re done.

This kind of writing would make them hate you. So naturally I had to resort to erotica. There’s some truth that way. I do want to undress you, yes. Not crazy about you but I do want to undress you.

I must have written for dozens of girls. Maybe even more. The words came out best when they were a million miles away from me. When there was absolutely no chance of having them for real. Only that kind of separation can burn a fire in my loins (and their souls) that makes fierce eroticism possible.

They were in Delhi when I was not; they were not in Delhi when I was. They could not get out of the house when I was free; they were vagabond sluts when my back wouldn’t let me move even to my bathroom. They were always unreachable. That made erotic writing possible.

“I can’t write anymore, I end up frustrated”, I would say.

“Keep writing. Make me want to want you more. Get frustrated”, they would say.

Photo by Peter Kasprzyk on Unsplash

Much later on, they started making me mad a little too early for their own good though. There was this girl, for instance, whom I could not see. So I told her I needed to look at her; can’t be talking to ghosts.

She asked me to “become a ghost buster” (lame), but she also sent a photo of hers. Looking Korean, in a white skirt, and with a censored face. Alright.

“How bout I share something I have written” I said.

“Who wants to read when you can feel”, she said.

This was obviously tempting but I never have liked the idea of charges on me. More importantly, I can be a little autistic too. The Touch of the ‘Tism.

So I asked, “I don’t understand. Tell me clearly if you want me to write for you or not.”

“YES I WANT YOU TO WRITE!” she screamed through the text and called me naive.

I took a breath.

“Keep wanting now”, I texted back.

And that was it.