Sexting Is the New Foreplay

Jennifer Cullen

cell phoneI love living in the technological era.

There are more than enough distractions to keep me from getting anything done. I can email my neighbor to ask if she has any extra toilet paper, find out on Facebook what my former best friend from elementary school ate for dinner last night, and post my every move on Twitter. Don't you want to know that I had pre-melanoma cells removed from my left breast? And won't you want to see the pathology report when it comes back?

But I especially love my cell phone. With one semi-small device, I can take pictures, surf the Internet, check my email while waiting in line at the deli counter, and send text messages with abandon.

And this: Foreplay has never been easier.

It's not what you think. I'm not setting my cell phone's alarm to have it vibrate and go off repeatedly while resting in my lap. (Well, maybe I've done that once or twice.)

I use text messaging to enhance my intimacy with my husband. Ok, maybe not intimacy. I use it to keep the sparks burning. He works a lot. And sometimes, while I'm waiting for him to get home, I'll send a suggestive text message to his phone. ("Can't wait to f@#k you" or "I'm horny. Hurry home.")

I sent him a racy picture once but regretted it after the fact. All it takes is for one friend to get a hold of that jpeg. I don't want my face or any other part of my anatomy spread all over the Internet. I have my reputation to think about. I don't want to be another Vanessa Hudgens or Brett Favre, even if the pictures were meant for my own husband.

I've also realized that I have to be careful with my text messages. A few months ago, my husband received a text message from me while he was at work. His hands were deep in chicken breasts and he asked one of his employees to read the text to him. Oops. Luckily, it was one of my fairly milder messages. "Just got waxed. Bald beaver awaits u."

Now we work around that problem by having a set of code words. Beaver becomes octopus. Sex becomes biking. Horny becomes brassy. You get the idea.

The only time I don't use codes is when I know for sure that he's going to be the one to receive it. Like when we're the only two people home and, from upstairs, I text for a booty call. "Get your ass up here."

Have any of your salacious text messages ended up in the wrong hands?

Image via samantha celera/Flickr

Read More