When I started this blog, just over a year ago, I presumed its existence would be short-lived. I fully expected that announcing my single status to strangers on the internet – and reminding everyone I already knew that, not only was I available, I also had a great sense of humour and incredible breasts – would result in an avalanche of interest. I anticipated that all the eligible bachelors who had secretly held a candle for me would rush forward in a great swarming crowd and beg for my hand in sex and love. But not marriage, because I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about marriage. Except that I’m happy for gays to do it, if they so wish.
As you can see, from the fact that I’m still here, there has not been a great swarming crowd of interest since I started posting about my single life on this blog. In fact, the only interest I’ve had, sexually, in the past year or so has come from a minor celebrity who I won’t name, but who I kind of know and who DMs me on twitter every now and then asking for pictures of my bare naked feet. Which proves the blog has been good for something. Even if that something is only the power of its header image to arouse damaged young men.
Due to this colossal lack of interest, as you may have noticed over the past weeks and months, my fervour for promoting single life has wilted (if one’s fervour can wilt). My ice heart is melting and I want someone to love me RIGHT NOW. Preferably someone who’ll be willing to make babies with me as quick as poss – because no-one’s getting any younger and my womb is secreting hormones that make it difficult to pass small children in the street without biting their fat little faces.
But I digress. I am still writing this blog and you’ll be pleased to hear there are still things about relationships that I find totally gross – to the point where it makes me not want one.
Like, for example, sexting.
I thought sexting was something only teenagers and caddish premiership football players indulged in. Until a recent holiday when I caught a glimpse of the first few lines of a very racy message about dirty, lacy knickers and erections on a friend’s i-phone. This friend is not a teenager, nor is she a caddish premiership football player. She is a cherubic, red-headed woman with a very important job. Conversation with her and careful snooping during conversations with other friends, colleagues and acquaintances has revealed to me that sexting is not just for teens. It’s what most couples do now. It’s a proper thing, and, unlike anal, it is not a thing that it is considered reasonable to object to.
What can I say?
I don’t find sexting hot – even though I’m quite into literary erotica. It is an entirely unpretty practice – stringing together genital synonyms in the hope that they’ll get you sex later on. It’s detached. It’s seedy. And, most importantly of all, it’s just not cool, man.
I might get that sext while I’m shopping in Morrisons, or arguing with my boss, or visiting my ageing grandmother in hospital. I don’t want uninitiated titillation just because you feel bored and horny.
And, let’s be frank, you’re probably not a good enough writer to produce anything other than horror with your sextual words. A point proved to me a few seconds ago, when I turned to the date my housemate has brought home and started discussing the topic of this post. ‘Oh, yeah,’ he said, ‘I know what you mean. My friend once got this sext that read: YOU HAVE A NICE BEAVER AND CAN I SHAG IT? That was bad.’
Yes, housemate’s date. That is bad.
So, consider this a warning, if you’re thinking of asking me out. (And, if you are, can you hurry up please? I’ll probably say yes and I’ll even let you touch my feet). No sexts. Or pictures of your erect genital. I’m not really into that.