The Thrill is adding a revamped feature to the books, a wild and wonderful sex column à la Hafternoon Delight. The format will usually be Q & A-style, so send all of your sexual questions, hopes, and dreams to email@example.com and we will work our hardest to get them answered for you. Since this is our first column, it’s been written in the form of a personal narrative. We are excited to start bringing sexy back to The Thrill.
I never considered the value of Snapchat as a service for sexting until yesterday at Peirce brunch. I have never used Snapchat for sending dirty pictures – never, in fact, taken any at all – though I can understand why the app has become so popular for that purpose. The picture disappears within a few seconds, and you get a notification if the recipient takes a screenshot. I have friends who do it. My snapchats are generally more along the lines of this:
1:15pm on a Sunday is not a time at which I have ever received a sext (in fact I have received very few but especially never while I am eating my brunch) and I am completely at a loss for how to respond. As it turns out, however, if you ask your brunch table, “Hey, how do I respond to a sext?” everyone is going to want to know the identity of the sender. No picture accompanies the text, which is in itself innocuous enough, but I find myself wishing it was sent in the form of a Snapchat anyway. If the message had disappeared after I opened it, nobody could snatch my phone away and read it later. Instead I find myself clutching my phone to my chest, out of arm’s reach of my friend across the table, stretching towards me over my French toast as she wails, “You can’t just bring something like that up and then not tell us who it is!”
“You’re so boring,” observes my friend Adam. We are on Governor’s Island, it is the summer of 2010, and we are waiting for a concert to begin. Adam has grabbed my phone from my hands and is scrolling through my inbox, hoping to find something dirty. “I don’t sext!” I scream, and grab his phone from his pocket as revenge after I try and fail to retrieve my own from his hands. The tables turn, and he lunges at me, but it’s too late, I’m already scanning his messages. Unlike me, Adam does send adult-themed messages, and I am learning more about his relationship with his girlfriend than I ever needed to know. “Gross,” I say, snapping his phone shut and tossing it back to him. “You should not leave that thing lying around.”
I am standing in a dressing room in the Mount Vernon Goodwill, and I have just texted a picture of myself to a guy I was seeing abroad. The slip I’m trying on is lacy and sheer, but it’s also grandmotherly and marginally decent enough to wear in public, and I end up putting on a tank top and wearing it to a Ganter party later that evening. I include a message with the picture – “does it count as sexting if it’s vintage?” The answer, I’m certain, would be yes, if only this garment were actually scandalous. This is about as successful as any sexual-texting interaction I’ve ever had: