The Weekly Mindfuck: Sex in the Kitchen

I still remember the first real sext I ever got. I don't mean the obscure, suggestive ones we all got in high school or the drunken, blunt ones we received all through college from people we only vaguely knew. I mean a well-aimed, well-timed, specific, sober sext. You know the kind I'm talking about—the kind that make you flip your phone over immediately and make your heart beat really, really fast while you're trying to enjoy a milkshake at Sonic. (What, just me?)

It came out of nowhere, or at least it seemed like it at the time. "What are the odds I could come over around midnight and fuck you in the kitchen?"

Hilariously, it came at a time in my life when I would have no idea how, exactly, to fuck in the kitchen, having not yet really mastered having sex in an actual bed. It was in college, and the majority of my sexual experiences up until that moment had been fumbling, sporadic, erratic—truth be told, I think that was the first time sex had ever felt, well, sexy. I blame the writer in me—my intense connection to the nuances of language means that wordplay is an important part of foreplay.

Sadly enough, the moment mentioned in the text never happened (which I'm sure my roommates would appreciate), but it was a major marker in my sex life. I was young, and I wouldn't hone my sexting skills until a couple years later, but knew two things: Every significant guy in my life would need to be witty and bold enough to disarm me with a single sext, and he would need to inappropriate enough to suggest having sex all sorts of places he (and we) shouldn't. 

The only thing I've learned since then? Be careful what you wish for.