Maybe I have a problem. That kind of problem you admit to loved ones (or complete strangers) with downturned face and in the hushed tones of shame: I am addicted to my technology. My phone hardly leaves my hands. I don’t feel whole at work lest I am Alt+Tabbing through pages of articles and photos and gChats while working at 100% about 30% of the time. My best recent accomplishment was when I retroactively hashtagged all my Instagrams and got several hundred stranger-likes in approximately ten hours. Each notification was like a soft, fur-lined stroke on my quivering ego.

But this post is not about the pervy things I do on my phoneper se, but rather how many pervy things. This weird system of validate, purr, validate again = instant gratification esteem is not the only unnatural (literally) relationship that my technology has provided for me.

Behold, the power of the boob.

Facebook reintroduced me to a guy I spent a handful of hours with, on one night in 2007, when he was dating my friend. We developed a “relationship.” We knew about each others’ shitty days and new hair cuts. We Skyped. Sexy things were said. He visited. Sexy things happened. It was like cyberspace gave me a  strange, uncomfortable delivery of a 6’3 bearded baby. Five years later, a real tangible human being, who seeing face to face is, funny enough, very different from video chat. Imagine the headlines: Internet Still Not Actually Reality!

An Instagram including my boobs jogged the jerk-off memory of a once-potential flame who was sidelined as I began to date a friend of his. His pecker perked up, he made contact. Sexy things were said.

Recently, I’ve had random chats with a dating-site guy I never met but managed to friend, text, email and absorb into my gMail contacts. He is happily shacked up now but, still, our conversation wandered into our privatetime proclivities. Sexy things were talked about. Turns out, we may have been a sexy-match made in Internet heaven, if only we had known.

Married men, past bosses, the bicycle delivery guy. We all have exchanged, on occasion, a flurry of filth. We may have touched ourselves during it. Some blackmail-worthy photos swapped. Shallow breath and embarrassing stains caused. And not a proper coitus among ‘em.

It has gotten such that, in a day, I might receive a frisky feeler text from one of five people. “Hey, haven’t talked to you in a while. How are ya? How’s work? Wish you were under my desk sucking my cock. TTYL.”

I am, it seems, a cyber slut.

Tempted by the fruits of another, and another, and another…

But through this, I have been texting almost every day someone I met twice, nearly a year ago. Often dozens of messages are exchanged. Some small talk, a little banter, a dash of dirty talk. Ok, more than a dash. I start to feel guilt “interacting” with my “other men.” Or maybe it’s just longing for this particular person, to whom I feel more and more attachment. I watch this growing affection like I would watch a lesion expanding on exposed skin. With wonder, worry and not a little horror. I don’t even know this man. I have all but never seen him. I do not know what this voice sounds like. And yet…

But I am not fool enough to commit to a specter. Or to discredit fidelity by thinking it is either warranted or broken in this situation. So, for now, I sow my wild Internet oats. I flash my sexty bits like a loose woman. And my rocks get off all over the world.

About The Author

Sandy is awesome. Her interests are varied, friends many, and opinions better than yours. She goes on lots of dates. Some of them are even with the same person twice. She has, on occasion, had sex with them. Sometimes, she just tells jokes. These are her thoughts on all of the above. Feel free to hi-five, either actually or electronically or in the sad corner of your mind where you might think you could know her. But remember, no matter how hard you try you'll never be as good as Sandy.

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