I was 26 the first time I sent a nude.
That’s late for a millennial, I think — but I’d attended school assemblies about how you could get arrested for child pornography if you sent nudes of your underage self. Sexting seemed like courting disaster. I was also perpetually single — no one was begging me for nudes. I also didn’t see much visual appeal in a lone male appendage.
During the pandemic, when I was living at home with my parents, things started to get dicey. I had no idea when I’d have sex again — during low moments, I feared I never would. So, when a Hinge match started talking about what he wanted to do to me, I didn’t shut it down like I normally would have. I played along — and I couldn’t believe how it made me feel.
I was right in thinking that receiving pictures did little for me. A penis peeking over the waistband of ugly gym shorts left me cold. Seeing my own body on camera made me self-conscious. But reading this guy’s fantasies and typing out my own set my imagination aflame. It made sense — I already knew words turned me on. The first time I ever touched myself was while reading The Other Boleyn Girl as a teenager. (Sorry, Philippa Gregory.)
“Sexting Guy” had a name, but I never used it. He existed in his own reality. We never discussed meeting up, even after I was back in LA. I felt like he knew too much about me — even though none of what he knew was about my day-to-day life. He knew I loved to have my neck kissed, my arms pinned above my head. I knew he yearned to finish in my mouth — something I don’t particularly enjoy, but can happily indulge in a fantasy world. If we met in person, I’d feel pressure to follow through on our spicy messages.
For me, casual sex is sometimes fun, but often not worth it. So much can go wrong — I’ve gotten STIs or ended up in situations where consent felt dubious. And while it’s wonderful to kiss and cuddle, the actual sex is often mediocre. I have fantastic orgasms solo, but it’s difficult for me to relax enough to get there with a partner. Sexting provided the perfect solution — it allowed me to feel connected and desired, but still be completely in control.
When I finally made a Feeld profile, it was with a very specific intention. I didn’t want to meet up or even send nudes — I just wanted to exchange ridiculously filthy messages with hot guys. But the demand for photos was high — especially when I discovered a man whose passion was drawing pictures of butts. If you sent him a picture of your posterior, he’d create a custom sketch. I loved the idea of a bespoke boudoir drawing, but I needed the perfect picture. So, I turned to a friend for help.
My friend D moonlighted as a dominatrix —she knew a thing or two about sensual photography. We’d seen each other naked plenty of times, so it didn’t feel like much of a bigger step for her to send me her best booty shots. The nude exchange was platonic, but deeply inspirational.
Sexting • Photo: Robert Hoetink/Alamy.
Soon I was experimenting with camera angles, portrait mode, and self-timers. Nothing was edited, just more artfully shot. And something surprising happened — while my correspondents oohed and aahed over what I sent them, I also liked what I saw more and more. Everyone says you shouldn’t seek validation from others, but knowing these men found my body sexy — my boobs, my butt, even my round belly, which had always made me insecure — felt powerful. The photo I sent to the butt-drawer was tasteful and a little illicit — per D’s suggestion, I wrapped a chain necklace around the bottom of my bottom, elevating the cheeks and adding a slight suggestion of bondage. The sketch is now one of my prized possessions.
It felt powerful, seeing my body in this new light. But what felt even more powerful was denying my texting partners. Nine times out of ten, a raunchy back-and-forth would lead to persistent, sometimes irritating requests to “try this IRL.” Telling them “no” filled me with a mischievous, naughty delight. It also seemed to help erase some of the moments in my past where my “no’s” weren’t taken as seriously as they should have been.
Women are constantly told to conceal what we want around sex and dating. “Don’t act like you want a relationship — it comes off as thirsty.” “Wait as long as possible to have sex, even if you really want to — men lose interest if you give it up too quickly.” I’d been playing this game my entire life — after all, I’ve wanted to fall in love for as long as I can remember.
When I waded into the steamy waters of Feeld, which is so firmly based around being open with your desires, I refused to pretend. I openly enjoyed knowing someone wanted me but couldn’t have me. If a guy said something I disliked, I unmatched him instantly instead of “giving him the benefit of the doubt.” I let myself be a bit mean. I stopped caring about their approval, focusing only on my own. The ass artiste asked if I wanted to “keep chatting” with him after I received my portrait. Once, I might have said yes out of obligation, feeling I owed him a favor — but while I liked his sketches, I wasn’t attracted to the man’s photos. I simply said “No thanks.”
A friend who was also a Feeld sexter told me she was upset because a guy she’d been sexting with ghosted her. “I showed him my p***! And he unmatches me?” she said indignantly. I gritted my teeth — a little embarrassed, but a little amused too. “Honestly… Sounds like something I’d do,” I explained. “I don’t see those guys as real people.”
That’s not strictly true — the “realness” of the person on the other side of the chat is what makes it sexy. I wouldn’t get the same thrill from trading smutty messages with ChatGPT. But through my “sext-ploits”, I’d discovered a middle ground that allowed me to feel real, alive, and human — while seeing men as disposable.
Of course, I didn’t see all men that way. Shortly after my Feeld era began, I started seeing someone new — someone I met on Hinge, my source for men with “relationship potential.” G was a big texter from the get-go, asking me lots of questions or just saying he was excited to meet me. We had an excellent first date that ended with a breathtaking kiss. After we both got home, G texted me, saying what a great time he’d had — and how good I’d felt in his arms.
Sexting • Photo: Liesel Bockl/fStop Images.
I was determined to take it slow, to not let the oxytocin dump that comes with physical intimacy make me feel more attached to him than I actually was. But, perhaps unwisely, those boundaries didn’t keep us from sexting. And he was really good at it. After the first few dates, which I kept mostly PG, we ended up talking about what we’d like to do to each other.
When we eventually did have sex, it was some of the best I’d had in years. Was it because I really liked him? Because we’d been anticipating it for so long? Or because we’d already been talking about our turn-ons? I don’t know, but it kept getting better. In between dates, we’d sext about how hot our last night of passion had been. We’d send each other videos or voice notes moaning each other’s names — then text about work or lunch or friends. A few days later, we’d meet up and repeat the process again. After about three months — my longest relationship ever! — I still had some doubts about G, but I figured I needed more time (and orgasms) to assess them.
One day, he didn’t sext me after a date. Then he didn’t text me to ask how my day was going. My gut told me he was distancing himself.
I think in the past, I would have clung on tighter, or tried to play it cool. But I’ll say this for the Feeld era — it had made me more confident about expressing what I wanted. And I wanted to know what was going on. I asked G to talk on the phone — which led to the end of the relationship. It was the calmest breakup I’ve ever had. He kept thanking me for starting the conversation.
Since then, I’ve returned to sexting unpredictably. I have a couple of “regulars” whose erotic verbosity has really wowed me, and I still explore new partners on Feeld from time to time. I keep learning new things about myself — uncovering new fantasies, new insecurities, and new ways of asking for what I want. Maybe, eventually, that will lead me to a relationship where no one is disposable — in words, in pictures, or in person.
