You can always tell when a situationship is on the skids, as your most-messaged WhatsApp contact slowly becomes someone who says they’ll “catch up with you soon!”. Olivia Petter ‘It was time to unleash my secret weapon in the war against getting ditched …’ His libido needed tending to, and so did my wet knickers – just not in the way he wanted. But does that make it wrong? In all honesty, I don’t think it does. Faking it has never been easier than over sext. I needn’t have worried – it transpires none of this matters. He had been in the mood but although I was busy, and tired, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I wasn’t. Sexting is tricky but it’s also worryingly not. Gibberish followed then his final message: “I came.” I hung up my final sock and, in the spirit of honesty, replied: “I’ve finished too.” Barely looking at it, I responded with an old one I must have sent to someone else a few years ago. As was I, realising I only had a few bits left in my basket. He was picturing me on top of him, and I told him to put his hands on my breasts while I hung up one of my few matching pairs – pink, covered in hamburgers – trying to remember why I ever bought them. I was moving to the towel rail in my bathroom. My radiator was now lined with socks and knickers. “Something something, he was hard” he wrote. So because I’m a good multitasker, it seemed fine to do both.Īt first he started listing everything he wanted to do to me, while I was simply wondering why I had so few matching socks. I didn’t want to offend him but it was my first free moment of the day and, well, I really needed to hang it up. It was 6pm on a Sunday night, and I was hanging out my laundry when the man I had just starting dating started sexting me. Joe Stone ‘Faking it has never been easier than over sext, but does that make it wrong?’ Don’t get cheap Botox? Don’t sext in the bath? Don’t admit to the whole disaster in a newspaper? No, you’re right. I don’t know what the moral of #mystruggle is. In case you hadn’t guessed, we did not go on to have sex. After all, is there anything more devastating than being truly seen? Under the video was displayed the most terrifying word in the English language: “Seen”. When I returned to Instagram my disgrace was complete. Nothing happened so I then wasted precious seconds Googling it. I had a vague sense that you could unsend an Instagram DM, but no idea how, so started jabbing at my steamy screen. Instead I had sent it in response to the question: “Got any hot vids?” The result was so abjectly terrifying that it could have launched a new horror genre. Concerned that she may have immobilised my face, I’d taken a video in selfie mode, attempting a variety of expressions: scrunching my eyes, baring my teeth, performing a dead-eyed grimace. Unnerved, I’d run to her bathroom and discovered five raised pustules of Botox on my forehead, bleeding slightly at each wound. The aesthetician had applied her needle with all the care and precision of someone stabbing the film lid of a microwave meal with a fork. The bath’s steam had dulled my phone screen’s responsiveness, and in my jabbing I somehow failed to select anything titillating from my archive, instead alighting upon a video I’d recently taken minutes after experimenting with budget Botox on the advice of a so-called friend. Inevitably, the man I was messaging asked if I had any videos to share. Botox horror … Illustration: Fabio BuonocoreĪ few years ago I was in the bath when a series of Instagram DMs became heated.
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