It’s because I’m a sext prude.
Part of it’s just my historical timeline. I met my husband in 2002, when cell phones were for making and receiving calls. We hooked right before electronically exchanging nude photos became a regular part of the courting and mating process.
But honestly, the truth is I’m just not a sexter. Even if I’d been single when sexting came of age, I still feel pretty confident that there would be no stray boob or vagina shots of me out there keeping me up late at night. I’ve just never done it. I don’t even like having regular photos taken of myself. I never have. I hate how I look in pictures.
I suppose some people would say that my non-existent stash of self-made erotica indicates that I’m sexually repressed. I like to think it means I just have a healthy dose of good old-fashioned American female body image dysmorphia. Either way, I’m loathe to reproduce any parts of my body on film.
I’m not saying there’s no pictures of me out there looking like an asshole. There’s plenty of those. There’s pictures of me drunk, stoned, sweaty, red-faced, dancing badly, lazy-eyed, poorly dressed, poorly coiffed, with poorly applied make-up and terrible double chins.
Here’s one of me with my sister and cousins wearing matching sweaters our grandmother made us. My friend says I look like a “little Hesher,” meaning I’m a stoner, metal kid who’s wearing a Judas Priest t-shirt underneath that gigantic homemade sweater. In truth, I think I was just at that really awkward stage of growing out my bangs:
Here’s me in 8th grade. I tried to cover my lazy eye with my hair. It didn’t work:
There’s plenty of photos of me out there that I’m ashamed of. I’m thinking specifically of that fateful year in college that I tried to look “sexy” in photos by biting my lip in every picture that was taken of me in every situation.
Now, that’s a mortifying photo series that could come back to haunt me for sure. I shudder to think of it.
But sexting pictures? Nope. I never took any. Not one. I never even sent one to my husband.
I started to wonder: is that bad? It seems almost abnormal in this day and age.
“Am I a bad wife?” I asked myself. I know plenty of my girlfriends have sent their boyfriends sexy photos. I’m probably the only person in my peer group who hasn’t. It’s a practice that goes all the way back to those pin-up girls whose photos kept our boys sane back in World War II. It’s an American tradition and I’m the only prude not on board.
Even conservative beauty queen Carrie Prejean sexted videos of herself.Dr. Laura Schlessinger took nude photos back in her day. I was a bigger prude than the both of them.
The more I thought about it, the more anxious I felt. My poor husband married a sext prude. It’s not something I disclosed to him before we took our vows, and now he was stuck with me.
In a moment of panic, I sexted him this photo of my crotch from the car:
The bulge is from a bottle of Vitamin Water that I stuffed down my pants to create the Anthony Weiner effect. It was orange flavored—the Vitamin Water I mean.
I guess I’m pretty bad at this.
If anyone out there has a lewd photo of me that I don’t remember taking, would you please send it to me? I’ve got nothing here and I’m not taking one now. I’ve been on a macaroni and cheese eating tear of late. It’s just not a good time.
If any of you have one of those photos of me biting my lip though, hang onto it.
I’m broke now, but if I ever get famous and hit it big I’ll want those things buried. You’ll definitely be able to milk me for some major cash.