Casual Sext

by Lisa Lace

  I come here with Lena at least twice a week to gossip and share a laugh. To sit in a big, comfy armchair, holding a giant mug of fresh coffee, makes me feel like I’m on the cast of Friends—pretending I don’t have a job or responsibilities beyond sitting here, wasting time with my sister.

  Lena has a lot more time to waste than me. She’s only four years older, but she’s a machine. She started to let go of the managerial reigns of her five-store chain of restaurants about a year ago, and now she seems to spend most of her time hanging out in coffee shops and checking in on me. Meanwhile, I work as a bank teller, spending most of my time explaining why no, I can’t cash a blank check or tell you what your wife has been paying for from her personal account.

  As usual, Lena’s latest concern is my love life.

  She’s sitting back, wearing brightly colored floral harem pants and a trendy lavender blouse with a V-neck fringe, her glimmering gel nails closed around her cup, her inquisitive blue eyes focused solely on me. Her short blond hair is cut into a neat, professional pixie, her lips colored with a matte lavender lipstick.

  I’m still wearing my work clothes: a slightly creased short-sleeved white blouse and a pair of grey pants that now have a coffee-ring stain on them from laughing too hard while my mug was resting on my lap. At least my long, light hair is neat—it has always been dead straight and tangle-free.

  I brush it back out of my face and tuck it behind my ears so I can better look at the screen of my cellphone in Lena’s hand. We’re on Tinder—again—passing our time by ogling available local men.

  “How about this one?” Lena asks, showing me the profile picture of a boyish late twenty-something man with a beard and a beanie hat. She reads from his profile: “‘I’m an adventurer who isn’t afraid to get his hands dirty. Looking for a woman who’s not afraid to get dirty either.’—It ends with a winky face.” She grins at me. “Not hitting the spot, Soph?”

  I roll my eyes. “Those come-ons make me cringe.” I look down at my coffee and mimic, “I like my men like I like my coffee—hot and twice in the morning.”

  Lena hoots with laughter. “That’s a good one!” She glances at the coffee table between us for inspiration. “I like my men like I like my muffins—big and in my mouth.”

  “Lena!” I shriek, bursting into giggles. “That’s disgusting!”

  “Your turn.”

  “Hmm. I like my women like I like my napkins—folded in half and ready to get messy.”

  Lena doubles over, her eyes creasing with laughter. “That’s way worse than mine! Why aren’t these winners on your profile?”

  “The kind of men who use lines like that aren’t my type.”

  “Such as Mark from Manhattan? ‘Did you sit in a pile of sugar? Because that ass is sweet.’”

  I scoff, sending a little coffee shooting into my nasal passage. I wipe my nose with a napkin and make a face. “Really? Is that supposed to work?”

  Lena turns the phone toward me. “Mark from Manhattan also has a sweet ass.”

  I look at the picture of the man in full ski gear, his helmet under his arm, posing against a backdrop of pristine snowy mountains. He’s facing those mountains, looking back over his shoulder with a cheeky grin, that sweet ass hugged by Lycra.

  “Wow. That’s quite something.” I lean in. “It’s a bit round, though. I like a nice square butt. You know, something with a bit of sculpting to it.”

  “Right. How about this one?”

  “Ah, the classic mirror selfie.” She shows me a picture of a man in nothing but a tight pair of boxer briefs, flexing in front of a mirror. The reflection shows a room with clothes and Xbox games strewn around the floor. Hardly the greatest advertisement for a sophisticated man. “Don’t you think that’s vain?”

  “If you’ve got it, flaunt it, I guess.”

  “I wish there were some smart or funny men flaunting those qualities.”

  “What about this one?”

  She shows me Lucas, who is posing against a crammed bookshelf in his picture, sitting in a leather wing chair, wearing tweed. His profile says he’s twenty-seven, but his receding hairline and visible liver spots on the back of his hand are more suggestive of a man in his fifties.

  “Oh, my God. Do you think that ever works?”

  Lena flashes the guy’s picture at me, putting on a deep, manly voice. “Don’t you want to kiss me, Sophie?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “But his profile says he speaks three languages.”

  “Looks like he’s had the time to learn.”

  She turns her attention back to the app, poking her tongue out devilishly. “I’m going to swipe right on a few.”

  “Don’t!”

  Swiping right on the app meant there was a chance you would match with the person if they swiped right on your picture, too. I could envision my inbox flooded with messages from strange men.

  I try to take my cell from Lena, but she holds me off with an outstretched arm, laughing maniacally as her thumb swipes relentlessly right across the screen.

  “Oh no!” She teases. “Men might actually talk to you!”

  She must have swiped right on a dozen men before I manage to get my cell back. I sigh and tuck it in my purse.

  Lena is still chuckling as she takes a bite of her muffin. “You haven’t even told me how the last date went. What was his name again?”

  “Charlie.”

  “Oh, yes. Charlie, whose profile didn’t contain the slightest hint of personality.”

  “Or a gross pick-up line.”

  “So, how was he in real life?”

  I chew on the inside of my lip. From the corner of my eye, I can see Lena smirking. She gives me a little push. “Tell me!”

  I throw my hands up. “Possibly the most boring man I’ve ever met.”

  She laughs. “What do you expect? If you veto anyone with any hint of cheekiness or sex drive, you’re going to end up with dullards.”

  “He started the conversation by listing every item in his entomology collection.”

  “Entomology?”

  “He collects bugs.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yup. Apparently, he has the fourth-largest collection of beetles in the USA.”

  “That’s quite something.”

  “According to Charlie, it was. He went on about it for hours. ‘People commonly refer to spiders as insects. This is a common misconception. They are, in fact, anthropods.’”

  “At least you learned something.”

  I raise my eyebrows and take a sip of my latte, disappointed to see half the kitten dissolve. I lick some remaining froth off my bottom lip.

  “Like I said, Sophie, if you won’t deviate from your criteria, you’ll never be pleasantly surprised—only bored.”

  “Edward wasn’t a bore,” I say defensively, dabbing at my lips with a napkin.

  “Just a raging misogynist.”

  I chuckle. “I wouldn’t describe it as misogyny. I think he even called himself a feminist at one point.”

  “Ah yes, because all feminists like to be informed they’ll be going Dutch before the date even starts.”

  “I thought it was fair.”

  “Hardly romantic, though. And what about that creepy guy?”

  “Simon, the sniffer?”

  “Yes, him!”

  I shudder at the memory of my date with Simon the dentist— who felt it was appropriate to hold my hand like a drowning man while we were lining up for tickets and then conspicuously and audibly take deep whiffs of my hair every few seconds throughout the movie, which also turned out to be complete crap.

  “I think you should take a new approach,” Lena says.

  “Which is?”

  “Let your hair down. Feel that hot, single blood running in your veins, and accept that it’s normal, as a grown woman, to feel turned on occasionally. Be pulled in by that cheeky one-liner; let yourself bask in the cringe of a come-on that’s packed with suggestion. See how it feels to le
t those bunched-up panties drop.”

  “Let them drop?”

  “Metaphorically.”

  I raise an eyebrow, licking my finger and pressing it down over the remaining cookie crumbs on my plate, idly putting them in my mouth.

  “You know me. I’d die if I tried to sext someone.”

  “Why? If you don’t get into it, then you never meet them. Block them, move on. If you do get into it, then there’s a chance you might actually get to have some fun.”

  “I don’t find casual sex fun.”

  “What about flirting? Dating? Wearing a pair of underwear that you wouldn’t find in grandma’s dresser?”

  “Hey!”

  “I’m just saying, Sophie; it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for you to let your hair down a little. You’ve tried filtering these men based on whatever ridiculously complicated checklist you have in your head, and it’s getting you nowhere. Give out your number to the first three men who message you. Go on—I dare you.”

  “I don’t know, Lena.”

  She frowns, turning toward me, taking my hands, and shaking them up and down in exasperation. “Come on! Are you really going to let the world’s shortest marriage turn you into a spinster for the rest of your life?”

  I draw in a sharp breath. Mention of my six weeks as Mrs. Tanner still makes me flinch. Then, the feeling passes, and I chuckle. It was a crazy marriage, a long time ago.

  “Do you really think that has anything to do with it? It was ten years ago.”

  “And a decade later, you’re still single.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t been on dates.”

  “Sure, I know. But it’s time to really put yourself out there. You’re thirty-two now. It’s time that you found someone. Life’s passing you by. You need a little romance in your life, and, God forbid, a little sensuality.”

  “Point taken, Lena. I’ll think about it.”

  “Don’t think. Do. You can’t refuse a dare.”

  “Didn’t you just say I was thirty-two?” I tease, chuckling. “I’m not sure I’m still bound by a double-dog dare.”

  She shrugs, casting me a knowing smile, and letting out a small, disappointed breath. “It’s up to you, Sophie. As long as you’re happy.”

  Due to Lena’s sneaky swiping, I have five matches by the time I get home to my apartment after work. I kick off my shoes at the door, head straight to the sofa, and flop down with my cell in my hand. I open messages from the first three men.

  Connor—five miles away—has sent me a simple and classic “Hi.”

  Dave, a personal trainer with very thick eyebrows, has sent me, “Looking hot, girl.”

  The third potential suitor, Noah, has made a bit more of an effort with, “You’re a banker? Maybe I can take you out some time after work.” At least he’s read my profile.

  I scroll through their profiles to try and figure out whether there might be any chance of a genuine spark with any of them.

  Connor is fairly attractive, I suppose. He has dark blond hair and olive skin. He looks like he might have quite the body, too. You could say that fit blonds are my type, I guess. Although the last tanned blond you dated became your husband.

  My skin prickles at the thought of the man I married. “Married” isn’t really the word I’d use for it, in hindsight. We eloped. A long time ago.

  I quickly switch to Dave’s profile. He’s broad-shouldered and square-headed. He looks cartoonishly blocky and square. Still, I’m not superficial—at least he’s not blond. His hair is a light brown.

  According to his profile, the third guy, Noah, is an IT Consultant. In his profile picture, he’s sitting in front of a half-circle of monitors, a call-center headset on his head. He’s grinning widely, wearing a crisp blue shirt. He looks like a stock image from customerservice.com.

  None of them really float my boat, but Lena’s words are ringing in my head. Are you really going to let the world’s shortest marriage turn you into a spinster for the rest of your life?

  I fire off the same message to all three: “Text me,” plus my number. Then I place my cell face-down on the coffee table, my heart pounding. My ears feel hot; I’m flushed.

  I usually spend weeks vetting the men I connect with online before reluctantly agreeing to a date in a pre-agreed public setting. Giving out my number off the cuff seems reckless.

  Maybe a little exciting, too, though?

  Cole

  My head is still ringing with the lyrics of Thinking Out Loud as I step into my apartment. It’s an apartment I both love and hate, a remnant of my former success.

  It’s a mid-size apartment on the eighth floor with a great view over midtown Manhattan. Over the tops of the buildings, the Broadway skyline is just visible, its lights flickering. I’m right in the center of New York life, a subway’s ride away from Times Square and the Rockefeller Center.

  That used to excite me, but now I find it depressing. These days it seems that I’m always on the sidelines of someone else’s fantastic memory. Broadway has become too familiar. I hardly take note of the theatre now.

  The city reminds me of how I felt after winning my first major award and making enough money for the deposit—and the first day I had those keys in my hands. I remember some of the greyscale landscapes I shot when I first moved here, back when I appreciated nothing more than all the potential and promise of New York.

  I still have one of those landscapes printed on a canvas on my wall, next to dozens of my other works. The black-and-white felt artistic at the time, but now it seems bleak.

  The greatest shots of my short and glistening career also adorn the walls. There’s the shot of a US soldier with a thousand-yard stare looking over ruins in Afghanistan, while another soldier tries to resuscitate a young girl in the background. I won a prize for that image; the award hangs in a frame beside the picture.

  It’s hot as hell out here. I’m trying to lay low, but I stand out like a sore thumb. I’ve been sitting in what’s left of the village, waiting for the US Army to pass through. I’m not supposed to be here.

  I take a sip of warm water from my bottle and glance at my watch. My guide was meant to be here an hour ago, and I’m starting to worry. After all, I’m a twenty-four-year old New Yorker alone in a war zone.

  The dust beneath my feet starts vibrating as the trucks pull near. I raise my camera to capture their passage, but soon realize that this is no simple through-drive to base.

  I can hear screaming, commands being yelled out, the shouts of men in agony. The trucks reel into the clearing. I keep out of the way, although nobody is paying attention to me. There are much greater things at hand than the presence of a photographer.

  One of the trucks is missing half its front and limps into the village. I guess that the troop has hit a roadside bomb. Unharmed soldiers drop down from the truck to run for supplies.

  A young soldier crouches on the dusty ground, his head in his hands, his stare long and distant. Behind him, another Private holding the limp body of a young Afghan girl jumps down.

  The first soldier doesn’t even look up as the second begins to resuscitate.

  Part of me wants to run and help him. The other part of me knows I have a job to do. I raise my camera and shoot.

  I remember how it felt to actually be there, feeling overwhelmed by the significance of being right where I was standing, knowing that if I didn’t capture that very moment, it would disappear, and the world would never know.

  I have four newspapers framed from the occasions where my pictures made the front page. Obama’s election, the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, the Orange Revolution in Kiev, and an image of a child being reunited with her missing parents after the earthquake in Haiti.

  My memories of my photojournalism career are bittersweet. I’ve been present at some of the most iconic events of the twenty-first century and taken pictures that have memorialized those moments in human memory forever. But it’s over now. There is no more jet-setting and living life b
y the rush of adrenalin. It’s only weddings and sweet-sixteens. Those pictures on my wall are a reminder of an adventure that ended far too soon.

  I place my bag of equipment in its cabinet in the living room and head to my bedroom. It’s sparse inside; stripy blue and white bedsheets, a mirrored wardrobe and a nightstand. Yesterday’s shirt and tie are still strewn over the back of a chair in the corner.

  I pull my busted cell from my pocket and take a proper look at it under the light. It’s completely broken, cracked right down the middle of the screen. I try to turn it on; the backlight flickers, then dies.

  I chuck it to the end of my bed and dig around in the bottom drawer of my nightstand for the old cell I keep for occasions just like this, then switch on the radio. Ed Sheeran again. I tune into a classic rock station and start to unwind.

  My old cell is buried under a bunch of old CDs and several keys for unknown doors. It’s some ten years old. It’s thick and chunky; the sort where each key governs three letters, making your thumbs ache when you try to type out a message. Just looking at the outdated brick of a cell, I’m yearning for the ease of my smartphone.

  I find the charger and plug it in. I watch the battery symbol fill up with bars until it’s charged enough to switch on, then slide in the SIM from my new phone. When it’s ready, I select the option to copy over SIM contacts to the cell, merging my current contacts with the ones from my old handset.

  “Ta-da,” I mutter to myself.

  At last, I can get in touch with Fifi. She’s still saved as “Sophia” in my phone, from before I met her and discovered, “Everyone calls me Fifi!”

  I lie back against my pillows, listening to Aerosmith, letting my muscles relax. I scroll through my contacts to Sophia.

  Maybe a few steamy messages will help me unwind—and Fifi’s a bombshell. She’s a wild brunette who loves to be the life and soul of the party, and she’s not afraid to get explicit. We’ve been sexting through the app since day one, then we moved onto texts when numbers were exchanged.