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SHELBY: Yeah, you’re forgetting that you could just DATE HIM. You get the orgasms, you get the friend, you get the feelings. It’s win, win, win.
LORELAI: I also get the insecurity, the jealousy, the battling careers, the abandonment issues, the commitment phobia…
LORELAI: Y’all, I can’t go there.
MAREN: RIP your nipples, I guess.
SHELBY: *sigh* “Hey, Alexa, add ‘send rechargeable batteries to Lorelai’ to my to-do list.”
Full disclosure: I’m not a stranger to sexting. Back in Michigan, before my last album and before returning to Nashville and before… whatever this is, Drake used to sext me on occasion. And if those occasions lined up with a night I was feeling especially horny or lonely or maybe just empowered because I knew if he was texting me, he wasn’t hooking up with someone else… well, I’d respond. I knew damn well nothing was ever going to come of it. It’s true I thought I really loved him once upon a time, but it turns out I was young and influenced and I don’t know. What I thought was love just faded? Turns out, being left at the metaphorical altar really just squeezed out all the love I had inside of me.
Besides, Drake’s an opportunist. He’s too self-absorbed to put actual effort into loving someone, but if the rightsituation presents itself, he’ll be the first to jump on it and ride the easy wave.
Which is exactly why the minute, and I mean theveryminute, he tried to play the “Baby, I still love you, what are you wearing right now?” card, I quit that shit cold turkey. I might be an idiot who stayed with the guy way longer than I should have, but I needed to learn my lesson only once.
Anyway, I don’t want that with Craig, not the long-distance sexting and not the epically terrible one-sided relationship. As hot as his poetry gets me, there’s a reason the account is anonymous. It’s the same reason he played bass in the shadows instead of up front and center, despite his enormous talent. And the same reason I like him so damn much. I can’t just send him a text saying, “Fingered myself to your poem last night. Want to meet up?”
(Also, meet up where? On our balcony? In our driveway? Want to meet me downstairs in my apartment that you own?)
Just. Ugh.
By the time I’ve run all my favorite routes up my favorite wall a half a dozen times, I’m feeling an intense burn in my shoulders that’s gonna follow me into tomorrow and I’ve come up with a plan. It’s not quite so elaborate as “anonymous erotic poetry account,” but it’s close.
I shower, change into jeans and an old Hootie & the Blowfish tee (because I liked Darius Rucker before he was country music cool), and make myself two toasted sandwiches on tiny gluten-free slices of bread. Then I pick up my guitar and get to work. I’m not as exceptional a songwriter as Craig, but I’m good in my own right. And occasionally, I’m even brilliant.
A few hours later, I’ve got a decent start on a new song. Only this one will never see the inside of a booth. This is just for him, and it’s not finished yet, but as it is, it should get his blood pumping. Praying that I’m not making a huge mistake, I hit record on my laptop, strum the opening chords, and sing.
The words you said
echo softly ’round my head
Whisper sparks along my skin and
I can’t help
Tracing patterns from the lines
Fingertips drawing where your eyes
Set me on fire
You breathed me in
Stealing air and sense away
And planted longing deep inside
I can’t stop
Imagining your lips
Kissing every inch of me
Burning for you
It records in one take, and I don’t even bother listening back. I’m not aiming for perfection. Frankly, I’m aiming for his cock.
I save the file and send myself a copy so that I can access it on my phone. I don’t want to send this through our emails like a business transaction.
