Girl on the Net

As a huge fan of the power of words, I am fully in love with this week’s guest blog which is about a super-hot sexting relationship which happened almost exclusively via the medium of sexy messages. In the right moment, the three dots indicating someone’s writing can have a distinctly Pavlovian horn response, and this week’s writer – Gavriel Hollander – has captured the joy of it beautifully. Read, enjoy and embrace the awesome things we can do purely with the power of language…

My two-month sexting relationship

Our first meeting is at the airport. As she walks towards me through the arrivals hall, I hold my finger to my lips, commanding her to keep quiet. Silently, I lead her into the grey anonymity of the multi-storey carpark. I find my hire car, push her against the cold metal and kiss her, hungrily. Her body yields as my hand feels for her growing dampness through the fabric of her loose fitting dress…

This didn’t actually happen. Not in real life anyway. This was a fantasy played out entirely over WhatsApp with a woman I met on Tinder. She became my summer romance, though we lived 5,000 miles apart.

“She’s your ideal girlfriend,” a friend told me. “Sexually adventurous, small tits, smarter than you. And entirely unavailable.”

Neither of us could work out how we matched. We figured we might have been in the same city at some point, on a layover. I messaged her and she was bored enough – another stop off “somewhere in Asia, I think” – to respond. Nor can I really explain how we began. “No unsolicited dick pics,” she told me, and then gave me a reading list of sex positive literature to start ploughing through. I responded with a picture of my exposed ankle.

But we were both bored and horny. She was still in her unknown airport, I was mooching around in cafés, a listless freelancer on a hot London day. Working but not working. A couple of hours later, I was in my bedroom, urgently texting her, telling her what we are doing to each other on her plane.

First, we sit side by side, faces forward and unblinking as my fingers work their way tentatively up her inner thigh, while she feels for my hardening cock under a blanket. Later, in the overlit bathroom, she perches above me on the sink and I tease at her dripping pussy with my tongue.

There was something uniquely exciting about a sexual relationship conducted almost entirely through the written word. Typing one-handed, while the other worked away slowly, the excruciating seconds between the tick turning from grey to blue, and then for the delicious italics “…is typing” to appear as our fantasies intertwined, one message at a time. The novelty was a factor, for sure, but also the transgression of it all. Here we were, two people who hadn’t met and with little prospect of doing so, getting each other off from across an entire ocean. It was like we were cheating on the world of ‘How Things Are Done’.

We talked a few times – we liked each other’s voices telling the other what to do, how to touch ourselves – and we tried a couple of video calls. But most of the fantasy remained text-based. It was an old-fashioned story as much as a thoroughly modern one.

The time difference was a hindrance but also a turn on. “Hey, you up” would flash up on my screen first thing in the morning, and I’d realise she wanted a bedtime story just as my morning horn was kicking in.

And then there was the furtiveness of this sexting relationship. One of my favourite ‘dates’ was in a cab on the way to a festival. While my friends sat in the back chatting about tents and fancy dress, she was sitting on my cock in the front, grinding her arse back on to it every time the car stopped. She came just as we got to the campsite.

See, that’s the other thing about a sext-only relationship: you have to be generous. Our wanking schedules weren’t always in synch, and so I’d describe how my tongue was working its way up her glistening thigh, while I was sat at a desk watching my colleagues eat their lunch. Likewise, she’d be at her mum’s house, talking me through the detail of a practiced and exquisite blow job.

It was liberating, this summer of sext. I’m probably on the vanilla side of things in my real sex life. Not 100% missionary you understand, but maybe not the most adventurous. With someone who lived mainly on my phone, my imagination could run wild. We could have the sex we might not have been able to have in the physical world.

We did meet eventually. She was coming through London for a few days and we planned a drink. “No expectations,” she said. “You might be all British about it.” And it turns out she was hot and cool and smart. But serendipity had made other plans. I had (wrongly, as it turns out) thought I’d fallen in love with a girl who’d been on my radar for a while. So we had a drink and said goodbye.

I regretted that missed opportunity at first – she had told me she had ‘perfect vaginal architecture’ after all and I never got to discover it – but now I think it was better that way. We could remain forever in the realm of fantasy.

For a while, on other listless summer days, when the mood took me, I would look back through the archive for inspiration.

I told her that once. She said she was pleased.