Of course, since I wake up every morning and check my phone hoping this kind of thing will actually happen to me, I responded by panicking, writing 17 drafts ranging from single words to whole thoughts to 2-3 paragraph treatises on love in the postmodern world, and then just passing out in a bowl of soggy Honeycombs.
As a beginning sexter, I’m not sure of precedent (should I say “thank you” or move straight to which body part I want her lips on). Also, as a general neurotic messenger, I’m not sure which version of myself I should present in these tricky situations (do I pretend to be coy, like some innocent gentleman who’d rather go about things the old-fashioned way, or do I play up my inner frat boy and just talk about her tits).
So, here is what I tried, each with successive second-guesses, rewrites, frustrated deletes, and more nervous Honeycomb munching.
1st Response: You’re cute, too. What are we going to do about that?
Why I deleted it? Cuz it sounds like she’s spilled milk. And as punishment, I’m going to sexually harass her.
2nd Response: So sweet of you to say: ) How’s things?
Why not? UGH. Am I a man, or A MAN?!
3rd Response: I’ve been staring at your photos from the beach last summer wondering what you’d look like naked, surrendering yourself to me on a sandy knoll.
Why not? I’m a man, not a guy who gets photos of himself put up when he moves into the neighborhood.
4th Response: Judging that you sent this at 4 a.m., I’m guessing you’re either drunk, high, or someone has snuck into your account.
Why not? Much too honest. And where’s the gain?! I’d rather be an overeager pocket-rocket than a reductive, humorless middle-manager.
5th and final Response: That’s funny because I always thought I would be the one sending you late-night texts disclosing how cute you were.
The problem: It reveals that I’ve been harboring unrequited perv thoughts. This reveals that I’m not aggressive enough. And that’s what Men’s Health says women want. Savage opportunist. But I stuck with it because, as I said, my Honeycomb had gone soggy, and in the realm of male desires, food sadly takes precedent over convoluted sexual fulfillment. By the time she received my message, either the moment had passed or she had sobered up. Nothing came back. I think I should’ve gone with a line about making her body go limp with pleasure or whatever.