Once a week, Daily Intelligencer takes a peek behind doors left slightly ajar. This week, the College Professor Analyzing Her Lover’s Sext Grammar: Female, 50, college professor, Manhattan, heterosexual, in a relationship.
9:55 p.m. “Happy mon nit to 2 u baby. U sexy. Im in bed xx.” This is foreplay with the Mad Irishman in Dublin. I’m in New York. I text back, “U sexy 2 baby.” He writes, “Me n bed with u.”
9:57 p.m. I’m amazed that I’ve fallen in love with a semiliterate man with big lips and that this is now my sex life until we meet again. He doesn’t intentionally misspell words; he really doesn’t know. And I think it’s charming, and now I do the same, writing like I have a tenth-grade DOE education.
10 p.m. I grab my powder-blue vibrator out of my underwear drawer, pull down my pants, yank my bra over my head. I text: “Yes duck. Me in bed wit u.” He writes, “Can we fuck?”
10:02 p.m. He’s moving too fast tonight. I got to get him to slow down otherwise I won’t catch up. He’ll be coming all over my breasts before I even get a chance to get started. “Put your hands n ur puss’e.” That’s a new one, spelled that way. Is that an Irish thing? I make a note to check this. But I do as I’m told, but not really, because I put the vibrator on my puss’e. I’ve learned how to keep it between my legs, so I’ve got two hands to text. As if he can read my mind, he writes, “Are u wet?”
11:55 p.m. Almost midnight and no word from the Mad Irishman. He works late on Tuesdays, but I’m still disappointed. When we are in the same space, geographically, we don’t make love every night, but I get to kiss those fat lips of his, which is almost as good as an orgasm. It’s hard for me to concentrate on the essays I’m grading. I keep my phone next to me. I check it obsessively. Why haven’t I heard from him? I’m gonna watch some porn. Call me. You can’t leave me hanging like this. So much for feminism. So much for a Ph.D. I just want him, even though he has trouble on Facebook, his e-mails are a disaster, all he can do is text. Nothing else. Can barely send a pic. I’m acting like an adolescent.
12:20 a.m. I give up and find my favorite porn. I have so much to choose from: Hot Young Twat, Horny MILF’S, Virgin Gets Her Pussy Pounded, and in my aroused state, I can’t help but notice that the menu is never written from the male point of view, like, Insatiable Stud Rocks His Hard Rod or Horny Buck Creams His Jeans. But I click on a woman deep-throating a big hard penis and come almost immediately.
12:25 a.m. Then I get a text from him: “What u at baby?” I ignore it and masturbate by myself. This counts as an argument in cyberspace.
8:55 p.m. Text from him: “Wating for u now.” The now doesn’t refer to time, as in “waiting for you in this exact moment.” The emphasis here is on waiting. But he can wait all night. Just because he’s ready doesn’t mean I am. “Can i fell u up?” But when I read this, I only want to be as dumb and as sexy as possible. “Baby are u there? Me hard.”
8:57 p.m. I can’t it help it. I laugh. Send him a smiley face, and he does the same. “Me hard” is first person, objective case. This is incorrect. However, his brains are somewhere else. He has another specialty. One besides sex.
8:59 p.m. I type: “Me wet.” He replies: “Cnn I go n 2 u now pls.” What does it say about me that I can actually understand this? That it requires no translation? If he were one of my students, I’d have to give him a good spanking. He’s a storyteller, but aren’t they all? All the mad Irishmen. Line them up and, educated or stupid, they will charm the fucking pants off you. His exact first words to me were “God, you’re lovely.” Summertime in the Flatiron. Me standing outside a restaurant. Yes, he can most certainly go into me now.
5:18 p.m. I take the texting initiative: “What u at sexy?” My vibrator is ready. I’m wearing a black sheer blouse, unbuttoned. Very turned on by my bra. My nipples poke through the lace. Erect. Should I tell him I always use the vibrator? I wonder if he really jerks off. I picture him in his double bed decorated in the colors of his football team. He keeps his old-fashioned flip phone on the nightstand. He wears a T-shirt but is naked from the waist down. He always keeps one hand on his dick.
6 p.m. He doesn’t get back to me. I check the time. 11 p.m. in Dublin. He should be home in bed. I consider the porn alternative, but reject it. I just want my man. But the phone rings. It’s the Mad Irishman. My love. Breathing heavy, he says, “Hi baby! Can I come now?”
6:01 p.m. “Wait, wait,” I say. “Give me a second.”
6:02 p.m. I turn on the vibrator. The machine springs to life, purring, on top of my clit. This won’t take long. I undo the straps of my bra so my breasts spill out. Oh my God. So turned on. “Put your hands on my tits,” I say. “Oh baby, I love you,” he says. And that accent is driving me mad. Christ, this is not going to take long at all. I ease up on the vibrator. I don’t want to come now. “Oh Jesus, you’re so hot, baby,” he says. “I’m so hard.”
6:05 p.m. I get off the couch and go into the bedroom. Stand in front of the full-length mirror. My phone up to my ear, my vibrator on my puss’e. For good measure, I slip on a pair of high heels. “I’m playing, darling,” he whispers. “Wait, wait,” I say. I sit on my desk chair, my legs buckling. I pull the chair in front of the mirror, finally ready. “Stick it in,” I say.
6:30 p.m. I sign up for a new online dating site. I figure there is nothing wrong with having sex in the material world, while I’m having sex in the cyberworld. I figure the two worlds are distinctly different. The French have a word for this, but I can’t think of it right now. I don’t consider this cheating. But I also think the rule book on this etiquette hasn’t been written, at least not to my satisfaction. Some women think that if their partner is watching porn that’s cheating. I disagree. At least this dating site doesn’t require that I fill out an endlessly stupid questionnaire that tells you nothing about a person. It cannot predict the chemistry. If I’d met the Mad Irishman online (which he could never do anyway), I would’ve completely ignored him. In fact, I’d be horrified. This site only requires a picture and one sentence describing your perfect date.
7 p.m. And of course the minute I hit submit, he texts, “Hi duck.” Then: “J and XXOO.”
7:02 p.m. I’m not going to tell him about the dating site. Just like I’ve decided not to tell him about the vibrator. I have no doubt he’s hard as a rock and jerking himself off when we go at it, but I could never have an orgasm without it. Not in cyberspace. Need porn and/or vibrator. Maybe he has porn, too! A magazine. Because he’s so analog. Big beaver shots, huge nipples.
11 p.m. I get a text from Mad Irishman as soon as I walk in the door and throw down my keys. Thank God. I completely forget about the lackluster date with the newly divorced lawyer from Prospect Park. A delicious coq au vin with a fastidious man wearing a velour pullover. Didn’t those go out of style like fifteen years ago? He writes, “Me and u would be tight n bed!!!” I write, “I’d like to check into a hotel with u n hav sex 4 three days.” Mad Irishman: “Me big now. Bra!”
11:03 p.m. “U hot 2 baby! J Sexywhatudonow?” I text: “Showing u my tits.” Him: “Wet?” Me: “Yes.” And that’s no lie. I could sit down right now and get myself off. I don’t even need the vibrator. I’m just so glad to hear from him.
1:30 p.m. Sick of the vibrator. Decide to masturbate in the bathtub with my feet splayed on the walls. The water rushes between my legs, not too hot, not too cold. I close my eyes and the Mad Irishman is here with me. He watches me in the first of many orgasms. His mouth on top of mine, his hands in my puss’e. He stands up, unzips his pants, kneels at the side of the tub. I lean over to put him in my mouth. He comes on me. Except not really. I get out of the tub, towel myself dry. Seventy-nine days and counting until he’s back in New York. I guess this is what counts as love and sex in the digital age.
TOTALS: 6 acts of sexting; 1 porn viewing; 1 almost argument; 1 lackluster date; 1 act of masturbation in the bathtub.