I think chivalry officially died when the text message was invented. After the text, the sext was spawned, making hooking up easier than ever.
A sext is a text sent late at night when the messenger is usually inebriated and wants to take off his or her pants. At first, an unsuspecting receiver might find the message innocent. The text might read What are you doing?"" or ""Want to meet up?"" or ""Let's start our history.""
Do not let yourself be fooled.
This translates to, ""Come over, bite my neck, lick my ears and show me whatcha got. You can sleep over, but breakfast isn't a good idea. Oh, and would you mind wearing lacy underwear? OK, great.""
This is a slap in the face. First of all, if you want me to take off my shirt, I deserve at least an awkward phone call and a $13 entrée at Chili's. I am even up for some wings at Hooters.
How am I supposed to respond? Thank you for drunkenly punching in letters. I am touched, really. I am putty in your hands. I am kneeling at your feet.
I've been getting a steady stream of sexts since freshman year, most of which I ignore. When I went to Ireland this summer, I hoped to find an Irish loverboy whose European sophistication would place him above sexts - but I was dead wrong.
I met Aiden at a pub (OK, maybe not the best place to meet your future husband) one of my first nights. He was a gorgeous Irishman with a lovely accent and big blue eyes I wanted to dive into. He was a young banker and enjoyed wearing neatly tailored suits. When he bought me a Miller Light, I was sure I'd import him to the U.S. and we would breed many attractive children. So, I gave him my number at the end of the night. But yet again, I misread lust for love.
Aiden disappointed me. He never called, but he incessantly sexted me. I can't even share most of what he wrote because he was downright foul. However, the sexts remained a constant source of entertainment for my friends and me.
""Hey babe,"" he'd write. ""I was just wondering if I could peel off your clothes, rub your feet and lick the crevices of your neck.""
I think these messages were supposed to make me hot, but this did not, in fact, turn me on. They made me want to jump into a cold shower, wear turtlenecks and eat brunch with grandma. They made me want to join a nunnery, read feminist literature and never shave my legs again.
""I am currently occupied at the moment,"" I'd respond, as I was spooning food into my mouth and lounging in boxers. ""I'm out with friends. Very busy. Won't be free, ever.""
I didn't want sext. I wanted meaning. I wanted to fall in love over a dinner of lamb stew and Guinness. It doesn't matter what continent you live on, if you want to meet someone significant, you can't expect anything from a sext. A sext doesn't mean ""I like you"" or ""I think you're interesting"" or ""Let's contemplate purchasing a home together in the future."" It simply means ""I'd hit it.""
And that's fun, but personally I'd rather be home laughing with my friends and drinking Miller Lite. I want candlelight, hand-holding, intense yearning before any first kiss - and lots of presents. And I freaking deserve it - because I'm cute.
In 50 years, when you're telling the grandchildren how you met your significant other, you're not going to say: ""We met at a bar. Your little player grandpa hollered at me the next Friday when he was having long islands at the Plaza. I showed up after he sexted me, 'Hey, want to hang out?' And ever since then I've never been happier.""
If you want to sext message Ashley, e-mail her at aaspencer@wisc.edu. _
