Ok, here’s the back-story. A while ago I met this guy, let’s call him Dan. He was cute, tall, older and a talented cocktail barman (a very attractive feature). And he totally had that cheekycharmingBrit thing down. I had no romantic feelings for Dan whatsoever. I was only in town for 3 months, was finally exploring the limits of being young and single after a disastrous break up and I fancied him. Something needed to be done.  After several nights of after work drinks with the lads, some tentative flirting and a pop-in to his bar with a friend who egged me on, I left him my number, unsolicited, and wondered if I might hear from him at some point.

He texted me 20 minutes later, I had been right on the money with this one. The attraction was mutual and our intentions identical. Our conversation in messages depicted a chemistry and repartee that was totally sexy and ultimately ended like this:

Him: oh, that’s on my way home… xx
Me: Is that you looking for an invite?
Him: How naughty are you feeling? 🙂
Me: Ask me again in person.

Perceiving the green light my response was to be totally brazen. I’ve been called cheeky on a few occasions too… The sex was good, the night was fun and the bold banter before (texted) and during (spoken. Moaned. Gasped.) was a terrific turn on. Bear this point in mind. Anyway, Crossed wires and prior entanglements meant that despite mutual interest, that night never got a sequel. We saw each other at the bar and after I left town, chatted briefly over Facebook.

Last weekend I was up at the cottage alone, having deep sleeps and vivid dreams about all manner of random things. Dan rocked up in my subconscious for whatever reason, transplanted to my local cocktail haunt, bartending there. And while it wasn’t a porno in my mind, it certainly wasn’t PG either. Stuck indoors the next day cause of bad weather, I checked my iPhone and saw him flit onto FB chat. I couldn’t resist the impulse to say hi. I opened by letting him know I’d been dreaming of him and we were off, whipping flirtations back and forth, falling into that one-time banter and subtextually goading each other into crossing the line. But when the rain stopped and the sun came out, I left him high and dry, advising him to write me. We’d already had great sex; we’re friendly but not friends and are both currently unattached. The answer seemed obvious. Except, what do you do when your fuck buddy’s too far away to fuck? Somewhat intrigued by the unchartered territory, my mind wandered over the possibilities. Fuckable as he was, this wasn’t someone who I’d rack up the phone bill for. But there’s IM, Skype and all other sorts of mod cons. Plus I had a long weekend and the house to myself. We’d so easily returned to our original teasing chemistry, I was curious to see what would develop. This might prove an interesting diversion.

Now, I’ve sent plenty of instructive dirty messages. And it would be fair to say that I’m a member of the ‘ooh ya, talk dirty to me baby’ club. But I’ve never done this before and I was in NO way prepared for the pretty piece of filth that awaited me when I next checked my inbox. Seeing it all there in black and white, smut so lengthy and excruciatingly descriptive, it made me do something I haven’t done in a while: blush.

And that was that. He’d popped my cybersex cherry. I felt virginal, shy (hello old friends!!). Dunno if the process was sending more blood to my cheeks or my crotch. From whisky drips licked off tits to the post-coital cigarette, I had been written a totally engrossing sex epic. Modesty (hey there old pal!) prevents me from reciting or retyping the juiciest (literally) details of his message to me but needless to say, “slips a leg over my shoulder, so I can get my fingers deeper… Her scent becomes overpowering, I have to fuck her” was the absolute mildest of it. The ante had been upped. Had I written a cheque my ass couldn’t cash? Whatever horizontal talents I may have (and vertical, upside down and diagonal) are of no use to me here. Shit. I needed some serious game.

I had a drink, flipped the lights off and wrote back, typing with one hand. What did he want? To hear what I did upon reading his message? What I’d do to him if he was here? An elaborate erotic fairytale? I opted for a little of column A and some of column B. And it was easy enough to get into. Knowing he’d enjoyed me before and would like to again, I found my confidence and translated my natural inclinations into a descriptive play by play.

He messaged me back again, picking up on my cues. It was weird to see how we were obviously doing what you normally would; feeling each other out without asking, figuring out what one another wanted. Except, obviously, without any actual feeling going on. This was starting to get frustrating. Maybe because we were experiencing it separately? I had no idea what his reaction was. Was it the dirty messages that were getting him off? Or the idea of me writing them for him? For me, knowing how he was reacting would be way sexier than the messages themselves, wonderfully dirty though they are. I realized the bloom was off the rose. Having never played this game before, the tingle of anticipation, the thrill of manipulation, the banter, the flirtation, that’s what was turning me on. There’s a reason people are into the chase; it’s foreplay.

He had dealt me a great hand but I still wasn’t winning. Unless of course, one of us raises the stakes again.