Skype-sex sucks. And I don’t mean in a cool sexy way. I mean in a “sucks ass” kind of way.
So, summer was interesting. Maybe you hooked up with a Tinder date who was just visiting and that sweaty weekend turned into something more. Maybe you Tindered on vacation in another country and ended up embroiled in a full on holiday romance. Or maybe you, like me, went to Nicaragua, met someone, disregarded them as too tediously earnest for holiday fun, bumped into them two weeks later in another town, hooked up, rented a motorbike, drove into the wilds, and ended up having an epic tropical, motorcycle sex-adventure complete with machete-wielding rancheros, gun-toting mechanics, and turtle-eating indigenous tribes descended from runaway slaves and pirates.
Maybe, in these or many other, equally sucky ways, I ended up infatuated with someone who doesn’t live in the same planning zone as I do. That was a stupid thing to do. And I should have known better.
You’ll most likely be skypexing at night in your dimly lit room, a grainy, furtive figure bathed in the cold, lonely blue light of a laptop screenNow we’ve exchanged messages and slowly got down to admitting we each other and are both horny. Maybe I’ve even Skyped with this person and made suggestive remarks about how wild sexing over Skype would be. Little did I realize my mouth was writing cheques my body could not cash.
We ended up setting a Skype-sex date. As a Skype-sex virgin I was nervous, and as any nervous woman does, I researched the shit out of it. The Internet is awash with bullshit Skype-sex advice articles accompanied by photographs of underwear models posing with laptops. This is not what you will look like. The morning sun will not bathe you in a golden light. Silk lingerie will not shimmer against your skin.
You’ll most likely be skypexing at night in your dimly lit room, a grainy, furtive figure bathed in the cold, lonely blue light of a laptop screen. It will actually be more like photos used to illustrate articles about chat room predators and paedophiles.
Which brings us to Internet tip number one.Lighting candles to set the mood is a dumb idea. Apart from problems with low visibility, who, outside of a Desperate Housewives episode, has sex surrounded by candles? Arrange a time that suits you both. Think mood and mental state as well as free time. If time differences are large, maybe one of you is waking up all tousle-headed and horny while the other one is on a lunch break, having just wrestled down a smelly metro car past a thousand boisterous French teenagers on their school excursion. Use foreplay. Dirty text messages are the digital equivalent of foreplay. It’s great if you can get the other person to send them to you. Or, if you get carried away on your own sex-fest and leave the other person behind (hey, it happens to all of us sometimes), a little bit of literotica.com can be fun. Pictures for the boys, words for the girls. Gender differences in sex are usually nothing more than stereotypes and myths but I’ve found this one to be true. When it comes to sex, boys prefer visuals and girls like words. So, guys, start talking her into the mood the way you’d try and seduce her in person with all that sincere stuff (cough) about how beautiful and sexy she is. Ladies, show ‘em your tits (it’s that simple) and then your fanny and then your bum. And, keep in mind the poses that work best for them are the ones you hate: the rear view of you on all fours, the view from between your legs. All those unflattering views are the sights they know and love. Rehearsal. For the love of god, do a rehearsal and, better still, record it and watch yourself. Firstly, it’s fun to find out what your cum face is for the first time (vacant and mildly confused in my case). Secondly, the poses really do not work as you’d imagine them to. The sexiest pose, you’ll find, is lounging on your side Cleopatra style until your neck starts to hurt (after precisely two seconds). Don’t change position! Just smile through the pain like a porn star. Get intimate and talk dirty from the start. I started with the usual ‘so how was your day, dear?’ and the Skype-sex died in my arms like a stupid poison-drinking Shakespearean lover. No amount of Cleopatra poses and hastily drunk beer can rescue that situation.
Like Juliet, there was nothing else to do but to fall on the dagger and commit digital suicide. I sent him the videos I’d made while rehearsing. Yep, there are now sex tapes of me out there, which will no doubt surface either when I become president or when my (non-religious) godson, Taco, grows old enough to discover internet porn.
Such monumental idiocy can only indicate one thing. I’m in love. Or some shit like that. This may be the end of the Tinder road for me.