I don’t do sexy. I can pull off adorable, pretty, cute, sweet, professional, elegant, athletic or beautiful, depending on my mood and the circumstances. But sexy? Sexy is hard to do. I find the line between sexy and vulgar is very thin, and the last thing I want is to look like Jessica Rabbit at a wedding. I’m not sure if it is the product of my English Protestant- inspired upbringing mixed with my Catholic high school run by nuns, but when I imagine being sexy, I inevitably think of Mr. Bean. With a role model like that, y’all can understand why I struggle with the concept of sexiness.
It gets even more awkward when I shift from sexy appearance to sexy behaviour (attempted flirting and seduction). There was that time I attempted a strip tease for my first boyfriend and got stuck with my shirt above my face, arms flailing helplessly above my head, caught in the impromptu straight-jacket. I looked similar to Mr. Bean with the turkey on his head. Except unlike Mr. Bean, I collapsed into hysterical giggles as my boyfriend looked on in consternation. Not quite the tone I was going for.
There was the time I attempted 69-ing with that same boyfriend . It was an activity I was still getting used to – very complex movement: the fear of accidentally braining the guy with my knee as I settled down, making sure all bits were properly aligned and then multitasking. On this particular occasion, boyfriend decided we’d change the usual procedure and he’d be on top. I didn’t say anything, because I was concentrating on sucking in my tummy and my come-hither look. Also, I couldn’t figure out how to verbalize my concern that he would squash me – seemed like a rude thing to suggest. Anyhow, the logistics were ironed out, multitasking began, and… He farted. In my face. And tried to keep going as though nothing happened. I understood that I was supposed to follow his lead. I failed. Bursting out laughing with a penis in one’s mouth is not sexy. Nor is it sexy when you have to try push off a big guy from on top of you, so that you can take a few deep breaths as you attempt to moderate your uncontrollable laughter, while naked, next to a boy with wounded pride. Anti-sexiness.
And now, for my most recent failed attempt at the sexy.
Last week, I decided to overhaul my undergarment collection: my stuff was beginning to look ratty, and given my new comfort-level with vulnerability, I was hopeful that 2016 would result in more successful dating streaks/opportunities to get naked. I took advantage of Boxing Day sales and splurged on $150 of lingerie (worth > $300!! Saving money is super sexy). As I was getting ready on New Year’s Eve, I decided the most reasonable thing for me to do would be to send a picture of myself in my new frivolous lace undergarments to Beaut – if we weren’t going to ring the New Year together, obviously the next best thing would be for him to have a picture of me half-naked on his phone. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that. Beaut was appreciative, and I thumped my chest in victory at having successfully been sexy.
At my New Year’s Eve party, I wanted a sassy picture with my girlfriends. After many attempts, one dude successfully captured our hotness and texted me the pic. After editing it and posting it on Facebook I discarded my phone, so I could pour myself a drink. Pouring myself a drink requires a lot of concentration, so I didn’t hear my girlfriend calling me over and over. She eventually tapped me on my shoulder, and handed me my phone, looking stricken.
“What’s wrong?”, I asked, concerned.
“Your phone… I’m sorry… I didn’t mean to… it just happened… I was trying to find the pic of us you just posted, and send myself a copy, but instead…That’s a VERY SEXY picture!!! That isn’t vanilla at all! I mean, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look, but it was just there, and you’re hot! You sent that to a guy, didn’t you! Ballsy. I never imagined you doing that kind of thing. Very nice lace, by the way – was that from Victoria’s Secret? Maybe you should lock your phone, though.”
That wasn’t embarrassing AT ALL.
Now, you’d think that would put a damper on my attempts at being sexy via technology. You’d think. However, keep in mind, it was New Year’s Eve: a night of hope, dreams, affection and booze. Too much booze.
Possibly because Beaut sent me a nice midnight text, and possibly because I was slightly tipsy, I decided when I got home that the best way to ring in the New Year would be to send Beaut a naughty video for him to view once he got home from his own celebrations -as a promise of good things to come in 2016. So I did. And then I went to sleep.
When I woke up the following morning, I checked my phone, and I saw that Beaut had not yet seen my video. In fact he hadn’t been online in 8 hours. Apparently, Beaut had fallen asleep before me! That was unexepected. Home-made naughty videos, when viewed in the wee hours of the morning, under the influence of alcohol, are acceptable. Home-made naughty videos, when viewed in the harsh unforgiving hungover sunlight are rarely sexy. I was anxious.
To add to my anxiety, Beaut seemingly spent most of January 1st sleeping – he was not online. Not that I was checking, compulsively, every 5 minutes, no way. Finally, I saw he’d read my messages. Finally! I was going to be put out of my misery. He’d say something, mutter appreciative noises, anything!
I went for a walk.
I caved. Casting any dignity aside, I wrote to him that his silence made me want to hide under a big rock, and that it wasn’t my fault he’d seen it at 3pm instead of 3am: maybe he’d like it more if he pretended he was drunk?
He wrote back an hour later to say that he was at a New Year’s family reunion, and as I’d prefaced the video with a “watch when you are alone”, he’d refrained from watching it. I was relieved.
5 minutes later he responded that he’d given into temptation and watched it, discreetly, at his family reunion… and while it had had the effect I’d intended (yay), it was slightly awkward for him to manage the side-effects, given his surroundings. I laughed.
Based on my NYE fiascos, I can only conclude that 2016 will not yield statistically different sexiness results from prior years. My attempts at being sexy always result in laughter, not penetration.