Love & Sex

Now That I’m Older, I Don’t Get Sexts, I Get Pexts

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You're cute, here is a picture of my dog.

I'm not that old. I've yet to sprout a gray hair. I own my own bed, but not my own blender. I'm at that precarious age where I'm still young enough to expect to crash on a friend's sofa, but too old to be caught wearing a spandex American Apparel tube dress.

That also means I've reached the age where, try as I might, I do not crave dick pics. Once the recipient of such illuminating evening missives as "you mad hot and mad fuckable" and the fluke erection portrait, I no longer feel as welcoming towards that kind of sexy nonsense. Let's be honest, there's something just a little too disingenuous about texting back, "yr sexy too. you still up?" while I'm, in reality, mincing garlic in flannel pants and watching old PBS interviews between Bill Moyers and Joseph Campbell on YouTube.

Which is why I am proud to say I am the current recipient not of sexts, but pexts. Pet texts, which is, I believe, a term I completely made up. What I mean is pictures of dogs, pictures of cats, pictures of fish. Snaps of men with their dogs. Pictures of men asleep on their purchased sofas with their collies. And (personal favorite) photos of shirtless men snuggling up in bed with their adored and cared for pets. See, the beauty of the pext is that it is the ultimate symbol of maturing sexuality. It is the tacit recognition that, yes, I look good on this IKEA leather sofa without my shirt on, but moreover, I daily feed and walk an adorable living creature who continues to live — because of the care I give it with these nicely muscled arms. The pext is a conduit for human trust. 

I am not certain what suddenly shifted in me to make the curious idea of pexts so appealing. I am relieved that the men I am recently flirting with have (correctly) assumed that I would greatly appreciate pictures of them with their pets in lieu of grainy shafts. I think it's because, while maybe not always looking for something serious, I am always unchangeably looking for loyalty, warmth, and basic human connection. These are common attributes of a pet owner, and when a single fella opts into becoming one, not because he "got the dog" in a breakup, but because he has a vested interest in rearing a charming little kitten or pup, it turns me on. I believe my response to a recent pext which depicted a lovely bearded gentleman slyly smirking with his Australian sheep dog in his shapely forearms was a succinct, but heartfelt, "Sold."

I am a mere mortal and I enjoy cute things. And when it is a cute thing holding another cute thing, a part inside of me explodes with happiness, an urge to bite, and a burgeoning desire to be closer to the cute thing(s). I am not ready to be shown adorableness in the form of small infants. I haven't matured to the level of pictures of men with babies yet. Pexts meet me on the rung right below children and somewhere above refurbished wicker chairs on the responsibility ladder. When I got a picture of a happy dog accompanied by a, "He can't wait to meet you," last year, the owner didn't have to say, "I want to fuck your brains out." That's because the pext did all the heavy lifting a responsible, generous man knows it can do.

I am here to inform you the pext is a movement in adult seduction, an aging craftsman's form of the tease. Pet sexts are an intimate and winking kind of adult flirtation wrapped up in a furry little pixeled bow. Pexting will always make me swoon. It will always get my "Well, hello there."

Except once I got a picture of rats, which, I'm sorry, I'm not interested.

Image via Blogspot.