My Long-Distance Boyfriend and I Try Pre-Internet Sex to Save our Digital Footprint
Words by Smutty Sender
My boyfriend and I have been in a long-distance relationship for about a year. The days before our visits are a rigorous ritual. Sexy undies = washed. Pussy = scalped. Vibrators = packed. While we enjoy our monthly, four-day fuck fests, we both feel a sexual disconnect being apart.
We’ve experimented a bit with video chats and sexting, but staring at a dick on FaceTime and spreading my legs on a screen feels more awkward than erotic.
Sexual imagery is as old as time. From cave drawings, love letters sent to soldiers, to sexy faxes — physical media keeps intimacy alive across distances. But in an age of revenge porn and digital footprints, sending explicit material can come with a hefty price. For women especially, something empowering can be easily twisted into humiliation. So, we’ve tried to minimise the amount we’ve sent online.
To keep our sexiness offline, we look to history’s horn bags for lessons on how to keep our loins burning. And thankfully with the Postal Services Act 1998 prohibiting anyone from opening our mail, we feel pretty safe. Armed with a morse code translator and a Polaroid camera, my partner and I embark on a mission to make each other horny from across the country.
Lust letters
My best friend’s most traumatic experience was finding her dad’s sex letter to her mum from the 90s. She opened the wax-sealed envelope and read, “I want to fuck you hard and fast.” Inspired by my best friend’s trauma, we decide to give sexy handwritten confessions a go. Hopefully, this will also scar my future children.
In Victorian times, it was normal to write dirty confessions of love and fantasies of an ankle flash. In 1909, Irish playwright James Joyce famously wrote a series of poetic filth to a chambermaid. The letters addressed to “sweet whorish Nora” fantasised about “fat dirty farts spluttering out her backside” during sex.
My boyfriend thinks I have an unfair advantage being a writer, in turn spending most of the day trying to become a sex manic Hemmingway. On pink paper, I craft a dream Sunday morning with orange juice, opened curtains, and an unmade bed. Needing a bit of raunchiness, I add to the end: “P.S. I’ll see you in three weeks, don’t bathe.” I add lipstick kisses around the edge of the page.
Lucky for me, it’s the 21st century and I can get overnight shipping. I wait by my window seat all day, longing for my lover’s confession. I wonder if his quill is also burning, recalling our sweet lovemaking.
The next day, I run to the letter box to find the lustful letter from my husband at war. His four-page confession takes place in his cold and mouldy flat, craving my touch. Sweet yearnful parts are sprinkled in-between straight filth.
My boyfriend says the experience was hot and exhilarating. But the amount of time and stress wasn’t worth it. I’m just relieved no one opened my mail. I’ll leave the erotica to my best friend’s dad.
Steamy polaroids
As a grown woman, the days of shaky Snapchats are gone and it's time to send nude Polaroids in the post instead.
The Polaroid camera became a common medium during the 1960s sexual revolution. Queer artists in particular used Polaroids to privately photograph naked men. The company was aware of its use, and longtime director Donald Derry said the camera’s intimacy aspect made it a big seller.
My green Instax camera I’ve had since I was 14 will serve the same purpose today. I go for a tasteful approach — a sheer bralette and a pair of his boxers. Then I get more creative, arranging my vibrators and underwear on my bed and holding the camera away from my body. I am left chuffed with five semi-nude pics.
My boyfriend who works in a camera shop asks his boss if he can borrow a Polaroid camera. Thankfully, his boss is rather humoured about his employee taking nudes on the shop’s stock.
I place my polaroids carefully enclosed in a letter — nervous I’m going to lose them on the walk to the post office.
But when my boyfriend’s pictures arrive, the tea I’m drinking shoots out of my nose. He puts me to shame with his self-timer pictures, some with a plant in front of his dick, and others completely naked.
This was just fun and a bit naughty. Can’t wait to put the pics on my fridge.
Sexy morse code
Morse code has historically been used to convey messages of urgency over long distances. And what's more urgent that horniness?
Morse code was invented in the 1830s and conveys messages in dots and dashes, flashing lights, or sound. Dirty morse code is quite niche, but famous inventor Thomas Edison, taught his wife tapping morse so that they could communicate without notifying her parents — that sounds dirty to me.
We decide to talk morse code King Charles and Camilla style — shamelessly over the phone. I pull up an international morse translator and type in a very serious message: “Hey sexy, save your bathwater for me, I wanna sip.”
While I took the piss out of at first, it becomes pretty hot. The anxious waiting, deciphering the code, and coming up with what to send next. The flashing lights, constant beeping, and dashes start getting me really aroused.
If I advocate for anything in this piece, it’s that you need to start dirty morse coding. It was so fucking fun. The morsexting possibilities are endless. Tap their hands during family dinner, flash your phone torch outside their house, or just say how much you want to be their tampon via beeps on the phone.
Dirty paintings
I told my BF that I’m going to paint him like one of my French girls, and despite some confusion he was totally down for it.
From carved sculptures and tomb paintings, history is full of graphic portraits. In the 17th century, King Charles II commissioned topless paintings of his mistress on a bed ‘stuffing sausages’.
Ok so this is where we cheat a tad. Our cognitive abilities aren’t strong enough to memorise each other’s genitals, so we cave and use FaceTime. Like the perfect muse I am, I follow instructions to lie on my bed with a cigarette and toy dog, like a sexy French mistress. I tell him to lie a similar position with a side man spread.
I go for a modernist approach with markers and pastels, and he works in charcoal. I decide to colour him green because why not? For an hour, we giggle and draw each other’s genitals.
When I show him his portrait, he loves it — with an exception for his penis being way too low... and green.
After perfecting the portrait of me, my BF gleams as he finally shows me the finished product. I can’t help but laugh. Everything looks sexy, except for my mushed-looking face. He’s slightly disgruntled being met with shrieks of laughter by my flatmates and I inspecting the artwork. Sorry babe!
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What started as a funny experiment in the name of entertainment journalism showed a flaw in our relationship. Even though our connection is deeper than sex, we learnt that casual and spontaneous raunchiness helps keep us connected. But with trust and zero judgement, this week of pre-internet sexting was fun and left us admittedly horny.