Texting Can Make Men Douchey

image-3-for-coleen-tv-yourlife-25-11-11-gallery-595940425Texting. It obviously wasn’t a thing in the 80s, the last decade I was fully immersed in the dating world. Fast forward to 2014, and you can’t function as a single person without it. At least, that’s how it feels when I’m trying engage with men I’m interested in but barely know.

Our phone screens are often where the conversations begin, and sometimes where they end. I think I’ve lived out entire relationships just on my phone.

Now, I typically like texting. I’m a writer. I appreciate a little light-hearted flirting, sparring and Q&A via the written word. The problem I have with it is this: It can make people say stupid shit.

 Here’s a text I got recently after a first date with a Silicon Valley computer geek (and I say that with the utmost in affection).

“So the question in my mind is, do you find me attractive enough that you fantasize about me being between your legs?”

Wait, what?

This came from a man who could barely make prolonged eye contact with me during our casual, no-pressure first date at a sports bar to watch a football game. Seriously. He was sweet, kind and smart. But he was also awkward, nerdy and vanilla.

I don’t think this man could have even verbalized the word “legs” during our Saturday afternoon rendezvous. And yet two days later, he was texting about getting between mine. Didn’t we skip a few steps there? It’s easy to be bold when you’re staring at an iPhone screen, I guess, and not the person you’re hitting on. His sexting attempts were not sexy, however. They were as awkward as his social skills.

Here’s an opening line I got on Tinder the other day—and yes, I know the rep that Tinder has, but no, this is still not okay (and might be offensive, so I apologize in advance):

“Hey hottie, will you sit on my face and let me eat my way to your heart?”

Be still my heart. If that doesn’t make a woman swoon, I don’t know what will.

Or how about this one from a 50-year-old surfer in Santa Cruz a few days before our first date:

“There seems to be an uprising in my boxers today.”

Really? With or without Viagra? I wasn’t even sure where to go with that, and I fancy myself a somewhat witty texter. “Well, perhaps you should call back the troops, soldier. Either that, or lend the situation a hand. Literally. Because I certainly won’t be providing back-up support.”

This morning, I got these 3 texts from a man I met online yesterday. Yes, yesterday. In this order:

1 – “I’m sitting here daydreaming while I look at your profile pics. The one of you in the pink dress did this to me.” (which led to text #2 . . .)

2 – A dick pic. Large, up close and personal. And gross. (Sorry guys – your penis is not attractive. It’s there for function, not aesthetic beauty.)

3 – “Do you have any fetishes? I love feet. And sharing. I used to send my ex-wife on dates, then reclaim her when she came home and ask her to share all the sordid details of sex with other men.”

I don’t make this stuff up. I now know this guy’s sexual perversions and I have his penis on my phone, but yet I can’t tell you his last name. His firstWomanTexting_iStockphoto-630x418 name is Tim. That’s all I’ve got.

I think I titled this post wrong–texting doesn’t make men more douchey, really. It’s more accurate to say that it exposes their douche baggery. 

I’ve texted with plenty of men who would never expose either their private parts or their private dirty thoughts via their phones (eat least not in initial conversations), and no amount of texting would make them want to because they’re simply not wired that way. And I’m not just bagging on men; I’m sure it works the same for some women as well. It’s easy to be all bold, badass and sexually provocative with near strangers when you don’t have to look the person in the eye and say, “Here. Let me show you my genitals.”

Call me old-school, but I’d rather save the sexiest texts for after we’ve met in person, had a few dates, discovered a great connection, and established some sort of trust and mutual respect.

Or at least exchanged last names.

I know. I’m still so 80s.




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