I’ve never been good at sexy talk. First of all, the phrase is awful: "sexy talk." It’s like "dental dam": words that make me hope my vagina freezes over till I’m 80. Nor can I see myself rocking someone’s world with our modern-day equivalent, the online-dating sext. Something gets lost in that exchange, or maybe it was never there to begin with. Like conjuring up Kelly Le Brock in "Weird Science" with a few commands on your 1983 desktop computer, today you can wish something — or someone — into being with a few swipes and taps. I’m not opposed to anonymity, but I want to know that's not an ex-con with a diaper genie fetish on the other end of the line, texting me from his mom’s basement.
I’ve been burned before.
Two years ago, I received a message on OK Cupid from a gorgeous portfolio manager in his 30s named Simon. His message was short and to the point: “You are stunning. I would let you do unspeakable things on my face. I’m sorry fo...
Corina Zappia’s writing has appeared in The Rumpus, The Stranger, Serious Eats, The Awl, Nerve, and the Village Voice, where she is a former staff writer. You can find her at corinazappia.com.