Send Me a Dirty Picture
“It’s a strange feeling. I just want you to see me.”
That was the message sent to me with an attached nude picture from my ex. We broke off our relationship about six years ago when I moved to New York. I was young and ambitious; he was slightly older and directionless. We both were struggling with mental illnesses. I had never been in love before him and admittedly have not since. The decision to end things was mostly me but he didn’t fight for a different outcome. Years passed and the distance grew wider between us. But flickers of communication are peppered throughout the past seven years and it is hard to recall how long we have actually gone without being in contact. I have turned to him in moments of weakness: feeling lost and uninspired, being rejected from a potential love interest, having a bad day at work or a myriad of other reasons were usually the catalysts pushing me to reach out. I rarely reached out because I was at my best and hoped he was, too. There was a familiar comfort in his voice (modulated and husky) even though it had been years since we spoke face to face.
The last memory I have of him in person was shortly after we broke up in 2014 when I came back home to Pennsylvania for a wedding. I didn’t have too many friends left in my hometown, so I texted him one seductive word: “Bourbon?” I’m not sure if the prospect of me or whiskey was more alluring, but he agreed to meet. I arrived first at our local spot and commandeered two bar seats. I nodded towards the bartender. “Hi. Two Blanton’s. Neat. Thanks.”
Waiting and sipping whiskey triggered a memory of our first date a couple years before. We were to meet at a dive bar in Philadelphia. He was thirty minutes late, so I sat in the corner with a glass of whiskey slightly miffed. He finally arrived (with a friend) and apologized for being late (parking issues). “I see you already have a drink, but can I get you another?”
“Sure. I’m drinking Dickel 12. Neat.” I was more into Tennessee sour mashes back then.
He came back with two drams and a bemused smile. “I usually go for a Jack and Coke, but I guess I’ll have to step up my game if I’m going to be with you.”
We ditched his friend and ended up making out in my car to The Weeknd’s Trilogy for hours. As I dropped him off in the early hours of the morning, he tenderly kissed my neck. “I don’t want to weird you out or anything but I’m falling for you.” A few weeks later we declared we were in love with each other. A friend of mine matter-of-factly commented we would be engaged within the year.
~
When he arrived at the bar, he slowly sauntered over with a mischievous grin. He asked about my “new life” in New York and commented how much he liked my recent haircut. “You know I always loved your hair short. You look good, Jul.” He was still living at home with his parents and seemed content in the exact same place he was when we first met. Still, I was powerless against this magnetism towards him.
After a few more whiskies and playful reminiscing, he walked me to my car. It was late summer, and a zephyr began to mingle with the heat rising off the pavement. I was wearing his denim jacket draped over my shoulders like a cape. The lamp posts were newly illuminated, and the majestic glow of the historic theater loomed behind us, the marquee advertising Boyhood. I once took him there to see a showing of Casablanca. We held hands and laughed at being the youngest moviegoers by several decades.
We lingered face-to-face at the car unsure how to say goodbye with clumsy space between us. It felt both easy and awkward. “You know, I want to visit you in New York sometime. I have a vision of us walking around the city listening to ‘Summertime Clothes’ and being together. Being happy.”
We were desperate to hold onto the last moments of a beautiful yet damaged relationship as it slipped through our fingers like silk. I got into my car and pulled away, surprised at the tears that did not come.
He never did visit me in New York and we never walked around the city dreamily listening to Animal Collective.
~
Our texts would start off as painfully banal:
“How’s your family?”
“Your sister got married? To the same guy? What was his name?” “Are you still working at that place?”
“You got a promotion? Congratulations.”
But what would begin as airy and cordial would quickly take a turn down a familiar yet tricky path. The conversations would shift and although asking to send a selfie seemed rather innocuous, it would transpire into highly sexualized banter. Soon, we would be exchanging images and requests, falling back into a familiar yet caustic place. The dialogue progressed from friendly formalities to erotic entreaties.
In November 2015, I was in Nashville for a bachelorette party when I found an old tee shirt of his, which I thought I lost, in my suitcase. It was one of his favorites, so I was kind of surprised he wanted me to keep it after we broke up. I was drinking and feeling coquettish, so I sent him a picture of me wearing it. “This was the best thing I got out of our relationship.”
“I’m glad you have it, it looks way better on you. Can you take it off and send me another picture?”
I obeyed, snapping pictures with the vintage Misfits tee shirt on the floor.
The summer of 2018 my best friend was diagnosed with stage II breast cancer. A day after she was told the best plan was a double mastectomy followed by a year of aggressive chemotherapy and radiation, my parents put down our family dog after 15 years. I leaned against a wall for support, slowly slid down into a fetal position and cried, letting everything go. I was mourning the loss of a beloved Shih Tzu, yes, but mostly, finally letting myself cry over my deepest fear: my friend might die. I was alone and petrified. I needed someone who cared about me. I sent him a text. He said all the things I needed to hear. Then, he asked if I could send him a nude photo.
~
Sexting with an ex is not egregious nor particularly uncommon. Sexting with an ex who is in a relationship causes a wave of complex emotions. The majority of the time we were in communication, he had a serious girlfriend. Eventually, they moved in together.
After long periods of talking, flirting and exchanging erotic pictures and fantasies, I would confront the glaring questions like a cheap motel sign in the distance on a black night:
“Are you happy in your relationship?”
“What are you getting from this you aren’t getting from her?”
“Do you love her?”
I never got concrete answers other than yes, he did love her, but he couldn't explain why he would send me a naked photo with her in the next room.
“I’m not a bad guy,” he would claim repeatedly. He wasn’t actually, a bad guy. But he wasn’t innocent, either.
Are nude pictures simply masturbatory fodder or a modern act of intimacy? I feared our exchanges were a sex game for him: the thrill of possibly being caught, something illicit to distract him from his otherwise mundane life.
For me, it was about intimacy. About trust, a deep yearning to be touched, adored, understood. I was desperately trying to fill a void only he had been able to fill.
~
The last time we spoke was last year. We had been talking (and sharing images) for about a month when we decided to talk in person when I was back home for another wedding. The plan was to meet up after he got off work. I was concerned with what to wear and felt pathetic for caring. It was cold for early October and I didn’t bring a heavy coat home with me. I was freezing in a thin moss-colored modal trench. Was I shaking from the brisk autumn air or the thought of seeing him again in the flesh? I drove to the designated secret meet-up spot and waited for 10 minutes before I texted him a single question mark.
“I’m so sorry to do this to you, Jul. My girlfriend got into a car accident and messed up her back. I’d be a bad person if I ditched her tonight to be with you.”
~
I wish I could remember more of our time together: the thing he said I thought was clever, or the song he repeatedly played in the car even though I hated it. All the things I'll never know because I wasn't paying attention. I would have recorded everything obsessively and never let the slightest eyelash flutter or stammer or awkward pause go without notice. I obsess about the future and in an idealistic scenario, we end up together knowing years of distance was what we needed to create a solid foundation. We move on as if there was no lull, soulmates finding their way back to one another against the odds. But reality is beckoning me to come back. We continue diverging, moving further away from making out in cars, holding hands during classic films, getting drunk on whiskey and thinking it could never be this way with anyone else. I’m alone in a desolate parking lot, a sinking embarrassment deep in my stomach and the words someone once said to me echoing loudly: “If someone wanted to, they would.”
Later as I got into bed, I received a text from him.
“Tell me what you want to do to me.”
I had nothing to comfort me but the cold sheets and haunting memories of every messed- up thing I’ve ever done.
