Sending Nudes, Post-Hookup Gifts and the Enduring Value of Analogue Media

The essence of being a “sexual cryptid”.

Dearest Abominations, I’m all about just throwing wild opinions into the world, but if you want the whole article, buy a girl a drink. But know this, lovers… I will ALWAYS give you a taste first.

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I love nudes.

The act of giving someone a sneak peek, a tiny glimpse? I’m reminded of Grace Kelly in Rear Window, holding aloft the lace nightgown for broken-legged-wheelchair-bound Jimmy Stewart to see, so close yet so far out of reach. “Previews of coming attractions” she croons… Why Miss Kelly… I’m sure you’d laugh it off and say, “whatever do you mean?”, but that line? It’s fucking FILTHY.

Goddamn, I adore it.

There’s nothing quite like receiving pics of someone’s unclothed body. Miss Kelly’s “previews of coming attractions” right there in the palm of your hand. Sometimes the joy of it is the glorious celebration of self-acceptance, other times it’s the witnessing of another’s spirit shining through. Of course, other times it’s that fluttery delight, the moment when all the flirtatious promises come home to roost in the hollow of your chest, and you KNOW that it’s going happen. You KNOW because you received the clearest possible indicator: the delicate unhitching of clothing, the sometimes playful, sometimes torrid, sometimes shy and demure nudity, but it’s always something that makes my heart skip and my pulse race.

But these sexy texts are not without flaw. Something nags in the back of my mind.

As much as I welcome the images of unclothed flesh, I can’t help but consider how each individual image was one of dozens taken in bursts. Taken, deleted, taken again. Got to get the angle just so, the lighting just right. Cropped, filtered, edited, crafted, contrived to cast in the best possible light. All just for the fleeting moment to be sent, commented on, masturbated over or otherwise used to convince someone “Come over, I have the house to myself”.

Think of all those nudes you’ve sent, gone and forgotten. It feels like a dishonour.

I’m the kinda gal who likes to leave an impression. Something more than just teeth marks in your flesh and dents in the headboard. The essence of being a “sexual cryptid” is all about suddenly appearing in someone’s mundane world, completely befuddling them and then vanishing into the night. Those blessed to be on the receiving end of these strange encounters, they too have a certain essence. Just like any hunter of Bigfoot, UFOs or The Loch Ness Monster, they’re nothing without low-quality photographic evidence. The essence of their experience is the constant wonder “did it really happen?” while they stare at the grainy, out of focus photo that changed the course of their lives in an instant.

Which is to say that I like sending hookups home with a Polaroid of my tits.