Fun with Text Messages

Somewhere between the beers and the hard stuff our friend got a text message on her cellphone.

“Oh! Oh! I got a message?! How do I open it?”

Despite being somewhat technologically up to date (meaning I have an ipod and knew how to use a mac before they came in five fruity flavors) I'm not a big text-ing girl. The last one I sent was documented on my blog with a picture of the supposed dead body on my porch sometime in October of '06. The last one I received was a few months after that and had to do with the sex of the newest anticipated addition to my familial clan. (He's not here yet, but he's coming soon...) Anyway, I don't do the text thing much. So it was my guy who swooped in and showed her how to open the message.

Both of us were sure it was a text from her daughter – her daughter really likes text messages – to the tune of a thousand dollar cellphone bills – I was sure it was her daughter.

In fact it was some unknown man who had left some semi-inappropriate message about her work attire and the way she used her “desk”. It was cute, she blushed. We giggled. We drank.

The someone in our group suggested we text back.

And boy did we. Between the three of us (and mostly between me and my guy, vicariously living through our unsuspecting 40-something, catholic, suburbanite companion) we got this man to “apparently” lie down on his bed, get naked, and talk about that thing that most women don't really care to talk about and most men can't seem to stop talking about.

In other words, we got dimensions and measure, in detail. And we really didn't need to work hard to get it either. He was pretty forth coming with his -er- desires.

Finally, once we had finished off a few more drinks, and clearly had worked the guy into a lather hot enough to have him suggest “meeting”, we decided that this little cyber-sex encounter (all of which had taken place in a bar, between dances and alcohol) needed to be cut off. But because we were in a bar, there were drinks and we all had our cellphones out we decided to do it in probably the 1) worst and 2) most cliché way available.

We sent him a picture of the two of us women making out with the tag

“No thanks hon, I got all the company I can handle here.”

That brought the end of the messaging and the beginning of a phone call where we discovered we knew the guy. From the office.

I'd like to say that now, sober, well-rested and in the harsh light of day I regret our little cyber-foursome in the middle of the bar. I'd like to say I regret a heavy flirtation with someone I work with in a professional capacity (though really he was flirting with her, he didn't know there were three people on the other end, but most of what was said came from me). However, I'm don't regret it.

Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Was it cruel? Probably. Was it inappropriate? Only because he made it so. Did he have it coming? You bet. Last night was payback for all the times our managers have ever stared at our breasts instead of our face. Last night was payback for all those little nicknames they use for women, regardless of rank. Last night and that quick little put down was a culmination of years – years – YEARS – of putting up with the gropes, glances and comments behind my back. Behind her back. Behind the back of any woman who has the guts to put on a skirt and a little lipstick and brave going to an office full of men who clearly haven't progressed past the 1970's.

Oh hell – the 50's.

Last night our text-companion did what it feels like ever man out there is dying to do everyday at the office: Whip it out, show it off, and gloat.

And last night we said what I feel like every woman wants to do everyday at the office, or at least I do:

“Put it away. It's not that interesting and you still don't know how to use it.”