As Weinergate 2.0 has played out in recent weeks, it has occurred to me that many of us who now sext with wanton abandon may end up in, or vying for, positions of power. Might I also be facing a full-blown media scandal?
Somewhere in the world, in someone else’s possession, there are some fairly pornographic selfies of me. There is also an array of sexts so vulgarly composed as to make my mother’s uterus blush for having nourished such a filth demon. I might be exposed out there, but I don’t think I’m the only one who has left a trail of sexts in the wake of their various 21st century hook-ups and romances.
And as Weinergate 2.0 has played out in recent weeks, it has occurred to me that many of us who now sext with wanton abandon may end up in, or vying for, positions of power. On the chance that I fulfill my dream of winning multiple Grammys and bagging that “Best Kiss” MTV Movie Award, might I also be facing a full-blown media scandal? Will I go from “Kat George: Winner of awards both Grammy and MTV”, to “Kat George: Open legged and sprawled on a bed sucking her fingers, and look! You can see some of her pubes!”?
Whatever the outcome, I embrace that future. Not only because it means my dreams will have come true, but because soon having a history of semi-tawdry pics in the possession of others won’t be such a big deal.
Sexting and sending pics is such a pervasive part of this generation’s cultural psyche and method of social interaction that when all our old sexts are paraded for the world to see, we’ll sort of shrug about it and fondly recall a time when we too spent 30 minutes pressing our boobs together to get the perfect busty look for a sext photo.
Even as I ready myself for that open tomorrow, I still have parents and grandparents and brothers and family. So although I am more than confortable having my peers gawk at my sexts, I think I’d still be rather mortified to confront a reality where my dad will have seen my come-hither eyes and labia.
Call me conflicted. But to get a sense of what my paramours of the past have done with my more prurient communications, I did that sad-sack Nick Hornby thing and got in touch with some ex-lovers to figure out what they’re holding and what they might do with it.
Matt is a guy I dated for about two months last year. We sometimes bump into each other around the place and are on good terms.
VICE: So I sent you a few dirty photos. Do you still have them?
Matt: I'm actually not sure. They are not on my phone, but it's possible that they were backed up to iPhoto. I don't have that old computer anymore. (Don't worry, I wiped all the files.) So they are probably stored in my Time Capsule wireless backup thingy. For the record, I never showed them to anybody.
How explicit were the pictures?
From what I remember, there were a few underwear shots and maybe one of you with your bra off. Nothing overtly filthy.
Did you ever look at them again?
I can't recall a specific time, but I'm sure I did.
When I get super famous, would you consider selling them to the press?
Absolutely not. That's a sleazeball move and I would feel like a GIANT douchebag.
Come on. Everyone has a price! What’s yours?
The only way I would sell them is if you gave your consent, and we split the money or came to some other arrangement. (Tits for Tots charity, maybe?) I'd probably just show a couple of my friends and be like, "Yeah, I totally banged that girl who is famous now."
T.Kid, Author of VICE's Weediquette Column
For the past ten months or so T.Kid and I have sort-of slept together, and we definitely argue a lot. We’re pretty good friends, so there’s not all that many boundaries. Until someone gets mad, that is.
So we've had some dirty texts and Gchats. Do you still have these?
T. Kid: I haven't checked, but I'm sure they're saved in my Gchat/iPhone history.
But you haven’t deleted them?
I did not delete them.
Did I ever send you any pictures? I don't think I did.
Nope. No pictures. What the hell, Kat!
How filthy are the sexts I wrote you?
Some of them are just "Hey, let's fuck." But then others are a bit more descriptive and lewd. I think we said more dirty stuff on Gchat before we ever actually hooked up. I think you were dating someone at the time, and we talked about that quite explicitly. I think the sexts got tamer and more straightforward after the first time we hooked up. There were still some good ones over text, if I remember correctly.
Do or did you ever go back and check them out again?
No. I haven't. I only check back for ammunition when we are arguing.
Why don’t you check them out?
I would feel too weird and creepy about it. Not to judge people who check back, but it just feels too self indulgent for me personally.
If I ever got super famous for whatever reason, would you sell them to the media?
What’s your price? This could be a good time for you to make some money.
$50. You mean my price to whore myself out to anyone or anything, right? If you're talking about sexts from you, $10,000 a character.
Will and I were sleeping together and sort of vaguely dating last year. He was a friend for a long time before that and continues to be my friend now. I should also add that he’s now madly in love with his live-in girlfriend.
Do you still have the sexy picture I sent you?
Will: This email has made me think. Like, really think. Like really, really think. Like, why do I have these pictures of naked(ish) girls I once had a something with. What's the point? I keep them unkempt and unlooked and buried in a lost folder on my computer. Is it a treasure trove? Is it a proof that I was once a virile conqueror of poon?
So you never deleted my photo from your phone?
They've never lived on my phone. The thought of having sexts on my phone always felt crass. One of my cousins revels in the naked photos of his “conquests” (my term), and his revelry in having them has always made me feel icky. His revelry in his conquests leans toward the problem, as I see it, of the male idea of banging as much as they can bang purely so they can brag to their bros of who they've banged—a weird justification and realization of their manhood. Notches on the belt. High fives high fiving. Not to say that I haven't fallen host to these kind of justifications, but using photos as a kind of prize has always made me feel uneasy. As I mentioned before, I'm not sure why I haven't deleted the image. Maybe because it's a pretty girl in undress. Maybe because I fall prey to the same notions I decry about conquest and manhood.
So how racy is the photo you have of me?
Really, it's a pretty innocuous photo. You're wearing both top and bottom underwear (I have revisited the photo just now), though your top underwear is pretty see-through. I can see your nipples. What makes it a sext, I suppose, is the come-hither sexy face you're making. (It feels rather funny to so clinically dissect this photo, all while listening to noise punk.)
Apart from just now, have you revisited the photo before?
There were those slippery drunk nights that I would revisit the various sexts I'd gotten, and I would come across yours. There are three women who've sent me sexts. You're one. My girlfriend is one. And a third former acquaintance is one. And every time I viewed the collection, it wasn't so much an arousing journey as a weird anthropological jaunt through history—if that makes sense. As a side note, it was the third former acquaintance who clarified what a sext was. Prior to her clarification, I thought a sext was essentially a transcribed texting of phone sex, which sounded incredibly boring and laborious to me. Even with my present knowledge, sexting seems incredibly boring and laborious. And I make my money making pictures.
If I ever become a celebrity, would you sell the picture to the media for personal profit?
No. That's shitty.
But everyone can be bought. Surely you have a price?
See above. That's shitty. I mean seriously. You get famous. I have a picture of you in a see-through bra. Just the thought of profiting off such a private thing makes me feel really god damn greasy. And I really god damn hate feeling really god damn greasy.
Previously by Kat George - Maybe I'm a Chubby Chaser