MB Saucy Side: An Idiot's Guide To Sexting (Ambrose Version)

Ambrose Kim wasn’t accustomed to being bad at things.

Romance ought to be a learnable skill, he deduced. And yet . . .

The first time Ambrose bought flowers for his beloved, he’d carefully selected a bouquet of hyacinths which the florist informed him had the meaning of “love, happiness, and a sincere desire for forgiveness.” Perfect, Ambrose had thought, until Wiseman burst into giggles and merrily informed him that ‘Hyacinth’ was the middle name of their immature older brother. Although their laughter had been enchanting (at the time, Ambrose had made the mental comparison to fairy bells then become nauseated at the pathetic poeticism), he couldn’t help but feel dissatisfied over his first romantic gift being transformed into a joke.

Similarly, Ambrose’s first attempt to arrange a romantic outing had resulted in the wind blowing his carefully packed picnic basket being blown into Lake Michigan. When he’d attempted to salvage the day by booking a nearby hotel for what his love called a “staycation,” the ensuite jacuzzi had burst a pipe and flooded them out. The only available room which the hotel could offer had twin beds, so they’d simply headed home. It was as if the universe sought revenge for Ambrose’s past wrongdoings, intent on reminding him that no, he didn’t deserve to be this happy.

The hour was late. Instead of being asleep (he was customarily in bed by 11pm, prompt), Ambrose scowled at his illuminated laptop screen as if personally offended by the web search results. “I’m a fool,” he muttered under his breath before clicking on the third result with a defeated groan.

How to Sext: The Ultimate Guide To Sexting, With Examples!

The ‘examples’ part of the headline bothered him (shouldn’t this kind of intimacy be personalized rather than a template?), but the ‘ultimate guide’ description at least promised general hints. It felt humiliating to resort to the internet for assistance, but Ambrose’s last response to his beloved’s late-night text had apparently been the wrong reply (a fact which Wiseman had informed Ambrose a phone call later, their words barely discernable over hysterical laughing).

‘An adorkable idiot,’ they’d called him.

But, really, how was Ambrose supposed to intuit that the answer to “What r u wearing?” shouldn’t have been the truth? He’d been wearing a windbreaker because he’d just arrived home from a late night at the office, and that’s what he had typed back. He’d also provided his jacket size, wrongfully assuming that his partner planned on going shopping while on assignment in NYC and that was why they’d asked about his attire.

In Ambrose’s defense, sexting wasn’t a pastime previously introduced to their relationship, nor one with which he had engaged with past lovers. Granted, Ambrose’s prior ‘relationships’ had all been more a battle-buddies-with-benefits dynamic than anything else, far different than his current lifelong commitment.

Ambrose smiled slightly at the mental reminder that Wiseman was his . . . only to let out a defeated groan, the back of his head thunking against the headrest of his office chair. Above all else, he didn’t want to disappoint them.

Damnit. He was bad at this.

Ambrose refocused on the article.

Step 1: Learn your partner’s lust language.

Ambrose frowned. How frustratingly vague.

He knew what Wiseman liked, of course: hugs from behind, surprise breakfast muffins from their favorite bakery, when he called them by their first name instead of “Wiseman.” But the exact nature of their physical desires? Those depended upon mood and the time of day. His beloved was many things, but never predictable.

Also, Ambrose didn’t think that texting ‘I bought you a muffin, blueberry this time’ would be deemed satisfactorily sexy.

His eyes reluctantly strayed down the webpage’s given examples.

I’m going to mark you as my territory.

What was he, a dog?

You won’t be able to move after I’m finished with you.

Texting that would feel like stating the obvious.

After a moment of contemplation, Ambrose reached for his phone and tapped out a quick text:

“The scent of you still lingers on our bedsheets. Come back home to me before it fades away.”

He stared at the text for several minutes before deleting it with a groan. No, those words were about his own desire. The last thing he wanted to do was guilt trip Wiseman for accepting an assignment when it would help to advance their career at Aeon.

Perhaps another example would help? Ambrose glanced back at the webpage.

You’re going to pulse with pleasure tonight.

Far too ambiguous. As Ambrose told his students: when formulating a plan, it behooved one to consider the specifics. He returned to his phone and tried again:

“I want to—”

Ambrose’s fingers stilled as he envisioned all the things that he wanted to do to Wiseman that would make them ‘pulse’ once they returned. Far too many things to detail over text. Where would he even start? At a loss, he returned to the article.

Step 2: Emojis can be a playful way of showing your affection!

Not happening. There was nothing remotely arousing about pixelated vegetables.

Step 3: Be enthusiastic and playful.

Hmm. Showing his appreciation wasn’t a bad idea; god knew that he appreciated Wiseman’s involvement in his life. In fact, Ambrose didn’t consider it an exaggeration to say that, before Wiseman, he had never really lived. He quickly deleted his last, half-formed message and typed:

“You’ve changed everything for me.”

Ambrose sighed. The statement was true, but was it erotic? Not quite. Once again, he’d missed the mark.

Back to the drawing board.

Five web articles and twenty-seven half-written texts later, Ambrose conceded defeat.  He’d have to devise an alternative approach.

* * * *

Your hand grapples in the darkness for the buzzing phone on your nightstand. Once grabbed, you turn it on to see the hour illuminated onscreen.

2:32 fucking AM.

If Nick is late-night texting recipes again, you’ll kill him. You’ve explained on more than one occasion that your slumber is NOT to be disturbed by boysenberry shortcake pictures.

Bleary-eyed, you thumb down the text notification.

And immediately jolt upwards in bed, suddenly wide-awake.

Ambrose’s photo fills your screen. It’s a selfie, which is shocking not just because Ambrose never takes selfies but because this particular selfie is . . .

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry.

The selfie is suggestive, to say the least.

Ambrose lies on his back, in bed, one armed tucked beneath his head and the other outstretched to hold out the camera. He’s shirtless, a look which you’ve always appreciated because hiding shoulders that wide and solid beneath fabric really ought to be a crime.

Honestly, Ambrose’s entire chest is a work of art designed for tactile enjoyment. You’ve run your hands across his broad pectorals, traced your fingertips over the intriguing dips and divots delineating his abs. The phrase ‘rock-hard’ always struck you as inaccurate when referring to muscles: rock is cold and unforgiving; Ambrose's body is warm, firm but pliant. Hard if he flexes, of course, but you far prefer when Ambrose is relaxed and wrapped around you like a bulky security blanket.

Your man isn’t tall, but he’s big. Height is rendered totally irrelevant when someone is built with the structural stability of brick house. (Although Ambrose rolls his eyes whenever you serenade him with the Commodores’ song.)

No, Ambrose is perfect.

Perfect everywhere, a fact which you can’t help but appreciate given the sheerness of the single sheet covering the lower half of Ambrose’s otherwise nude body. In fact, you’re so enraptured admiring the man who you love that it takes your brain a moment to register the triangle in the middle of the screen.

Oh. 

This isn’t a selfie; it’s a video.

You press play.

“I miss you.” Ambrose’s voice is rough and husky, his free hand straying downwards to the edge of the sheet. A hint of a growl rumbles through his next words: “I miss you so fucking much. Let me show—”

You pause the video. Something tells you that this particular private viewing requires a locked bedroom door.