I do it in the bathroom
That is the honest version. Door shut, extractor fan on so the flatmates think I am doing my face, phone bright in my hand, his last message sitting there like a hand on the back of my neck.
Come over.
Two words. Warm. Filthy in the quiet way. I can already feel how the night would go if I just said yes. Mouth first. Clothes later. That stupid soft bit after if he is the kind who stays.
Instead I screenshot it, drop it in the chat, and type the saddest little caption in the English language.
What do I say back???
Five opinions. Three voice notes. One girl who is already writing the reply for me. By the time I text him I am not me. I am a committee in a tight dress.
The ritual nobody admits they have
You know the one. Thumb hovering. Heart doing that annoying skip. You reread his message like it is scripture and also like it might be a trick. Then you export the whole thing to people who are not the ones getting undressed later.
It feels safe. It feels like having backup. It feels like you are being clever instead of keen.
What it actually feels like, if I am not performing, is this. I want him. I want his hands. I want the yes that comes out of my own mouth. And I do not trust that want, so I outsource it to a group of girls who are in their own kitchens, in their own situationships, half of them hungry, one of them freshly dumped, one of them in a relationship and living through me like I am telly.
They are not trying to ruin it. That is the annoying part. They love me. They want me to win. Winning, in a group chat, often means looking unbothered while you are sat on the toilet with your pulse in your throat.
So they vote for the version of me that does not want him too much. Cool Els. Busy Els. Make him wait Els. The girl who can take him or leave him, which is a lie I tell with better lipstick.
Five girls, five different nights
One says leave him on read for two hours. She is in a talking stage that has lasted since Easter and she is furious about it. Her advice is not about my thighs. It is about her unread messages.
One says do not go over there, make him take you out. She is right in theory. Dinner is a sentence. Come over is an invitation to get my knickers in a state on a school night. I still want the invitation. That is the problem.
One sends a voice note so long I have to sit on the bath edge. She analyses the full stop. She analyses the time he sent it. She decides he only wants sex. Love, he does. I also want sex. We are not having a policy meeting. We are two people who have already thought about each other with the lights off.
One writes the reply for me, word for word, with a little wink face I would never use. If I send that, I am wearing her mouth. He will be kissing a girl who does not exist. Then we will be in my bed and I will still be performing the draft.
And one, bless her, says if you want him, go. She is usually ignored because she sounds too simple. She is also usually correct.
I sit there scrolling like it is research. It is not research. It is me asking permission to be horny in my own life.
By the time I send it, the heat has gone weird
The first feeling is clean. I want to go. I want his mouth on my neck and my back against my own bedroom door because the walls are thin and I am not quiet. I want that laugh in the dark when something is a bit awkward and then it is not.
Then the chat does its work. Suddenly I am drafting.
Depends what time I finish.
Maybe, I am knackered.
What did you have in mind x
That last one is the coward. What did you have in mind. He had it in mind. I had it in mind. We both know. I am just trying not to look like I am already wet from two words and a memory of how he kisses.
He replies slower when I go vague. Of course he does. I made the temperature drop on purpose. Then I screenshot that too, and the committee says see, he is not that bothered. No. I made him guess. Guessing is not sexy. Guessing is admin.
I have lost whole nights like that. Not because he was wrong. Because I let five other nervous systems climb into my phone and drive.
And the worst bit, the bit I do not say in the chat, is that my body is still on the original plan. Sitting on the bus after a late, thighs pressed together, thinking about his hands anyway. Getting home, taking makeup off, still thinking about it. Getting into bed alone and being annoyed at myself in a way that is not noble. It is just hungry.
They cannot vote on how I get touched
This is where the advice falls apart. Friends can clock a red flag. They can tell you if his texts are dry as dust. They can tell you if he only lands after midnight and vanishes at breakfast. That is useful. That is love.
They cannot tell you how it feels when he says your name against your skin. They cannot tell you if he watches your face when he slows down. They cannot tell you if he laughs when it gets messy, or if he goes silent and makes you do all the work like you are a video he is trying to finish.
They were not there for the bit after, either. Water. A hand on my back. The daft talk. Or the other version, him already on his phone, me pulling my dress up like I am leaving a shift.
I have sent a screenshot of a good morning text and had it ripped apart because he used a full stop. Meanwhile I am remembering his mouth between my legs like it is a private film. The group chat does not get that scene. They get punctuation. Of course they vote wrong.
Sex is information. How he asks. How he waits. How he holds my hips instead of yanking my hair like he saw it done. How he checks I am still in it. That is data you cannot crowdsource. You have to be in the room, a bit stupid, a bit willing, not performing a strategy document with your knickers off.
When I let the chat write the reply, I take that information away from myself. I turn up as a brand. Cool girl. Hard to get. Slightly bored. Then I am shocked when the sex feels like we are both acting.
I do not want acting. I want the kind of night where I forget I have a reflection. Where I am not checking if I look good. Where I come because I stopped managing the scene.
A committee cannot get you there. A committee can only get you a text that looks clever in the morning.
When I do need them
I am not going to pretend I am above it. I live with two friends. I have a group chat that has seen me through worse than a booty text. If a man is married, if a man is mean, if a man is doing that little breadcrumb thing where he feeds me just enough to keep my legs restless, I want my girls.
If I am about to make the same mistake I always make, the one where chemistry feels like safety, I want someone to say it plain.
What I do not need is a writers room for come over.
Come over is not a puzzle. It is a temperature. Either I am hot for him or I am not. Either I trust the night or I do not. Either I want his hands enough to deal with the morning, or I want my own bed and the smugness of not going.
Both can be sexy. Staying home in clean sheets with music on and my own hands is still a choice. Going over in a coat and very little else is also a choice. The chat tries to turn both into a brand strategy. That is how you end up in a cab you resent, or in bed you resent, or worse, half in both.
What I do now, when I remember to be myself
I give it ten minutes. Not two hours of theatre. Ten. I put the phone down. I do the mascara I was going to do anyway. I ask the only question that matters.
Do I want him tonight?
If the answer is yes, I text like I talk. Short. A bit smug. A bit game. Not a press release.
Give me an hour. Leave the door on the latch.
Or.
Not tonight. Take me out this week and then we can do that properly.
See. Still horny. Still have standards. No committee required.
If I do send a screenshot now, I send it after I have already replied. Look what I said. Not what should I say. That way they get the story, not the steering wheel. They can scream. They can send voice notes. They cannot climb into my mouth and change the temperature.
Because the truth, the one that makes me feel a bit exposed even writing it, is that I use the chat when I am scared of looking keen. Keen is not the enemy. Keen is just want with its clothes still on. I have a high drive and a soft streak I cover with sarcasm. The group chat loves the sarcasm. It does not know what to do with the girl who wants to be chosen and fucked and then asked if she got home.
That girl is me. She looks good in a tight dress. She looks better when she writes her own texts.
So yes. Five opinions. Three voice notes. One screenshot burning a hole in my camera roll.
Sometimes the advice is love.
Sometimes it makes me worse.
And the nights I remember who is actually getting undressed, those are the nights I sound like myself. A bit filthy. A bit honest. Not a committee. Just Els, wanting what she wants, and brave enough to say it before the heat goes cold.
