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

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

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

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

Similarly, Ambrosia’s first attempt to arrange a romantic outing had resulted in the wind blowing her carefully packed picnic basket being blown into Lake Michigan. When she’d attempted to salvage the day by booking a nearby hotel for what her 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 Ambrosia’s past wrongdoings, intent on reminding her that no, she didn’t deserve to be this happy.

The hour was late. Instead of being asleep (she was customarily in bed by 11pm, prompt), Ambrosia scowled at her illuminated laptop screen as if personally offended by the web search results. “I’m a fool,” she muttered under her 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 her (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 Ambrosia’s last response to her beloved’s late-night text had apparently been the wrong reply (a fact which Wiseman had informed Ambrosia a phone call later, their words barely discernable over hysterical laughing).

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

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

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

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

Damnit. She was bad at this.

Ambrosia refocused on the article.

Step 1: Learn your partner’s lust language.

Ambrosia frowned. How frustratingly vague.

She knew what Wiseman liked, of course: hugs from behind, surprise breakfast muffins from their favorite bakery, when she 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. Her beloved was many things, but never predictable.

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

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

I’m going to mark you as my territory.

What was she, 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, Ambrosia reached for her 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.”

She stared at the text for several minutes before deleting it with a groan. No, those words were about her own desire. The last thing she 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? Ambrosia glanced back at the webpage.

You’re going to pulse with pleasure tonight.

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

“I want to—”

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

Step 3: Be enthusiastic and playful.

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

“You’ve changed everything for me.”

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

Back to the drawing board.

Five web articles and twenty-seven half-written texts later, Ambrosia conceded defeat. She’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.

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

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry.

The selfie is suggestive, to say the least.

Ambrosia lies on her back, in bed, one armed tucked beneath her head and the other outstretched to hold out the camera. She’s shirtless, a look which you’ve always appreciated because hiding shoulders that strong and a bosom that majestic beneath fabric really ought to be a crime.

Honestly, Ambrosia’s entire chest is a work of art designed for tactile enjoyment. You’ve cusped her breasts, traced your fingertips downwards over the intriguing dips and divots delineating her abs. The phrase ‘rock-hard’ always struck you as inaccurate when referring to muscles: rock is cold and unforgiving; Ambrosia's body is warm and pliant. Firm if she flexes, of course, but you far prefer when her curves are relaxed and wrapped around you like a security blanket.

Your woman is tiny, height-wise, but she’s a freaking amazon. Height is rendered totally irrelevant when someone is built with the structural stability of brick house. (Although Ambrosia rolls her eyes whenever you serenade her with that Commodores’ song.)

No, Ambrosia 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 Ambrosia’s otherwise nude body. In fact, you’re so enraptured admiring the woman 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.” Ambrosia’s voice is low and husky, her free hand straying downwards to the edge of the sheet. Her next words are an insistent purr: “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.