How My ‘Sexts’ Became Museum Art
I had ten minutes. And I’d promised not to make a mess.
I tore off my clothes and smeared honey on my chest. Grabbing my phone with sticky hands, I sucked in and snapped a selfie. Honey dripped onto the carpet. Shit. I lunged for the baby wipes. In six minutes, a large security guard named Julio would come knocking, and I hadn’t sent a single message yet. Who knew sexting could be so stressful?