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In this high-tech age, it’s a pleasure to find a card or letter in your mailbox with instantly recognizable handwriting.

And if your date doesn’t recognize your handwriting, you’ve definitely been IM’ing too much!

the basics can be extraordinarily arousing when they’re said out of context or in a different situation.” For women like me who were teens and preteens in the late 1990s and early 2000s, that “different situation” was AIM (AOL Instant Messenger).Chatting online was our “out of context,” because interacting fact-to-face meant awkward, eyes-on-the-floor self-consciousness that defined middle or high school. You could “…” through an awkward silence; draft messages in consultation with your BFF; study your chipped nail polish instead of looking straight into the eyes of the person you hoped “like-liked” you. You could sign off with “ciao” one day, “peace out” the next.You could pretend to be a grown-up, because you were at a computer and not surrounded by lockers and classrooms. But when you’re an adolescent, talking is a way to flirt and flirting is a way to figure out who you are. Did you identify more closely with the lyrics of Dashboard Confessional or the writings of F. “Having the Internet as a catalyst for learning how to interact with your peers was invaluable, and it was also pretty innocent,” says Caroline Moss, a co-author of the upcoming “Hey Ladies!Long story short, I wound up making out with her computer, and who knows what she thought when she returned to her desk.Yes, as if 24-hour email and cell-phone availability haven’t made relationships complicated enough, instant messaging is right there on standby, ready to coax unsuspecting couples into a cyber-purgatory of miscommunication, misunderstanding, and unhealthy fixation.

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One afternoon, bored at work, I IM’d her a “what’s up?

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  1. Her lips still had the lingering sweet-sour taste of dill pickles. This time our lubricated lips met with sweet, wet, shattering passion. I was tongue-fucking her mouth and she was tongue-fucking mine. She unbuttoned it, and then the next and the next button. The sweet, adolescent bud stiffened inside my mouth. Meggie moaned and arched her back thrusting her magnetic mammary mounds tightly against my mouth. At 40, I was too old to be deflowering adolescent virgins. I found the bellybutton and made a tickling, teasing exploration. Meggie moaned softly, and then moaned again louder. Her voice spoke in a husky whisper, Oh God, Uncle Jake that feels nice.