As the Tiger Woods Fucks Everything That Serves Pancakes or Blowjobs controversy continues, I grow more weary of the story. I've said it before, and I'll say it again: I don't care who the dude is shagging on the side. That's a problem for his wife (and the myriad women he was sexxin' without a condom) to deal with.
But the thing that does scare me is the idea that one's private text messages can be published in a gossip rag. This week's Us ran an entire two-page spread of select exchanges between the golfer and one of his paramours.
I am the first to admit that when I'm a few beers in, I like to take out the phone and start sending suggestive messages around. Hey, I'm thinking about you. Hey, what are you doing later? Hey, I'm not wearing pants. Some mornings, I blink the martini haze off my eyes, grab the phone, and blush when I read what I sent out at the apex of my buzz. Then I realize how the guy in my bed got there.
Who among us hasn't sent a dirty thought that would sound maudlin and gross to anybody else who read it? A large part of the magic in having a significant other or fuckbuddy or whatever you're up to is that secret language that no one else understands but you. It's comical to read that Tiger wanted his ladyfriend to "send [him] something very naughty" because it's not our words.
And sure, you and I are just some faceless cubicle monkeys who hope to get a nice vacation before we go to the old folks home, but in these days of Facebook and Twitter and Sexting and whatever else the kids are inventing, whose to say some crazy ex or scorned lover won't start a Facebook group dedicated to posting the hundreds of pet-name-laden messages you once sent their way?
The hell with this. I'm going to start fucking the Amish.