Centuries ago, men and women wrote sonnets and love letters: prolonged praises of those who brought the heat to their loins. It was a romantic time; people were being wooed, swooning over each other, longing and yearning, and all sorts of crazy shit that lovers just don’t do anymore. And the true romantics, ye olde school playas of yore, knew that the love letter was key.

Back then, love letters and poems fell out of star-crossed lovers like bin candy falls out of fat kids when you bust them in the chops. I mean, you could give a randy chap a hand job and find a manuscript written in your honor on your doorstep the next morning. A note meant something back then. People not only meant what they were saying, but they were taking the time to say it.

Nowadays, what do we have? What is our generation’s take on the love letter? We have the text message: without a doubt, the most desperate manner of soliciting ass that has ever existed.

Over the past four years in Isla Vista, I have witnessed entire relationships, if you can call them relationships, based on this pitiful form of communication. Boys and girls doing their best to slyly type away on their cellies and suddenly growing too tired to party, then slipping off into the night, back into the arms of some jackass who doesn’t even have the courtesy to call and beg for sex like a real gentleman.

When I see a friend typing away on his cell phone at a party, not only do I know that he or she is going to get ass that night, but I know that whichever gender or species said ass belongs to, it is such a nasty, sloppy, taboo piece of ass that he or she will have to keep it secret from the rest of society.

But that’s the way life is when we’re asking for sex in broken little spurts of game: “Cum over C U soon :-)”_ You see the message — you think about it for a little bit — and then you end up walking over to that dirty apartment, and you fuck, even though you know you should have saved the good stuff for someone who actually calls you. It’s a moral dilemma, receiving the text message, because as soon as we get it we are being objectified. If people who petition for sex via text message could have called your ass and only your ass, they would have, but this is the next best thing. You don’t even have to be coherent to send the damn things, just able to squeeze out a few key letters: “sex my place :-)”

The text message makes me laugh when I use it. When I’m looking down at the head bobbing between my legs, I can’t help but to let out a chuckle. We should all laugh at ourselves when we do this. I mean, 10 minutes ago I didn’t even have the courtesy to call you; I didn’t even want to hear your voice; you didn’t want to hear mine; and now we’re going down on each other. So even if we do find something to say, we’re going to have to find a new way to say it. Why not another text message?

It makes perfect sense in this crazy world. If we weren’t talking before you came over, why start now? I say if you’re going to use the text message to get the ass to walk over to your house, use the text message to get the ass to leave. After you finish hooking up, instead of making conversation while looking around for your clothes, send another message; really let him or her know what you think. Stand face to face with them and send them a little note through the air: “Thx 4 ass, call u l8r ;-)”

Don’t tell Daily Nexus sex columnist Dave Franzese that cell phones come with miniature cameras, too.