My iPhone screen lit up as I lay awake in my hotel room. I was on tour, and my band was all asleep, but for a few months I’d been texting with another musician I’ll call Florida. We spent one night together in Austin at SXSW, where we stayed up until 7 a.m. and fooled around all morning until I left, frazzled and braless, to play a daytime showcase. Since then, we’d both been on the road, and so we’d been sexting: the ever-so-intimate telegraph of modern solo jerk-offs.

“I want to tell you something,” Florida wrote. “It’s my fetish...”

“Go on,” I typed. “You can tell me...