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A L S O __T O D A Y - - - - - - - - - -
T A B L E__T A L K
Do virtual communities really exist or is this just another catchy buzz word? Join the discussion in the Digital Culture area of Table Talk
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R E C E N T L Y
Do computers boost productivity?
You are what you type
The little browser that could
Let's Get This Straight
This is just between us, right?
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BROWSE THE - - - - - - - - - -
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love is blind What do you do when you find your sexual soul mate_______ online -- but he won't let you see what he looks like? 
[ E X C E R P T ] "THE EDGE OF THE BED:HOW DIRTY PICTURES CHANGED MY LIFE" BY LISA PALAC LITTLE, BROWN 214 PAGES BY LISA PALAC | When I cruised in cyberspace for the first time I, like so many red-blooded Americans, logged on from the office. I'd been offered complimentary accounts at several BBSes so one night after work I set things up with Odyssey, an adults-only online service that featured thousands of X-rated GIFs, a matchmaking database, erotic forums, complete anonymity and lots of people looking to blow their wad. I identified myself as F, female; listed my turn-ons as sushi and red lipstick; chose the naively honest online name Lisapal and started mingling in the group chat rooms marked Hot Adult, Anything Goes and Jacuzzi. Jacuzzi was, actually, very much like being welcomed into a hot tub of naked strangers who were all groping each other under the bubbles while they made provocative small talk. Literally between the lines of the group conversation, messages kept popping up that only I could read, inviting me to "go private." Like someone whispering in my ear, a string of text appeared: "Would you like to go someplace quiet, just the two of us, where we could ;) talk?" The frequency and the implication of these invitations -- all from men -- was overwhelming. I was scared to go private! What was I supposed to say? To do? What if someone said something mean to me? What if I got bored? Yes, I knew that if the situation got uncomfortable I could simply shut my computer off but I couldn't delete the experience. I logged off. I spent the next 24 hours working up my courage to try it again. You're being ridiculous, I told myself, go grab the world by the ass! So that evening I dialed in and after some heavy flirting with GI Joe, I boldly asked him to go private. He responded with hesitation -- but only for a moment. Once we were alone, GI said he wanted us to "get to know" each other. I wanted to get off but saw no reason for the two to be mutually exclusive. I talked about how I enjoyed going to strip joints and throwing money down. He'd never heard of a woman who did that. I talked about the kinds of porn I liked to watch. He'd never heard of a woman who did that either. I assumed my unusual interests were wowing him, so I cut to the chase and told him to unzip his pants and grab his cock. In all caps he responded, WHAT ARE YOU, SOME KIND OF FAGGOT? And then he disappeared forever. Why can't I just be normal? A few nights later, I tried a different approach. I logged on to ECHO (East Coast Hang Out), a Manhattan-based, arts-and-ideas salon run by Stacy Horn, using my real name. Almost immediately, a greeting appeared on my screen. I was being Yo'ed by Hadley, Stephen Hadley. We had friends in common; he knew my writing. He was extremely witty, almost to the point of being rude -- but I took it as a challenge. We chatted in real time about work -- he's a doctor -- restaurants, our recent break-ups and why the English, like himself, are into spanking. Amazing how the subject had turned to sex, and S/M in particular. He said he shied away from sexually submissive women these days. He felt they often wanted to be dominated for all the wrong reasons: emotionally-damaged women who craved erotic humiliation to prove their own worthlessness. "Maybe now's the time to get over your shyness," I typed. "Maybe it is." "Maybe you should give me your phone number." Better that I call him, in case he's a psychopath masquerading as a normal person. At 11:30 p.m. West Coast time, I was lying naked on my bed, phone locked against my left shoulder, right hand poised. "How about a story?" I suggested. "Let me think for a moment," he said. His voice was low and sexy and oh man, that British accent. He told me something that went like this: "You're on a lonely road, somewhere in the Southwest, in the desert. You're hitchhiking and a green Citroën pulls up in a cloud of dust. Inside are two Mexican soap opera stars, a man and a woman. They pick you up, offer you some tequila and orange juice. You're drinking and driving fast and having fun when suddenly, the car stops. There's a large boulder in the middle of the road. The man gets out to investigate while you and his girlfriend get out to stretch your legs. From behind the boulder steps a gorgeous outlaw cowgirl and soon it's evident that you're all being held up at gunpoint. "The outlaw handcuffs the man and the woman, with their hands behind their back. She handcuffs you too, with your hands in front. The outlaw thinks about robbing you all, but realizes there isn't anything to take. So she decides she wants something else. She wants to see something she could never see on TV ..." I can't remember exactly how the story ended because I was coming so hard. When I said, "How about a story?" I thought it was going to be one of those "and now I'm stroking your hair and running my hand up your thigh" blow-by-blow descriptions. Instead, it was like an episode of "Masterpiece Theatre" where everybody is suddenly ordered to participate in the most colossal daisy-chain perversities. The story was so beautiful and so dirty, it left me enormously satisfied and automatically guilty. When it was over I blurted out, "If you tell anyone what we just did, I'll never speak to you again!" I felt so uncontrollably Catholic. I shouldn't have had cybersex on the first date. Big sin. I should have waited. It would have meant more if I'd waited! The next morning, I replayed the evening's events in my head. Everything was great until I got to the part where I told him not to tell. How stupid! Why did I say that? Because I didn't trust him. What if he wrote things online about our liaison, the same way people write things on the bathroom wall? I didn't want to be what he expected -- just another whore in cyberspace. I wanted to tell him how extraordinary our exchange had been for me, how rare. But it seemed much too soon to spell out the crazy, love-like feelings that were already taking over. I didn't want to come off as clingy, too relationship-y. If only he were lying next to me and could see the look in my eyes, feel the sincerity in my touch, I wouldn't have to say anything. Instead, "Don't tell!" fell out of my mouth. It was my childish, convoluted way of anointing our connection. The next day, I apologized for my rude directive. Stephen sent me this bit of email in return.
I was now logging on to ECHO every 20 minutes, breathlessly anticipating our next communication. Telnet, login ID, password -- come on, you stupid slow thing. New mail? Heart-stopping exhilaration. No mail? Crushing disappointment. I typed the O command, to see if he was online right now. Yes? I accidentally on purpose joined the conference he was in. No? I hung out, waiting. Reading through his old posts, trolling for background. How could I be in so deep so fast, without any physical contact? Without even seeing what he looked like? Because from the moment I logged on and the words I longed to hear scrolled across my screen -- smart, funny, doctor, English, top -- I started to assemble my perfect lover. It happened subconsciously, against my better judgment. - - - - - - - - - - - - N E X T__P A G E .|. "I'm having the greatest sex of my life and I've never even seen this guy!" |
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