A Persistent Fellow

This goes out to that Persistent Fellow from Egypt – who is apparently bored and pants-less as well. May you remain naked. May your boredom be burned away and your persistence rewarded. And maybe that story I promised be written for you someday. I’m sure it would be lovely one. Best wishes ~

You might be too young to remember the days of the original online chat rooms. Back in the early and mid-90’s, these were simple DOS-y interfaced online forums where anyone could chat with anyone else online, anytime, about anything, anywhere around the world and with anonymity. Those chat rooms were SO MUCH FUN! There were entire alternative realties, relationships and communities built in those chat rooms. Suddenly individuals on one side of the world could have realtime anonymous conversations with strangers on the other side of the world – and with this came the knowledge we were all so different and yet all so very much alike. For that short while, the lines on the maps were erased and the citizens of the human race became more united; strengthened in their commonalities rather than divided by their differences. And mostly, as I’m sure you can imagine, given the chance to talk to each other about anything at all, eventually almost everyone was talking to each other about sex. Suddenly shy people or people without an outlet otherwise were brazenly exchanging sexual dialogues with strangers over the digital language. The “one handed conversation” became the epithet for the gymnastics required to touch one’s self while also maintaining a running conversation with someone else through the keyboard. A new erotic combining of sex and computers. Robot sex.

I was never able to participate in online sex fantasy chatting. Phone sex and sexting have also been exercises in futility for me – usually resulting in me saying awkward things and feeling very foolish. It always felt like I was playing air guitar with someone else and they were really getting into the music while I stood strumming the air and wondering when then discomfort would end. It would feel a lot strange after a while to pretend there was a guitar…or any music…while the other person was obviously escalating in the fantasy. And so for the most part, I’ve never had sex with anyone who wasn’t in the same room I was in. I say “for the most part” because onetime I was talking on the phone with this old guy about some plane tickets for a rally and suddenly I realized he was mostly quiet except for some labored breathing. I asked him if he was ok. He asked me what color my bra was. I told him I wasn’t wearing a bra. He finished with a little shout of ecstasy that I originally mistook for frustration at my not wearing a brassiere. Our conversation continued. It was only after we had ended our call and my mind was trying to make sense of it all that I realized the man had phone sex with me while I wasn’t paying attention. Sneaky lil fucker.

In the early 2000’s, most of the anonymous chatrooms had disappeared because while freaky nerds and geeky introverts were finding orgasmic release through fantasy chatting, very broken and predatory men were hunting juvenile victims using the same features that made anonymous sex chatting so appealing to so many adults with less sinister intents. And until tonight I didn’t know anonymous chatrooms were making a comeback but, through the magic of a cyber wormhole, I stumbled across a site called “talkwithastranger.com” and it turns out the anonymous chatroom platform has returned! Unlike in the past, today’s version has a bunch of trashy pop up ads flashing in your eyes off to the corner of the chat box and unlike chat interfaces of today it doesn’t allow you to scroll up and see the whole conversation after it has scrolled off the top of the screen, but otherwise the biggest commonality is still there. And, of course, as soon as I clicked on the button to enter a room and chat with a stranger as the URL promised, I found myself in a chat space with a bored, naked and horny man.

Tonight, my nostalgic chatroom introduced me to a 24 year old gentleman from Egypt who was, in his own words, a very “persistent fellow.” As our conversation started he was “Bored and nakd” but as our conversation continued he was also clothed, intrigued, humored, naked again and persistent in his assessments of my being someone with whom he wanted to spend some time exchanging digital sex. He was intelligent and his conversational English was spot on – complete with colloquialisms and nuances. So much so that, even after he told me he was from Africa, I was left questioning the accuracy of that claim and doubting that English wasn’t actually his first language. The more we chatted, the more I became certain he was actually a blond frat boy sitting in the basement of his parents’ McMansion somewhere in white privilege USA. I was so certain of this, in fact, that I created a honeypot on this site for him to click so I could verify his location. And I must admit I was proven wrong. Mr. Bored and nakd guy was exactly where he said he was. I was quite impressed, to be honest. Whatever task this young man has been preparing himself for in practicing his English, he is certainly well prepared.

As I already mentioned, my new chat friend was persistent in his attempts to engage me in “sexting” and accept his multiple offers to send me his headless nude pictures. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know I was equally persistent for a moment in my attempts to climb into his mind and poke around but I decided to leave his mind alone. He said something early in our discussion that allowed me to quickly determine it wouldn’t be a kind thing to do – as he is a deep thinker choosing to stay in the shallow end in order to survive this insane world And you never pull a deep thinker out of the shallow end just for the fun of poking around in their thoughts.

I do think I was a bit of a disappointment to Mr. Bored and nakd guy in the same way I disappointment so many others before him – as I’m simply incapable of having a realtime interactive sexual fantasy with a man I cannot smell, feel, taste or see. At one point in our discussion, as I continued to decline his offers of a picture or engage in a sextual fantasy with him, I asked him to help me build a mental picture of him. And for a brief moment this evening, this 50 year old white woman in the middle of the snow covered cornfields of the midwest USA was closing her eyes and imagining a 24 year old dark haired man with brown eyes and roasted caramel skin in Africa. A persistent fellow with obvious intelligence and a quick uptake in reasoning. A man who, when I asked him about his smile, seemed for a moment to be a little shaken in what felt like an otherwise keen focus and anticipation of my questions. And for a moment the lines on the map disappeared again and maybe for another minute the years between us disappeared as well…but only for the briefest of moments.

He was so young and my mind wouldn’t allow me to see past that age gap because I’ve spent many years training myself to have zero reaction to men his age. My years teaching at the university and being a “MILF-y” single mom trained me well to brush off the sexual overtures of young inexperienced men. So I didn’t struggle in side stepping his cyclical offers to let me seduce him with sexy text and view a picture of his nakedness. But temptation was a huge factor in our conversation anyway. Because while I was never tempted to join him in his proposed sexual fantasies, I really wanted so much to ask him questions.

Why was he being so kind to me? Why would a brown man from Egypt even want to chat with a white American in the year 2020? What were the events that had brought his deep mind to the shallow end so he could sleep at night? Has “my” country been a part of that hardship that haunts this young man on the other side of the world? Am I overthinking these things? Do I only imagine the US as being so unforgivably egregious in all that has already been done, continues to be done and will surely continue to be done to the rest of the world; especially his corner of the world? As with every day, I trigger with these questions and quickly find myself searching out the possibilities for how I might make a difference, how I can stop being part of this atrocity against others, how I can stop this insanity…how I can get others around me to see that America is on the wrong side of history. And of course, along with these questions, I’m also asking if I’m just crazy and imagining the atrocity of it all.

I’m always encountering these really weird situations in which I am choosing between equally surreal courses of action. For instance tonight: I sit here in Kansas City the night before the much anticipated superbowl and all of my KC friends and family are buying their beer and wings, icing their cookies and smoking their meats in preparation for watching their Chiefs play in the ultimate American sporting event tomorrow. They’re happy, they’re excited and they’re together for a celebration of an event that brings them joy. I sit alone, staying awake with the specific intent of being asleep during the game so that I’m not a part of it; purposefully excluding myself from the most American activity available to me while I ponder whether or not I can actually write the sex fantasy story I promised to the young persistent fellow from Egypt who I met in a chatroom tonight; wondering if he’ll be back to find it now that he has had a chance to see some of the other posts out here (as the site statistics have told me he did after our chat). And I ask myself…what leads me to a superbowl Sunday morning in which I’m wondering if a young man on the other side of the world has seen too much of my crazy to be interested in coming back and seeing more?

I found a little weed to settle my growing panic that tonight’s considerations have brought me. While I could not join my the persistent fellow in his efforts to find sexual release in one another, I have decided to join him in the shallow end of thinking about things. It is nice to sit here once in a while – not worrying or trying to keep my head above the waters. Splashing about in the trivial matters. Remembering the rules of fuckonomics and settling back into my marijuana induced state of comfortable apathy. Splash, splash, I tell myself. Splash splash.

A Message for Bored and nakd guy

Were it not for a picture, would I even believe I really had this conversation tonight? Probably not.

Dear A Persistent Fellow:
I can see that you did a little light reading after we said goodbye last night. There is a lot of vulnerability in letting you move from being a young man who seemed to admire my confidence and intelligence into this space where I speak so openly about those things I normally keep hidden. Fitting, perhaps; considering how me connected over the anonymous chat site. Regardless of whether you find this post or not, I did want you to know an effort was made to keep the promise I made to you. I did try to have an erotic story written for you, although my grief jumped up and got in my way. A common experience these days. Perhaps I’ll try another time… Thank you for leaving…for understanding this wasn’t the story I am writing for you and this story of my love is one I want to keep all to myself. I hope you come back another time though…I do so love to write stories.

I can hear the waves crashing rhythmically just outside my open balcony doors and the cooler than usual salty air stirs the curtains as it moves into the room. We’ve been alone in this condo for so long and I feel restlessness stirring in the day around me; an echo of the past demanding to be heard. Even as I try to convince myself it’s just my imagination, Marie stirs from her nap and stretches in a way that always reminds me of a pussy – a kitty cat. She wakes in her usual curled fetal position and, as she draws a deep loud breath through her nose, she rolls over onto her back, stretching her arms above her and her legs far out below her into pointed toes. Moaning into a growl, she extends the heels of her hands toward me from the other end of the couch. One hand pressed toward me and then the other; kneading the air between us like a nursing kitten. As the chilly air meets her warm body excavated by her generous stretch, the tiny blonde hairs on her muscled and suntanned belly stand and her old Coors Light t-shirt slips further off one shoulder; held in place only by the tight peaks of her breasts responding to the wind’s caresses.

I know she has caught me looking at her because she lies there posed fr a moment before suddenly throwing herself up into a seated position; hanging her head between her knees while rubbing her scalp and tussling her hair. Finally she flips head up and acknowledges my presence for the first time by letting her big brown doe eyes meet mine for the briefest of seconds before they move away again; flicking around the room and taking in the surroundings. I see recognition settle on her face as she realizes we’re still at the beach and I wonder if she realizes how long we’ve been here…how long she’s been sleeping.

I feel wrinkles and silver hair standing out against her unchanging youth and vibrancy. It has been a while since I’ve been awake at the same time as she and, as always, I’m momentarily frozen in time as I look at her and see my young petulant self reflected back at me. How is it possible that we are of the same DNA? In every way that I am stodgy and gray, she is electric and psychedelic. Even now, in her unhurried resurrection, she is more beautiful than the rest of us. Her cheeks are pinked in a way that is too perfect to be real and her lips appear to have been sucked upon in her sleep; plump and blushed a pink to match her cheeks. Her chestnut brown hair, naturally thick and wavy, falls in little curls down the side of her face and down around the small of her back; bouncing around her shoulders and curling around her plump breasts. I study her perfection; wondering how it’s possible we are the same yet so very different, remembering that sometimes I think she’s the devil. But even as I remember this about her, I look at her sleep dusted face and wonder if she’s an angel.

Marie breathes deeply again, tosses her messy hair behind her, flashes her disarming smile at me and straightens her spine so that her worn-thin t-shirt molds even more intimately to her supple curves. I forget for a moment that she’s only 27 years old. It’s easy for forget for anyone who meets her. She has the appearance and the presence of someone so much older; commanding the attention and almost trace-like obedience of those she so easily puts under her spell. She closes her eyes and lets her head fall back as she draws a deep breath. I feel my body taking the deep breath with her and without me. I smell the sunshine trapped in her hair and the undeniable scent of all things sweet and sultry wrapped up into a soft package with lean muscled edges. Yep. Marie is awake and the air in the room immediately takes notice and charges up in response to her. Even as her waking is a show to be watched, her presence an event to be felt more than my own. I feel myself start to fade in her presence and I know she’ll have all the oxygen in the room now. And even as I recognize that her presence will demand my subordination, I’m mesmerized by her; staring without blinking and moving my eyes up and down her face and her body studiously; trying to see what she looks like…always asking myself, is that beauty real? Surely it can’t be. I don’t know. Sometimes I think she is more real than I am.

I’m glad Marie is awake because I need her to write something for me. I promised this Persistent Egyptian Fellow a sexy story and she’s the one who handles that kind of thing, not me. Never me.

I could lie here and stretch one way then the next forever but I can feel the heat of Cindan’s stare. I’ve learned to give her lots of time to look while pretending I don’t notice. She looks at me like she’s memorizing me so she can draw me later. It isn’t creepy or obsessed or anything…more anthropologically curious. But I’ve never really seen her look at anyone in any other way, to be honest. She is the textbook definition of “asexual” and I strongly suspect her only interest in others is as specimens to be considered in her endless curiosity and desire to climb around in the minds of others to see what makes them “tick.” She’s not a virgin but she might as well be. If she does have an appetite for sex, she’s feeding it with my sexual adventures. This lets her avoid the shame; unapologetically and mostly subconsciously, living her sex life vicariously through me. Looking at her now, as she sits on the noticeably worn and sunken section of the sofa she favors, I can tell she has been up to something; which is interesting because Cindana is usually up to so little. At this moment she would look calm to anyone else but I can tell she’s feeling cheeky. I stand up turn her laptop around toward me even as she protests and tries to stop me from seeing what’s on her screen. Oh dear. She’s been chatting with someone…

There is some kind of weird chat window open and she’s been having quite the conversation with some guy calling himself the “Bored and nakd guy” and, from what she’s told me, it’s been an interesting chat. It never fails – every time Cindan logs onto the internet and even dips her finger into a pool of men, she pulls out the only interesting one in the whole damn pond. Last time she struck up a random conversation with a stranger from the internet, it ended up being a polyamorous psychologist with insecurity issues and looking for a sex only partner because his girlfriend had found someone to “play” with and he wanted to play also. Cindan really messed with that man’s head for a couple of months before she admitted to him that she had no intentions of ever meeting up with him to be his playmate. Poor guy. He was so confused.

Anyway…tonight she didn’t pull out a psychologist. Tonight she pulled out a guy from Africa who can chat in perfect English and who just wants to “sext” with her and send pictures of his body. As I listen to her tell me about him, I feel my anxiety kick in. What has she gotten herself into?? She and I look like paternal twins and people get us confused all the time, but we’re such different people. I’m a cynic and a borderline misanthrope. In my mind, everyone should be questioned first and trusted later. Cindan loves everyone and so trusting. But still, is it possible that she could be so naive that she could still be taken in by the “Nigerian Prince” on the Internet?

Interestingly enough…Cindan has taken a page from my book and questioned someone; verifying that her new chat friend is actually in Africa as he claimed. Egypt to be more specific; as indicated by a statistics grab that Cindan did after luring “Bored and nakd guy” to this blog to see her picture. (For the record – she showed this guy a picture of her face and another picture of my tattoos. This is not ok and we’re going to be talking about that later.) So I’m in this weird spot where I’m a little PO’d at her for the picture thing but I can’t even stay mad because of the super cute pink blush Cindan is flashing and the way she’s let her hair down so that it’s framing her face. It’s been so long since I’ve seen it like this. She usually looks like a tired librarian but tonight she’s a smiling vibrant woman! I had forgotten how much she looks like our mom when she let’s herself be seen. Striking resemblance really; striking my heart in a way that leaves me a little breathless; bittersweet. How lovely to see her like this.

I ask what she knows about the guy and from what she’s said, he sounds like a guy with a sense of humor and an above average intelligence who is open to any kind of talk with a woman about sex with her doing most of the talking (although apparently there is some verification that he can, indeed, “masterbate and type at the same time as an extension of himself” which is entirely TMI but also lends toward assuming he will be able to get a little freaky back.) I guess he indicated he was “hard” a couple times while they chatted too. Check it out… Cindan out here almost-sexting and giving some man a woody. The dead has risen.

Although her moment has passed and there won’t be any sexting with Mr Bored and nakd guy in the future, I must admit the door to that part of life has been cracked open a bit and I’ve peeked inside. If I allow myself to consider a man in the way I do so love to consider him. That little dip where his collarbone joins his neck and his scent pools there in a way that serves it up perfectly when I press myself against him and breathe deeply. The sound of a baritone voice reverberating from within his chest where my head lies; listening to the rhythm of his heart slowing as homeostasis brings him back from the places to where I had taken him only moments before. The scruff of a weekend beard against my neck as he kisses my pulse; against my breast and ever so gently across the softest parts of me. As I allow myself to remember, I allow myself to imagine…and my imagination takes me to a familiar place.. Sigh. Oh, I do love this place where I can see my love. This room in which he lies waiting for me to return to him where he lies in our bed. Even in the low lighting of the candle lit room, his crystal blue eyes are shining for me; beckoning me back to him even as I move away for the briefest of moments to raise the window and let the cool spring air into the room that has grown so warm and wet from our lovemaking. God, I love this man so much.

I walk over to the window and to open the curtains and lets some air into the room. Their sudden parting startles the persistent fellow who is standing just outside of them and he startles me. My surprise brings a scream to my throat but I swallow it just as I realize it’s you. I stare at you in recognition and you stare solemnly back; your brown eyes showing all of the emotions at once while your face remains emotionless in a way that is practiced…perfected. I’m glad now I didn’t probe around in your mind, that I listened to my instincts and stayed in your shallow end. What are you doing here? I promised you a story but not this story. You can’t be here.

Your eyes peer behind me and I’m suddenly nervous. How long have I been standing here staring out at you? And why are you here in this memory? I’ve pulled this memory up so many times before; savoring those last moments and the scents, tastes and sensations that are wrapped within them. This is a distant yesterday that will never intersect the yesterday in which the wormhole deposited me in a room with your nakedness. Did the same wormhole mystically deliver you here…outside my window while I stand in my nakedness on the other side staring out at you? I don’t know why you’re here but I’ll assume that you do and leave you to it. The memory behind me is the one about whom this dream revolves. He won’t be here for long…he never is. All too soon, he’ll be getting dressed and going to work for the last time and I’ll never see him again. I haven’t a moment to spare.

As I return to him, I sense that you’re still behind me at the window looking in and for the briefest of moments an idea flashes in my mind. Could I? No…not this memory. There are so many memories that could be shared without a second thought or even a blush but this isn’t the one. This memory is too precious and beautiful to share with anyone. It cannot be allowed to be cheapened or tainted. But my worry was unfounded and you’ve sensed this wasn’t the story promised to you. When I I glance back, you’re gone and the curtains can remain open as I return to my lover to taste him, to smell him and feel him…to say goodbye. This memory of him and the gentleness in his touch as he held his broad muscled torso up one arm and caressed my cheek with his other hand. “Mrs. Reynolds, I love you” he had said as he looked at me from above. And I burn with my love for him and my anticipation in being his wife someday; even as my mind knows someday will never come. How much of this is my imagination and how much is actually memory from that day? I guess it really doesn’t matter anymore, does it? With him gone now, it gets to be whatever I want it to be; whatever I need it to be.