I'm an E-Slut
Come get some of my sweet e-loving.
By Adam Bourret
Posted January 21st, 2007
I'm an E-slut. Oh hells yeah. My milkshake is bringing all the boys the yard, and it's not even a real milkshake. It's a .jpg of one.
And brother, it's doing the trick. All those years I spent making real milkshakes was a big fucking waste of time.
I'll get ya. I'm comin' after ya. On Myspace, Dlist and any other cyberspace arena. If you're blonde, Latino, a redhead, or a cartoon, I'm all over that shit, because on the internet I know no fear or shame, no reservations. I have a head made of wood. I'm like Pinocchio. I'm a determined little puppet and I'll do anything to be your real boy.
At work and at home, I'm on the e-prowl. I'm like one of those people who only shops at Costco. But instead of bringing home a giant jar of mayonnaise, I'm loading up my cart with boxes and boxes of artificial intimacy. It's as cheap as it is delicious.
Some benefits of being an e-slut:
1) You're already in bed.
2) No grooming required.
3) Easy outs. "Oh, my friends are here, gotta go." "Whoops, the house burnt down, c-u-l8tr."
Meeting people on the internet is easy because the internet is simultaneously the most populated and the most lonely place on earth. Nothing actually exists except your voice, someone's ear, a string and two tin cans. All that's required is that you fill the void with something simple.
YOU'RE HOT.
You're hot. People pay money for this level of sexual directness! How many mixed and muddled messages do you receive in the real world? How many times do you think you've received a meaningful look and then the person sneezes? There's no sneezing on the internet. There's not even an emoticon for it. No averted eyes or awkward fumbling. The internet is a laser beam of horny. You're hot. You could print it out and file it. You could put it on your wall.
YOU'RE HOT. WANNA MEET?
I want to meet you because you are hot. In real life this bald-face, screeching honesty is super-creepy. But in e-life, you're not party to any interaction. You only receive the echo of it. You are elsewhere, doing something else. You are a spacecraft. You could be ironing your shirts. You could be writing an article for MONDOmagazine.net. You could be licking the screen.
After you've made your first contact, some pleasantries are exchanged ("nice pic" "oh you're a songwriter" except you don't have to say "oh") and then you enter the chatting stage. This is "small talk." This is "getting to know you." It's like being on CBC radio, but they don't care about your cultural contributions, they want to know if you can talk as cute as you look.
LET'S HAVE COFFEE / DRINK?
Coffee? Drink? These things require pants, so deliberate. What an age we live in. Last century you'd be some society dame in a corset thinking "must I marry Jeffrey?" Now you're thinking, "must I stand upright for Jeffrey?" But get up, come on fucker, you can spare the hour and half to find out whether or not Jeffrey's full of shit, and whether or not you are, for that matter.
The date is occasionally a disaster. But who knows? My first e-date turned out to be a styling lawyer who was dynamite. My next one had the most enormous face I've ever seen. His poor features huddled in the middle, terrified at the vast amount of space they could conceivably occupy. The waitress at my favourite bar has taken an active interest in all this. "That guy's too old," she told me the last time I went. "Um, actually," I replied, "he's my dad."
Onward and upward. Spaceship ho. I've got a fella right here to my left and his chat box is flashing. SIGNAL. SIGNAL. I WANT YOU. I WANT YOU.
Can I pull this one off?
Can I turn e-plans into earth-reality?
AM I HOT?