The Other Side of the Internet

Ah, misery me! I have, I tell you, navigated an impenetrable forest of pain and suffering, this past fortnight! A terrible, toadsome dungeon! Those ratty, spidery bits under the Doge's Palace! I crossed the Bridge of Sighs, and that was the last I saw of the summer sun. There I was, with nothing but the groans of the dying (well, the muffly hoosh of traffic, anyhow) for company, rats nibbling at my toes, and what-have-you--and not an end in sight! I languished. I writhed. I ate my own foot. And one awful night, seized by an inexplicable (and uncontrollable) bout of the shivers, I withstood the worst torture of all.

What? No, of course I didn't vomit. I'd cut my own throat with a butter knife first. No, I went to an AOL chat room. And a dating site. And a--oh, God! I can't say it! A fan-fiction site! (Saints preserve us!)

It was like this, see: I used to be a bit of an Internet addict, mostly in the late eighties and early nineties. The idea of a whole secret world, where I could do and say anything I wanted without regard for consequence, filled me with glee. I haunted bulletin boards and newsgroups, alternately spreading gossip and waxing pedantic on subjects I knew little about. (I remember one particular discussion thread, in which I was quite insistent about sex being better when both partners are clean-shaven in the pubic region. The fact that I'd never had sex, or needed to shave that particular area, didn't deter me at all.)

I survived September '93, and even blossomed in the Eternal September that followed. I started hurrying home every night, just to check the Internet. I signed up for chat services (both English and Italian), free homepages and e-mail addresses (at one point, I had so many of both I couldn't keep track of them all), and webrings and forums galore. I let myself get nudged into having cyber-sex, giggling like a mad thing all the while, and hoping my mother wouldn't walk in. I made horrible computer art with Corel Photo-Paint, and tried to get people to pay to use it on their homepages. And most of all, I typed and typed and typed and typed and--

--and then, one day in 1998, maybe '99, I got tired of it all. I stopped going to chat rooms and posting to Usenet. I took down my horrible homepages, and let ninety-nine of my hundred e-mail accounts expire. I stopped choosing my Internet mates over my real ones*. I don't know what it was: maybe I tangled with one idiot too many, or had my eyes burned by one too many spams. Maybe I looked at the teeming maze before me, and finally understood there'd never be time to navigate it all.

This isn't a computer game, I thought to myself, and nobody ever wins. Thus began a time of selective browsing, which has continued ever since. I don't surf the Web. I don't go out looking for chat rooms to enter or forums to join. When strangers ICQ me, I consign them immediately to the ignore bin. I only visit sites that've been recommended to me by friends, folks whose discretion I trust. My caution is such that the first time I visited goatse.cx, I knew what was going to be there. (Why I still visited is anyone's guess. Just had to see it for myself, I suppose.)

All of which brings me to the other night. There I was, cold and sleepless, and thrumming away like a cheap dildo besides. And that's when it occurred to me: as long as I'm up, why don't I check out the other side of the Internet?--the bits no-one's ever recommended to me? The bits, indeed, I've been cautioned against, and have hitherto avoided as I might the ninth circle of Hell? I must've had a fever, or something, because this struck me as a truly stupendous idea. Imagine me, all flushed and owlish, buried under twelve layers of shirts and coats and blankets--all you can see is this pair of skelly horror-movie hands, stuck sticking out over the keyboard! And imagine me waggling those gnarly fingers, and descending, Orpheus-wise, into the abyss: Che farò senza Eurydice?

I began my tour of the dark side on AOL. It seemed the least threatening of the lot, at first glance. One doesn't immediately think "rampant sexual desperation" when presented with an AOL CD. (Me, I think "coaster," or maybe "frisbee," if I'm feeling particularly energetic.) Not to mention which, my mother's on AOL, which suggests it can't be entirely populated by idiots.

I'm not quite sure what I expected, going in. A lot of flirting kids, I suppose, and maybe the odd knot of distressingly average adults talking in all-lowercase about SUVs. Maybe someone would say "a/s/l," or invite me to have explicit text-based sex. I was, indeed, rather hoping to see "a/s/l," that I might mock it on the real Internet later on.

In that, I wasn't disappointed. I struck an a/s/l artery going in, and it didn't stop spurting till--it didn't stop spurting. Beyond that, it's difficult to describe AOL. The phrase "miserable stream of hormonal sewage" springs to mind, as does "illiterate gropefest". Neither quite captures it, though, the crushing futility of it all. No-one was talking to anyone else. No-one asked any questions, or proffered any greetings. It was just "a/s/l" and "ne1 wanna cyber," scrolling past forever. You could practically smell the sweat and the pizza farts, and feel the pulsing of volcanic zits. I had to touch my face to make sure I hadn't developed acne by association.

At first, I figured I'd stumbled across a dud chat--what can one expect from a generic twenty-something room, after all? I clicked over to "Insomnia," and then to "Forty-something". The a/s/l followed me like a puppy. I clicked and clicked, jumping from chat to chat with such blinding speed that AOL booted me off for abusing the service. By the time, twenty minutes later, I was able to log back in, I had come to understand that AOL has only one chat room. It's just got partitions, is all. Cubicle hell in chat format. I ended up in a room called "Bored 3". (Bored 1 and 2 were full already, to my great surprise.) I said:

Rat With No Nose: My rat has no nose. How does he smell?

Ordinarily, I'd have waited for an appropriate opening in the conversation, and joined in with something relevant, but there wasn't any conversation to join. I mean, I suppose I could've volunteered my age, sex, and location, but I--I didn't want to. I was a little afraid. At any rate, nobody answered my question, as such, but I did get a response or two:

Loser A: faggit dont use sentances/periods online n000b
Loser B: rwnn, wanna cybe?

Then, someone started spamming the chat with "why r every1 so stupid," and I deleted AOL from my system. As I waited for the uninstaller to work its magic, something wet and slimy trickled down my neck. Either I didn't get all the shampoo out of my hair that night, or a small portion of my brain had just leaked out my ear.

Wiping my neck with the hem of my dressing-gown, I ALT-TABbed over to Firefox. I typed in www.lavalife.ca. Said site had, in fact, been recommended to me, but I couldn't possibly respect the source of said recommendation less, so I figured it was a good bet. Christ. Did I just say "LavaLife" and "good bet" in the same breath? Somebody shoot me, quick!

I am a female seeking a male, aged 25 to 34, I told it, filling in the blanks. Then, there was a pull-down menu, wanting to know if I fancied casual dating, a relationship, or something ominously entitled Intimate Community. Feeling conservative, I picked casual dating. I filled in my postal code, pressed "Go", and was presented with a list of eligible bachelors. They all looked pretty rotten in their photographs, so I, er, moved beyond the superficial, and clicked the first one on the list. Immediately, I was blasted across the room on a tidal wave of projected emotion. I somersaulted over the couch, arse over teakettle, and crashed through the glass of the fire-screen. The grate pierced my heart, and the last thing I saw before I died was the afterglow of Internet desperation, burned on my retinas: Committed to family, issues/emosional baggage OK as long as u're moving forward. Loves 2 kiss and cuddle.

Oddly enough, his idea of a fun date included dining al fresco, seeing a live show, and discussing the meaning of life.

The next one, he seemed a bit better, at first glance. He enjoyed intelligent debates, playing computer games, and people-watching. I like intelligent debates, playing computer games, and people-watching. Match made in heaven, what? Maybe I underestimated these dating sites. But, wait, what's this? His idea of a fun date also included outdoor meals, live shows, and the meaning of life. What the hell? Do they pick this stuff off a drop-down menu, or something? Plus, there was a reference to Greece in there, and I got the impression he didn't mean the country. Sod him. (Ha, ha! Get it? Greek? Sod? Oh, forget it. You're probably not old enough, anyway.)

The next three candidates, they all ran together in my head. I could've gone on one date with each of them, I think, and slept with the last one. I'd never have known the difference. And I was beginning to feel it again, that sweaty, Dorito-stained hopelessness. It wasn't as raw on LavaLife--there wasn't that sense of bleary-eyed, one-handed groping--but I felt it all the same. I also felt a little lonely, which is unusual for me. If those are my prospects, I thought, I'll die an old maid's death. My body will be eaten by rats. They'll find my skeleton when my rent's three months overdue, or a water main's burst in the kitchen. Miserella!

That, I think, was when I decided to read a piece of fan-fiction. I'd never read one before, to the best of my recollection. I've always considered fan-fiction a bit disrespectful, in the way Marvel's arse-raping of Frank Miller's Elektra character was disrespectful. Nicking other folks' lovingly-written characters and doing God-wot-all-what with them, it seems awfully rude. That's if you ask me, though. Nobody asked me. I rather wish they had. If the Internet asked me every time it wanted to do something, there wouldn't be things like--well, listen to this. You're never going to believe the--the sheer, the--I don't think I know the word for it.

After a moment's consideration, I decided I'd read some Final Fantasy X fan-fiction. I wanted to be able to recognize the characters, see, but I didn't want to be blindsided by a particularly horrifying take on a beloved story. I'd never, for instance, read a piece of Katamari Damacy fiction. (Can you imagine? Very nice, little Prince! Now, roll up my trousers! How disturbing.) Final Fantasy X, though, I could go either way on. It's all right to play for a few hours, on an empty evening, but it's never been a favourite of mine. Too sentimental, and not nearly challenging enough. I like a game that--

--well, this isn't a game review, is it? I'm digressing on purpose, though. I'm putting off that disgraceful moment, when I'll have to tell the Internet what I saw. (I'm blushing, I swear! My cheeks are flaming! It's probably due to illness, rather than embarrassment, but--)

Seymour raped Tidus! Then Auron did, too, and then Tidus was going to get it on with Auron again just for fun, and I read the whole thing!**

Later, having swallowed my nausea, I started reading another one (based on Suikoden III, this time), but dissolved in hysterics halfway through the first page. It was--the purple prose was--I mean, I just couldn't! I felt mildly silly just having it in my browser cache, so I cleared it out. Cleared my history, too, and my cookies, just in case. You don't want the Internet knowing you've been on a fan-fiction site, reading bad wank-stories.

Now, I must confess, pornography isn't exactly my thing. Sex, with all the sweat and grunting and mess it entails, tends to be a bit revolting, committed to paper. But if you're going to do it, you might at least do it properly. None of this fluttering caress-ey nonsense. Sex can be slow and languid, or brutal and urgent, but it shouldn't be virulently polysyllabic. All this flowery language, it's like that one guy you get, who rubs his willy all over your lips, but can't find the hole. It's bloody embarrassing, is what it is.

Furthermore, even in the heat of the moment, spelling and grammar should not be disregarded, except where sex noises are involved. There is no proper spelling for "auuuuugh" or "hoooo;" nor is there any particular syntax associated with "Haa! More! Oy!"

Clarity is also important. Repeat after me: hard cock. Not soaring need. Not aching length. Not throbbing joint. (Throbbing joint? What am I supposed to do, suck it or smoke it?) I mean, it's nice to know a few synonyms, and all, but do try and stop short of "burning fleshtube", won't you? And, when vaginas are involved, don't even think of comparing 'em to flowers. Flower metaphors are as tired as a dormouse that's just come down off a six-week caffeine bender. Call 'em anything--anything at all--as long as it hasn't got to do with flowers. Meat-flappers. Beef curtains. Cunts. I mean, Christ, it's pornography. It's meant to be filthy. Who wants to read about trembling flowers, morning dew, all that rubbish? It's a wet, slippery, swollen vulva, not the first crocus of April.

In that vein, while comparisons involving anuses and starfish are mildly amusing, the idea of someone with a cushion star between their cheeks is hardly arousing. (Unless you've got very strange tastes, indeed. I seem to remember a series of Japanese prints involving maidens and molluscs....)

Speaking of awkward juxtapositions, a word to all you ladies writing about male-on-male bum-sex: I hear it's really quite uncomfortable, trying to jerk someone off while they're sitting on your lap facing inwards. Apparently, it's easier the other way round. (Hey, don't look at me! I haven't tried.)

Finally, nobody ought to cry, ever, if you ask me. Tears are not erotic. If I'm having sex and my partner starts to cry, I figure I'm doing something wrong. If I had the appropriate anatomy, I'd lose my erection for sure. Next to farting, tears are the biggest mood-killer imaginable, fucking-wise.

It all boils down to this: when you're writing pornography, imagine someone saying (or doing) that stuff to you in bed. If your reaction would involve hysterical laughter, odds are it's not erotic.

After that, I could stand no more. The fan-fiction left me wanting to rip my own face off. I should like to conclude this entry with something I heard on the telly a few nights ago, as I drifted off to sleep. I feel it's quite stunningly apropos, at the moment:

"Do you think there was a reason the killer sodomized your husband with a banana?"

* Not that I ever did that terribly often--but in 1999, I quit doing it entirely. Well, almost entirely. In the last months of my imprisonment relationship with Joe, I preferred online company to his.

** Quick summary, for those who've not played Final Fantasy X: Tidus is the underaged protagonist, Seymour is an evil wizard, and Auron is, er, Tidus' father? I can't remember. Well, if he's not the father, he's a father-figure, sort of thing. Not someone you'd ordinarily be having bum-sex with, any road.