I'm worried that what I thought was a fun little secret is now going to turn into a very public nightmare.
Dear Saboteur, Please tell me your cheeky reply did not have an attachment with a photograph of you in the bathroom, bare-chested and flexing your biceps.
Picture conveyer belts of them trailing endlessly into the distance, hard and ready with dicks in hand. The first time I ever went online, to Prodigy back when they existed and charged by time spent signed on, I felt its vast potential for interpersonal relations, much like the first thing I wanted to do on Chatroulette was show people my boobs.
Ordering one up is sort of like picking a song on the jukebox, watching that electronic arm grab one from its slot and deliver it to you. For someone with low self-esteem, who had rarely gotten any kind of sexual attention in real life, going online was like falling down a rabbit hole into a life I had previously only read about in the "Sweet Valley High" novels I mulled over -- the kind of life where boys and men want to "chat" with you, and sex with another person is a tangible possibility.
Despite my great marriage, I sometimes peruse Craigslist personal ads, just for kicks. Although the email wasn't explicit, it makes me look very bad. I pay for the phone, but the email goes through the firm's server, which I know has monitoring software.