Fools for Lust (19 page)

He came to computers late in life. Following several decades working on a manual typewriter, the contrary spirit of independence that harboured inside him had quickly rebelled against the evangelical zeal of all his friends singing the praises of the personal computer. So, he almost reluctantly moved on to a golf ball electric typewriter, swearing under his breath whenever the damn machine couldn't keep up with the surprising speed of his two-finger typing.

He was actually quite proud to be considered a Luddite. There was a sort of badge of honour being a science-fiction writer in open revolt against technological progress.

But eventually the curse of badly decipherable carbon copies, the messiness of Tipp-Ex and the in-built death wish of self-correcting ribbons took their toll on his patience and he acquired his first PC.

And soon himself became a bit of a proselyte about its virtues. As well as the fact he no longer had to do endless rewrites/retypes on every piece of work due to his annoying compulsion for a clean manuscript.

Naturally, he wasn't the first pioneer on his block to log on to the internet, but then neither was he a Johnny-come-lately stuck in the hinterlands of mere word-processing.

His first weeks of exploration saw him surfing away to his heart's content, checking all references to himself via the plethora of search machines, discovering
en passant
that he had a homonym in the world of real science who had authored lengthy treatises and articles on the particularities of phosphorus and, more worryingly, the fact that there was little privacy on the web and that anyone with the right determination and know-how could find out anything about him, including his address, date of birth, details of education and more, let alone a complete bibliography of his writings, even those he had carefully cloaked under pseudonyms.

His next few months of personal research all involved typing in the word “sex” and gladly following where the search machines would take him. The journey was a fascinating one, widely expanding his parameters of both perversion and imagination. A sheer galaxy of pornographic websites for every taste under the sun, alternative sex discussion groups, interactive areas, amateur and commercial havens where absolutely anything went and more, from hirsute as well as shaven women to anal penetration, bestiality, fatties and foot fetishism to name but a few of the more predictable kinks on open display or for sale. All this actually provided him with some good ideas for stories as a way of justifying the increasing amount of time he was wasting in front of his computer screen and not actually working. And the sizable telephone bills.

By force of necessity he also began to communicate by email with his friends and acquaintances. It was so much more immediate and efficient, sparing him the envelopes, the stamps and the traditional walk up the road to the postbox. There was also a gently sexual frisson communicating in this way. Made letter writing so much more personal and even brought relative strangers into a risqué sphere of intimacy. Another writer, all the way away in Australia, female, wrote him a note following a story of his in a magazine and very soon their correspondence took a most personal connotation as they began to exchange the most acutely private sexual secrets and fantasies. The medium leant itself so well to this sort of flirting.

He had heard about chatrooms but had somehow never been attracted. Had always imagined it would consist of a bunch of sad people discussing
ad infinitum
the minor arcana of
Star Trek
or Lovecraft's
Cthulhu Mythos
until the sorry hours of dawn. The sort of nerds he avoided like the plague at conventions, who spelt Tolkien as Tolkein or blocked the conference hotel's stairways playing Dungeons and Dragons with a satisfied grin on their pale faces. He just knew the likely conversations in chatrooms would bore him to death or, worse, make his anger rise in a wave of exasperated irritation.

An editor in Texas had asked him for a story for a thematic anthology of all-new stories about love in the third millennium. He'd agreed to pen a new tale and pencilled the delivery date in his diary but other matters, alimentary writing and the business of living had overtaken his spring and he only remembered about the promised story with just a week to spare. He usually functioned well with close deadlines, the pressure acting as a spur for his inspiration. A sleepless night with images of countless women, past, potential and somehow forgotten, cruising through his brain like a generation ship on course for distant stars and he somehow came up with an idea. As ever, another variation on his eternal sentimental obsessions. It only took him a couple of days work in front of his screen and, two litres of Pepsi, three bars of chocolate and much scratching of his scalp later, the story was ready. 5,200 words long. He called it
Kiss Me Sadly
.

Off it went to Texas by DHL courier service.

He hoped it would do the trick.

Five days later, the editor of the anthology communicated back by email. He loved the central idea, the characters, the final twist, thought the story had really great moments, a possible prize-winner. Nebula or Hugo even. But, he did feel it required some changes. Not so much a rewrite, barely a few extra paragraphs, an editing job, no more.

He'd always known the stories he wrote were a bit left of field, far from ideal fodder for the popular American market, and it wasn't as if he got that many invitations to contribute to US anthologies. There was just one editor out there in Iowa who was keen on his idiosyncrasies. It would be nice to widen his appeal. He replied, indicating his willingness. Maybe they should discuss the required changes over the phone? When would the best time to call be?

Forget about the phone, the answer came an hour later. I see we have the same internet server, the editor in Texas replied. It would be both cheaper and easier to do the edit online. Fine with me, how do we do that? he asked Neil.

Easy, he was told, and was given a short set of instructions to follow on his computer screen when he logged on at the agreed time. Find Go on your menu and type in CS3, or something of the sort.

It was a Monday, late afternoon, to cater for the time difference between north London and Austin. A series of new screen configurations waltzed across his screen. He typed in “Yes” twice. And arrived at his chosen destination. Within seconds, he hadn't yet got his bearings or puzzled out all the boxes or sections on display, there was a “ping”, like a sort of muffled bell, and his screen opened up and there was a line there. It just said “Neil” and “welcome”.

He typed in “Hi” and they began the edit. Neil explained that he was recording everything on his end and would then paste the changes into the story.

The whole process took only one hour and was much less extensive than he had initially feared. Neil suggested; he agreed and furnished a new line or paragraph. It would be accepted or Neil, out in Texas, would make a further suggestion. Very quickly, he grew to appreciate the ease of online editing. Another wonderful use for computers, he felt. Reminding him, ironically, how reluctant he had originally been to convert over previously! Felt like another life already.

There was only one drawback. At odd times during their onscreen conversation, that damn “ping” sound would keep on going off. Pessimist that he was, he began worrying that something was wrong with his computer.

The edit was complete to their mutual satisfaction and they were just exchanging small talk, when he thought to query Neil about the strange, occasional noise. Being more of a computer expert, maybe he would know what the problem might be.

Ha ha, Neil typed. He shouldn't worry. They were in a chatroom and had forgotten to go private, so this was just other people trying to contact him. I see, he remarked, trying not to betray his inexperience.

They exchanged goodbyes and Neil logged off. Back in London, he remained online and, sure enough, a few minutes later, the bell sounded again and his screen opened up to the chat box.

Dave: Hi there.

He replied: 106562.2021: Hello.

The response was fast.

Dave: Where are you?

106562.2021: In London.

Dave: M or f?

106562.2021: Sorry?

Dave: Are you male or female?

106562.2021: Oh. Male.

Dave: OK. Bye.

A line saying (Dave has left the forum) appeared on the screen.

His first interlocutor disappeared. Intrigued, awaiting the next call, he moved his mouse around and began to puzzle out the possibilities on screen and soon learnt he could change his subscriber number to his name. Which he did. Then clicked on the “Who's Here?” line and uncovered a long list of names, many obscene, some humorous, initials, codes, sobriquets.

The bell went off again.

9 inches: Hello babe

He smiled. Answered.

Marti: How are you?

9 inches: Are you dressed?

He realised that the guy at the other end assumed he was a woman.

Mischievously, he decided to play along for a while.

Marti: Not totally, actually.

9 inches: Great ... do you have big tits?

Marti: No, barely A cup I fear.

9 inches: No matter, I love small boobs also. Looking for fun?

Marti: Why not?

Thus did Martin enter the world of chatrooms and cybersex. And role play.

The next four months witnessed a distinct downturn in his literary output as he became badly hooked on chatroom temptations. He quickly identified the most interesting ones. Adult Entertainment. Intimate Chat Forum. Pride:BI! NL hot Chat. France Forum. Soon, he was no longer the one always to be paged and began contacting others. Female of course. Seeking out interesting names, handles that indicated a modicum of intelligence and wit. Foreign names with a touch of enticing exoticism. But still other men kept on contacting him because of the ambiguity of his own nickname and, often, he would play along for a while, despairing at the lack of imagination they displayed. Surely, he was better than them? Within a few lines, they invariably had him undressed, spreadeagled, rubbing his clit, insisting his nipples were hard and his sexual openings moist or wet depending on the season or the time of day. He did wonder what women thought of such direct, unsubtle virtual approaches? Obviously, some would go along with the fantasies just for the fun of it, but he couldn't believe that's what women wanted.

In his own approaches, he was careful not to move onto sexual matters until well into the conversations. He was more interested in them as people, the writer or voyeur in him fascinated to learn about their life, the reasons that brought them onto the forums. Some momentarily even became friends before suddenly disappearing with no word of warning from the virtual world (or, more likely, moving on to chatrooms with another server). He loved it. This was a wonderful way of meeting others. So easy and straightforward. He'd never been the sort of person to walk up to others in bars or at parties, and had always been too shy to begin a conversation with an attractive woman in a bus queue or sitting across from him in an underground carriage. But this was so easy. There were no barriers, no opportunities for embarrassment. Rejection, if rejection there was, was impersonal and painless.

There was the opera singer in New York. The banker in Toronto who called herself Montana and called him the sunshine of her life and sent him a couple of nude photographs of herself. She was married with two kids but had a wonderful figure. He came across a dark-haired gypsy woman from Aix-en-Provence in the south of France, who sent him a fully clothed photo and suggested they meet for real. After toying with the idea, he agreed and took a plane and spent a weekend there with her in a narrow hotel room. The photo had been taken ten years ago, and instead of the single child she had admitted to, he discovered she had actually four, but no husband. The sex was good but they found they had little to say to each other and seldom spoke online again after they both returned to their computers. All he remembered of her later was the sublime vision of her perfectly shaped arse as she walked away from the bed to the bathroom on the first morning.

Then there was the student in South Carolina who collected photographs of men with large endowments and made it clear she wouldn't sleep with him but still enjoyed discussing the aesthetics of cocks, and the pros and cons of cut vs uncut penises and shaved vs unshaven balls. He knew that she did meet several men through the chatroom during the time of their contact – she had a substantial trust fund and was free to travel places for the right fuck – as she lovingly provided him with all the anatomical details of her couplings. The college year ended and she never reappeared on the forum. Another student in Berkshire, closer to home, who was torn between her urge to lose her cumbersome virginity and her attraction to female classmates. Her name was Jenni and she also emailed him a photo she had taken of herself and scanned. Skinny as hell, with adorable small breasts and green thong panties and awkwardly posing for the Polaroid in her study. When the picture provoked a hard-on, he felt like a paedophile; she couldn't be more than 15.

And then there was Rachel.

He couldn't recall their first chat. Who had called whom first. By now, he no longer logged on as “Marti” but as “Writer (m)”, having grown tired of all the unimaginative chat-up lines conjured up by other men.

She was American, lived in Paris where she worked for some financial consultancy organisation. She was in her late 20s, and had a daughter who was six years old. Rebecca. Her divorce was in the last throes of paperwork. From the first few conversations onwards, Martin took a strong liking to her. Her voice on screen seemed real, pleasant, quietly vulnerable.

Rachel came from a Wasp background and had been to the French Lycee in New York, before moving on to an Ivy League university. Not only did she live in France, but after a few weeks, he discovered much to his pleasant surprise that she knew and enjoyed French culture, much as he did. Discussing films or books, she had the most amazing knowledge of peculiarly obscure writers or movies.