Note: Remember when sex-bots were cool?

The stage is set. We have an ever-growing list of characters; some of them are even honest. What good is a list of people if there isn’t a time for events? We have a place—Las Vegas. We have a crew—me along with some misfortunates that I bumped into. Now, let me give you a time. When, when, when. Are we there yet?

Time is strange. Even eternity has a beginning. Why not an end? We saw one, but will we ever see the other? This time is the nineties. Remember them? Day-glow Spandex pants and David Lee Roth screeching as lead vocals for Van Halen. No. Wait. That was the eighties. The nineties were the shit decade of flannel and Sammy Hagar. The internet was just starting out; not really, but it is easier to say that than the reality. Does it matter either way? Let me sum up the internet for you in the nineties: nerds trying to have sex.

I just saved you 300 pages of existential social engineering. Come to think of it, I guess that is still what the internet is; however, it has been changed ever so slightly: nerds and other people trying to have sex.

I am no different. I might be an unnamed dude, but I’m no different from you. The freaks are attracted to me, though. I guess I am an outcast’s outcast. I mean, who else would fuck an elephant in jail while borrowing grease from Charles Bronson to lube up a naked midget’s ass? Exactly.

Here we are. The internet as you probably haven’t seen it in all its 56K, 8-bit glory. Without further ado, I bring you: Sex—nerd style!

There comes a time in man’s life when he just wants to bang one out. Sure, the internet might be an unsafe place full of weirdoes, but that was the girl’s luck to be with them instead. Being new is one thing. Tall man was new. Big deal. Tall man was a norm, or so Tall man thought himself to be. Being new and little, that’s another thing. He would get pushed around in a mini-Hot Wheels trike to make contact with des filles. Picking up ta femme isn’t easy on a Hot Wheel made for two.

Online dating—the kiss of death—so negative ‘back then’ and always the loaded question (if anything worked out): ‘How did you two meet?’ You see, I was online one day in this chat room and, oh, what was that? Yes, my name was BigSexyDunmmm13131. Huh? Oh, well, apparently, the other numbers associated with that name were taken. Yes, and I was in the room talking to the sex bot that was placed there. A sex bot? No, not a robot. Nothing like that at all. It was a program that would sit in chat rooms and spam advertisements for a sex or porn site. You could IM it and it would hold a small, but sexy, conversation with you.

 

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Hey babe

RebecaWantsIt: Hi Hun, what’s your name?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Jon

RebecaWantsIt: I love that name. My name is Rebeca!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Well, Rebeca, what does ‘Rebeca Want’?

RebecaWantsIt: Oh, Jon, you are so witty!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: *blush*

RebecaWantsIt: Yes, I am all wet for you!*!*!*

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Wet? The hell? Did you pee yourself?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Well?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Hello?! *poke*

RebecaWantsIt: Uhmnmnmmmhhhh I love it when you touch me there.

BigSexyDunmmm13131: That was me poking your eyeballs…

RebecaWantsIt: Yes! I love your balls!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: I said…EYE Balls!

RebecaWantsIt: Yes! I love your balls!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Are you a dude?

RebecaWantsIt: Fuck me harder, stud!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Umm…that actually didn’t answer my question

RebecaWantsIt: Oh, that feels so good…

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Me asking you questions makes you feel good?!

RebecaWantsIt: Fuck me harder, stud!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Ermmm…yes…

RebecaWantsIt: I’m going to cum! Do you want to see?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: No…that’s ok…you kind of freak me out.

RebecaWantsIt: Click here, lover! www.xxxrebexxx.com

And those were the ‘smarter’ bots. The ones people put less time into programming were worse…

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Hi babe

LindaLips: Lover, what’s your name?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Donald, and you?

LindaLips: Hi, $name$Donald! I am Samantha

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Huh? Why call yourself Linda if you are Samantha?

LindaLips: Oh, $name$Donald$emote$ you are so Wyty!

BigSexyDunmmm13131: I’m a Wyty? The hell is that?

LindaLips: Hi, $name$Wyty! I am Samantha

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Uhh…yeah, you already told me

LindaLips: I’m not wearing anything and my finger is busy…

BigSexyDunmmm13131: Typing?

LindaLips: Do you want to see my pushy?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: No. Even if you meant pussy—still a no

LindaLips: I love your hot cock in my mouth

BigSexyDunmmm13131: I say ‘no’ and you would put my cock—still in my underpants, mind you—into your mouth? Isn’t that a form of rape?

LindaLips: I’m not wearing anything and my finger is busy…

BigSexyDunmmm13131: So, you are now saying you want to rape me with your finger? That’s a bit too prison sick for me…

LindaLips: Lover, what’s your name?

BigSexyDunmmm13131: You showed me your ‘pushy’, put me into your mouth, and now finger raped me….and you still don’t remember my name?! That’s a bit…hot actually

LindaLips: Hi, $name$That’sabit…hotactually! I am Samantha

 

Where was I? Oh yeah, online dating. It wasn’t as acceptable then as it is now. Christ, now you can’t even turn on the TV or radio without seeing some eHarmony or E-Dating or E-veryone is fake on this site or whatever shit they are pushing. Leaping zombie shit, that ‘cheat on everyone you are married to’ site, Ashley Madison, wanted to buy a fucking football stadium. That’s how popular it is now…you can date, fuck people, find midgets, freaks, and all sorts of fetish shit that would make the Marquis De Sade cringe and, if you are already married and bored, well, there is even a site for you, too!

Back then there weren’t any sites like that. Back then it was Delphi—all text communication—and that gave away to the new-fangled technology that used, get this, graphic interfaces and the ability to receive mail instantly and see pictures attached to those mails (all at a super-grainy 12-bit in almost full color; orange never really did come out quite right). The new technology was America Online or AOL for short. This wasn’t even BowieNet where I met Annie. But wait, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me take you back to Gene and myself, typing away like mad fiends on AOL.

Gene and I used to go online all the time. He said it was the one place he wouldn’t be judged by his height, but by the content of his mind. And, boy, what a filthy mind that little prick had. We made him a screen name of ‘ChiefLongHandle’ and he was on that computer typing up a storm, which wasn’t bad except for AOL charged back then, which was per minute.

That’s right, they charged by the minute. Yeah, that’s right. Like a sex line. Because, really, that’s what they were when it all started out. A bunch of screen names in cyberspace trying to hook up to some sort of other humanity, some human touch, because they were too incomplete, too broken, too monstrous, to do so (or even know how to do so if they wanted to try) in person.

Gene would hook the girls online, and I would come along for the ride. So to speak. My life was mostly working out and studying. I had to finish my degree at UNLV—some degree—any degree. I’m pretty sure that’s what the letter from the finance office said. I wasn’t slacking off online like Gene. I was training in martial arts, Taekwondo to be exact. With only a few hours left open for actual food, study, and sleep after practice there wasn’t much time for me to be online. Oh, don’t get me wrong. On my days off from training, I was glued to that screen. I wasn’t in full training mode—that wouldn’t happen for a few years yet. Now I was just learning and learning took days off.

The internet was just blips and flips…electrons whizzing out into space—safety for all and a way for people who would never say ‘boo’ to anyone in public to be the biggest, filthiest, pain in the ass ever to almost everyone they saw online. This was all well and good, though, since at $4.95 an hour, who the fuck could afford to stay on too long?

Then the credit card hackers came. I had friends who would steal credit card information—not the whole card, mind you, just the prefix—and then generate the rest of the number. I’d get those fake numbers from my friend and sign up with a new name, new account and new everything like that. Then we’d see how long we could remain connected to AOL. See how big our bills would get. My friend would boast of his $380 bill. That’s nothing. I never had anyone calling me, so I would just stay dialed in. My personal best? Over $2,600 a month. Yeah, do the math. That’s all hours for almost an entire month straight and damn, if it wasn’t for dialing out for pizza, I would have had the record held by SD Blotto, and let’s just say his real record is the police report after he got caught taking real credit cards for this. See, a prefix is a victimless crime. Every card company has their own first four digits. The software then ran an algorithm and created the rest. But what Blotto did was, after having a few created ones rejected, take his job at the hotels and, when the customers checked into their rooms, he would ask for a card for “Security deposit” reasons. Carbon the card and take it home to use later on.

That’s right, the first instance of online identity theft can be traced back to a guy trying to get laid on a chat service. Sex is a powerful motivator—never forget that. Just ask Gene. I remember setting up a few dates for him. We would take pictures of us together; he would sit on top of a few books to adjust his height. Okay, it was our whole library—even the Garfield comics—stacked up on end at impossible angles. We had a few double dates, but we won’t talk about those here. I will, however, go on at great length about the time Gene brought one home. I never saw a reverse birthing before—the things that I learned with Gene—I didn’t know if it was more comfortable for the midget to have his head shoved up the vagina or the woman to have the midget inside. Was it dark in there? I imagine it would be like an MRI machine—tight with the sound of blood flowing and the occasional jackhammering of the tool. I think it was in a duckie shape. He contacted her with his usual lines—he was a lover, a poet, and everything he couldn’t be when people were face to face, or more appropriately face to stomach or chest with him. She was a bigger woman; I don’t mean bigger than him, rather bigger than most linemen from the NFL. Her tits were bigger than his head. How I envied him. When she wrote back, she wanted him inside of her—who knew it would end up like this? Gene knew. That freaky little bitch. The regular grocery runs started to cost more when he went. I think I noticed the $30 of various lubricants, gels, and a snorkel—the snorkel should have been a dead giveaway—if I had only noticed sooner, I wouldn’t have opened that door. Why did I open that door?