Online

​Talking to men online is electrifying, especially when you’re in your early teens and no boys your age pay attention to you. They see right through you and your tiny, underdeveloped body; they don’t hear you when you speak, but your voice is trembling and similar to a child’s anyway. They’ll add to the already existing dullness of your life by making fun of you in science class or ignoring your attempts to speak with them. Men online bring color, life—they aren’t deterred by your childlike qualities. They’re pulled in, easily. They don’t just pay you attention; they cherish you, they need you.

At 16 years old, I searched “Sugar daddy” on Twitter. The internet was booming with girls reclaiming their bodies—empowering each other, encouraging one another to make money with our beautiful bodies. Men were our prey, we collectively decided, so we had to take control and get what we wanted. I figured I wanted money or something. 

A 27-year-old man whose profile picture was him, bearded and unattractive, holding a fish messaged me. My worth was 20 dollars a month for messaging him and sending him naked photos. I agreed because I didn’t know what the norm was. When I was bored, I’d go to my bathroom, sit on the sink, lift my shirt up, and snap a picture.

A 19-year-old British boy charmed me with his swoopy dark hair and his sentences that always ended with an “x.” He said: “the age of consent over here is 16 :) x.” His profile picture showed him standing next to a statue of Karl Marx. I would ask him how he was doing, and he would gracefully reply, “just a bit nostalgic for sovietism.” There was an air of mystery to him, obviously intentional, like he wanted to be a bit just out of reach, a little inaccessible, distant, slightly above me, even if he bowed down at my feet because I was pretty. I preferred being worshipped by these random men as opposed to interacting with boys my age.
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Jake and I met on Twitter—he responded to my Tweet about incessantly writing erotica. He DMed me asking to read it, and made fun of my use of the word “incessantly.” I was at my grandma’s house, sitting at the kitchen table with my laptop in front of me. I smirked guiltily. We texted back and forth for a while, sometimes sexting, and eventually we FaceTimed and I got really nervous. At first, I held the camera so he could only see my eyes and above. “I can only see your forehead,” he said. “Show me your face. I want to see your pretty face.”

He liked to have “FaceTime sex,” though, to have “FaceTime sex” I feel like more than one person has to come. It was uncomfortable and awkward, but his face appeared to be pleased. Do you want to see how hard you make me? he would ask. “Sure,” I said, like I was reading a script. What? he would scoff, his digital face contorted in disappointment. I had read my lines wrong. He demanded that I beg him. I proceeded to say stuff like “please daddy,” lowering my voice to a whisper. Then, he would flip the camera so I could see his pixelated penis, his hand using lotion. Sometimes he would tell me to talk dirty to him, and I didn’t know what to do without a specific prompt, and I would pause and there would be no noise except for his breathing and his hand moving up and down on his dick. Come on, he’d persist, say something. My face would get red and my finger would hover over the red button, not knowing whether it would be more awkward to stay in the video chat and be silent or to leave and have to explain myself afterwards.

He and I were stuck in this web of awkward affection. We would meet up, but I was never comfortable. I thought that was what I had wanted, but it wasn’t. I barely wanted FaceTime; I wanted my sexuality to be restricted to the cyberspace dimension where I could text, send pictures, and not have to speak or have my current face seen. I wanted to have time to think of flirty lines, to take good photos, to become someone else. That’s what the internet is for, after all—building a new self, crystallizing the persona you’ve always desired. I desired to embody the idyllic, submissive, pretty girl.

It’s easier when it’s done online. It’s like controlling a sim; I get to be above myself, watching myself like it’s not me. It’s just a character in a game. 

The beginning of the game is the best part. I could feel my adrenaline rush as I typed away, getting to know someone, reeling him in. It got old fast. And men who worshipped me forgot about me once they turned off his phones. I was only one pixelated face and body in a sea of billions—I was a picture they could click on, among many other clickable, alluring pictures. Just like how I was a character to myself, I was just a character to them, too. I was no human. I was an idea of a human to play with when they were bored.
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The British 19-year-old left a dirty photo of mine on read; I was hurt. I thought I was an angel. Who does that? I asked him, in something of a pissed-off following-up email. Someone who is super busy, he said. No “x.” Busy? I was never busy, no unemployed 16-year-old is busy except for school. I didn’t care about grades; I wanted love and attention. I said: it’s ok........i’ll wait for u my love, no punctuation, just open-ended, sitting there still, the final message, drifting, promising, waiting, like I have been faithfully holding my breath ever since.