I care little for rules or the ties that bind.
Particularly those that are the byproducts of social mores and puritanical constraints that seek to micromanage my preferred brand of sexuality and individualism, with little comment as to the efficacy of their method, or long-term sustainability of their practices.
I care little for rules.
I have oft laughed in the face of womankind’s attempt to impose a dogmatic schema to the loosely structured world of sexual politics; to the notion of sexual politics in and of themselves.
This “no kiss on the first date,” “no sex til the third” ideology that acts to strip from us our fluid sensuality, rob us of our spontaneity, and further solidify within us this frightening concept of good girl versus bad girl.
I care little for rules.
Be that as it may, I am forced to concede the existence of certain boundaries. Not rigid, stringent, asphyxiating boundaries that would have us chained and hog-tied to our seats, nickel clutched tight betwixt our throbbing knees.
But rather that ominous, invisible fence that keeps us suspended in the gray, protected from the nebulous, forgotten, distant world, shadowed in black. Mine is a world of small compromises; a tiny system of checks and balances that exists not for the sake for having limits, but rather acknowledging them because there ARE limits; the difference, perhaps, between dabbling in sexual deviance, and BEING a sexual deviant.
For while we make allowances for straying from the path, even forging your own path, the concept of there being no path is altogether too much for society to bear.
Conventional wisdom seems to indicate there needs be a finite method of distinguishing wheat from chaff; discreetly freaky librarian from open-assed slut.
And it has been a manageable feat to a degree.
At least in my own instance. I know of no examples where my own name has been bandied about the streets, tales of my mouth-sorcery heavy on the lips of young DC urbanites.
But the game has changed.
The advent of technology has increasingly blurred the lines between the Dos and the Don’ts.
And day after day, it becomes more difficult for even the most free-thinking among our female ranks to answer that all-important question: “Wait….wait…can I fuck him yet?”
Certainly, as educated women of a certain age, in a certain age, we’ve come round to the idea of a man’s awareness of our capacity to behave like whores (under the appropriate circumstances, of course)–liked it, encouraged it, even.
But to actually be perceived as a whore; to have a man legitimately THINK us whores—irrespective of how insignificant a man he may be—that is a fate to which the majority of us simply cannot yield.
Which brings me to my point:
Twitter won’t let my faux-chastity be great.
Not even a little bit.
Twitter is a setup from the getup.
Twitter introduces to our varied states of consciousness, and, by proxy, our pulsating, tumescent genitals, a chat room whose geographic locale is THE WORLD.
And here’s what happens.
You invariably come across that stranger, whose likes are your likes, whose humor is your humor, and whose avi is sexy as a motherfucker, and you’re hooked.
What begins as witty public banter moves to the discretion of your direct messages. But, texting is a far simpler platform, so you, of course, exchange numbers. And when your fingers are just too tired to type, why, calling seems like the natural conduit. And let us not forget that all-consuming desire to see his facial expressions and where, exactly he lives, so skype, necessarily, is the logical next step.
At first blush, one wants to make something like twitter comparable to online dating, but it is far, far different.
In online dating, people’s romantic interests are present from the start. It is the very reason they are in an online dating forum. The urgency to find commonality with another person leaves little room for real build up. The goal is to see the person and get this potentially monogamous show on the road. So there’s no long-term intellectual stimulation. In online dating, because the object is to meet the person and establish a meaningful relationship, the ordinary “rules” are already in place. The traditional, time-honored chase the pussy, date the pussy, capture the pussy system of governance rules the day.
(I’ve never online-dated, btw. Not that I’m judging. I mean, I’m not. But. Just to be clear…not my particular flagon of whiskey.)
But, on twitter, it’s all lighthearted.
Til it isn’t.
And the object of your cyber interest is, in all likelihood, some great distance away. And all you have is conversation. And build up. Until the day you two determine to meet…….
And the annoying question springs to mind once more…..”Wait…..can I fuck him?”
I mean, do I even know this man?
Can I know a man if I’ve never seen his legs?
Does he travel from place to place slow-boning his top tweeters?
Does he have a list of brown-skinned, sassy girls whose orifices he’s connived his way into with his glibly well-timed wit?
Am I twitter easy? Like, how many tweets does it take to get to center of my mons?
And what are the mechanics of the twitter hookup? Will it be awkward? Do I wear drawes? Do I pretend I had something else in mind? Should I buy board games?
All of these (very legitimate) questions are dauntingly overwhelming in the macro.
But even when I make effort to fix my mind upon the very thing, the Universe responds with more questions.
Twitterboo shows up at the crib, at long last.
Twitterboo has a fresh haircut, clothes are decent, pants are the appropriate length beneath his ankles, no purposeful display of chest hair spilling forth from his button down.
My chemistry with Twitterboo is great. I like Twitterboo. He’s mad chill. I can easily see letting Twitterboo nestle that perfectly edged up head in my thighs’ mocha hollows.
I mean, from there, the problems can only be typical ones. The ones you encounter with men you’d meet anywhere. His dick doesn’t work. He doesn’t wash his ass. His uncircumcised member is hidden between the folds of his flesh-snuggie.
In which case the solution is easy: I systemically remove any hint of him from my life and behave as though he never existed.
But, what if Twitterboo is good? What if Twitterboo, who has—from lands afar—followed the North Star across leagues of mountainous, arid desert terrain, all the way straight to my warm, quivering girlbox– is a beat master?
What if Twitterboo comes through to the crib and has the unmitigated gall to unleash Chernobyl-style devastation inside my vaginal walls? What if my shit starts to whistle a medley of Julie Andrews songs when Twitterboo withdraws his Harlequin-esque, glistening man-shaft?
Like, do we twitter-go-together now?
Is Twitterboo my real life boyfriend?
Is Twitterboo my cuff?
Is Twitterboo my interactive jumpoff?
The truth is, I don’t have answers to these questions.
Nary a one.
As is oft the case, the answer may, indeed be, that there are no answers.
At day’s end, my greatest act of folly may be posing the question of my twitter seduction to the Universe.
She can hardly regard me as a whore when she so diligently fucks us all…..
So I put it to you, Cyberspace….
Sweet-stroking the internet crush–
Twitter do or twitter dont?