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2012.07.06 17:08 TankorSmash Live web chat nude

A place for people to share the strange and disturbing PMs they get from all over the internet.
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2020.08.30 16:23 Softservex0 Chat live nude web

I'm not really a survivor. I haven't earned that title yet but before I explain this post involves
-Self harm -Sexual abuse (obviously) -Physical abuse -Emotional and Physiological pain, manipulation. -Dark web use/bitcoin yada yada -Underage porn/nudes etc.
If YOU or anyone else is sensitive to these things PLEASE click off and read something else.
I consider myself to be sexually abused, but not in the ways you might think. So of all places, I've come to the fire of the internet, reddit.
Okay, so I'm going to give relatively the shortest summary of my 3 years of going through this CURRENTLY as I can.
I am on another community app called Amino - Communties and chats. Where people can go into live chatrooms, create posts, do forums, polls etc.
It seems like a dream for any young teen like me who's been bullied most of her life and has no friends. It became my escape, but now, it seems more like a prison I can never get out of.
At the start I met this guy called darklord, (his username) I have his real name, his face, his address and phone number, but I will not be exposing him, because I still have respect for him, but he doesn't have a slither of it for me.
I met him in private messages after someone introduced me to him. And he tried to get me into a contract where I would be considered a "dog" and I won't have no rights as a person and I would be seen literal trash made to do whatever he said. I saw that in the contract, despite him trying to sugarcoat it. I declined it originally. I wanted nothing to do with this person.
Then later on down the line he got his other male friends to gang up on me, and threaten me with my IP address, and convinced me to believe that I was at a real threat, I was freshly 15, and had no knowledge about IP addresses, or anything of the sort, I was told I had to be in a contract otherwise they would leak all my personal information and one of the males threatening me lived in the same country and was going to hurt me.
I did as he said and signed the contract, and he made me do things I didn't want to do, and made me believe I didn't have a choice, SO I sent him nude images, keep in mind that this person is an adult, and knows what hes doing, he was passed the age of 18 at the time, but he never told me anything significant about him, at the time, so I didn't know his age.
I had no idea that he had saved the images at all. And later on down the line I ended breaking the contract because he would degrade me in public, along with several other members in the community, the community had over 2 million people and the most relevant people there would constantly ruin me, saving images of my face without my knowledge and degrading it behind my back and making others hate me.
Throughout this time I started to notice it wasnt just me in these harmful manipulative contracts. They're several young girls in these contracts. Some even younger than me. Doing the exact same things. And my self worth started to plummet, I was taken out of school during this time because my bullies got physical. Way too physical, and my mum was frightened for my health and safety. So with nothing to distract me from the abuse I was getting online, and it being the only place were I could talk to others, the saying pops in my head;
"Any attention is good attention"
In my case, any person who paid interest in me, was a good thing, because all my life I've never had freinds, and it made me a massive people pleaser and very vunderable.
So throughout that time, I kept trying to please those people who would laugh at me, tease me, and meeting people who had already had a tarnished view of me from other people's words. This really started messing with my self esteem, I didn't notice it at first, because of my bullying, I already had a bad self esteem.
Slowly, I started to lose my passions, everything that made me unique. Like art, food became tasteless, I joined to a new all girls grammar school after seven months of dealing with emotional abuse, school was pushed aside, I started to skip school, I developed a harsh flaring temper that could trigger any second even now towards my loved ones.
Girls at school started to hate me because I wouldn't work. I'd never want to wake up in the morning, I would stall for aslong as I possibly could, and constantly be late. The teachers and students made it a kinda reputation for me and I became the "bad egg" of the students. But they didnt understand, no one did. I started to skip school, my anxiety became worse, way worse, I'd sit down in classes and have break downs if work needed to be asked of me, cause I knew I haven't done it, that app became my life. All day at school I'd think about amino, constantly. You wouldn't catch me paying attention in lessons, all I did was sing, and write song lyrics. It used to make the teachers really mad, and I could understand that.
With no one understanding me, I kept to myself, with the app, like a drug.
I started to isolate myself, from my parents, everyone, I wouldn't tell anyone anything, and I still don't.
I spent most of my time in the behavioural support room, because I'd have anxiety break downs, and my feelings were constantly a rollercoaster. This time early this year was nearing to GCSE's and I didnt know what actually happened to me was abuse, so I chalked my sadness up to insecurities, and lack of motivation because my grades dropped so badly from being out of school, I'd missed a crucial whole year of content.
I kept trying to slow down time to figure out the real problem, but I couldn't, I was walking around trapped inside a dead body. I didn't feel alive. I put a mask to all the students that I didn't care. And it ultimately hurt me more. I couldn't slow down my GCSE's I couldn't start again, that ruined me for a long while.
On the app, I tried to stop darklord from hurting someone else who I thought had my back, but, darklord found out it was me that warned him. And, he exposed my nude pictures to everyone, My face was reduced to nothing from that day, everyone had it.
I feel violated, disgusting, and not human, I feel horrible, and the worst human alive, I've never known people to be so cruel, this cruel before.
If I I didn't feel dead before, I definitely felt dead now. The person I tried to protect laughed in my face, and strung me along for a while, and developed my bad temper, and took credit for it like it was a good thing, he was a narcissist and a deceitful liar.
I went off the app for a while, then created a youtube account. In the youtube account I felt ready enough to break my silence. In the video, I talked about my experience on the app, and told my story, and warned people about doing and falling for what I did.
One night, the video got over 200+ views. But not by random people, they were people from darklord's group, he had a massive group of people that had influence around the entire amino. Everyone knew them, so when they found it, they showed it in a screening room full of people, and ridiculed it for all to see, showing my face, making fun of me, and laughing at what happened to me like a funny joke.
That night I received so many hate comments, death threats, and other mean things, that ultimately made me fall into going back onto the app.
When I went back on it, I was ridiculed and looked down on as a literal dog, everyone hated me, people WHO I didn't even know treated me like absolute shit. I dont feel human anymore.
And now I found out that they
-Self underage nudes through bitcoin -Steal bitcoin accounts (dont know if that's considered Identity theft) -Gets others, minors to slit their wrists through threats -Have caused suicides. -And are possibly doing worse to others than me.
It kills me everyday knowing that I've gone through this and can never speak out to anyone because I feel so ashamed. I'm afraid, because I want to be a famous singer when I'm older, and I feel like I've ruined everything, and everything's my fault, and I was meant to be hated since I was born. My face aren't in the nudes, but that doesnt matter, I feel violated, and exposed and disgusting.
My soul and heart are in those pictures
And I can never get them back,
They're still doing this disgusting acts and getting away with it, even having all their information, I'm not in their country, so I cant do anything, plus I sont want my family knowing about this because I feel like a disgrace.
Please help me.
Thanks for reading.
submitted by Softservex0 to adultsurvivors [link] [comments]


2020.08.17 02:40 don_h_kowalski Live web chat nude

You ever sit around all day don’t know what to do? So bored of yourself that you just look at anything until you feel the rot creep up on you trying to drag you down. Well if you’re reading this, you must have some time on your hands. The name is Don Kowalski by the way.
My uncle used to say ,Gotta get out boy’ he said, ,You’re in a dark spot some time and when you’re in it keep going. Take it all, breath it in. Keep going. Always keep going.’ – ironic since he killed himself in a hunting accident out somewhere in woodland. I suppose he didn’t want to miss his prey and kept going after it. Kept going.
It started to work. For a few days you fight, and you struggle as sailors in a dry ditch or on a dry glass and you keep going, push forward and nothing comes from it until you know nothing will come from it. Such was time for me at the outbreak of our lovely new friend Covid. My one-part-off-part girlfriend Alessandra was with her family in Florida and so I shared the sunriddled apartment only with booze and screens.
Time was the enemy although it hadn’t been so from on early. It didn’t have to be this way. In the beginning, I was thrilled staying put, living only at home, downing a bottle here a bottle there took me months to realize that getting drunk wasn’t much exciting when you could do it every day. Lifting was no fun at home without the showoff.
The thrill wasn’t there without the mirrors and the others and I would not give empty testament. So I was stuck, down deep in my black chair with my greying hair clinging greasy to my head and the stubble on my face growing thicker and thicker like hedges and forests of dry metallic wires drilling themselves deep in my naked skin.
I sat on the chair, blue light penetrated me and I watched into it like someone getting lost in the sun to see caleidoscopic patterns afterwards for minutes and some stare in the dark ponds in gardens and across them and I stared into the unknown abbeys of the internet until I found something that hooked me. Interest was reborn, the cherubim and thrones sang, and I was again digging for knowledge on the riddle.
It was the case of Nathan, not Lessing’s I mind you. You got to know I’m, and I know this sounds like the start of a bad pulpy novel, I’m a PI or what the cool cats call it now. Private Investigation, looking at lives for a fuck of money but better than to slither up buttholes at the ordinary stational sedentary life I once had and was led in. I was called up, by a Mrs. Anderson, whose voice sounded like a whisky drowned chimney.
Carry Ann Anderson had called about a friend who was now dead meat. The case was solved she said but somehow it was not, not for her. There was rot on the inside of fresh timber. A fair warning here – there won’t be no solution, cause certainly me didn’t solve it. I told her so, when she called again. I hadn’t been to LA and going there was a waste, I knew as much already. For her sake I called the department over there and talked to the detective. She wasn’t going to be happy with my findings.
Gluing a mask of false politeness to my voice I asked, “So what’s the matter hm?”
“They say it’s all real simple: kid snapped and did it. But something ain’t right. You see I knew her back from the day, from Sacramento. I can tell you, this boy was no of these Columbines or Sandy Hooks, he would never hurt them.”
“That’s what the parents of those kids said too,” I said, uncomfortable silence on the other end.
“Something’s just off about this. You saw the files already?”
“Mhm. Didn’t do much good.”
“Tell you this: the officers said the same. Said it’s all there orderly and not like some coverup or some shit they tell you like the conspiracy theories on TV you know? Like they had to dig for it you know? Not too difficult and not too easy but also not in between not your textbook stuff either. Not odd he said. But said that it all around made it odd. Made it seem odd, still, somehow. Seems like not the type to do it. You know he said type? He spat them words out on me,” she said.
There I was. I made some calls asked about the kid that chopped down his family, sat his flat up like a Christmas tree and coaled it down to the ground, all in a cozy night. One day to the other and a bunch of people gone.
I find a pal of his, named Erica Cremonte. She was willing to talk. Told me when it happened and went down and all the other stuff. Other guys didn’t talk or told me how shitty they feel about it all. I dug a bit deeper inside Erica since she was the only source of water in the land of dry lands, she told me a bit more, opened up like an old lady to the cashier or waiter or the poor sod at the bus. Told me about Nathan and his family and his brother and his girlfriend her few idle feel-good weeks in Africa and the funeral. And that it didn’t make sense to her either.
And the days go by and I start to forget about the whole thing since there’s no leads and none won’t talk and I give up. Call Mrs. Anderson and tell her there is nothing and she doesn’t understand the whys in my words but she knows them and we agree to part ways and wish each other a nice day and she’s gone.
Days and weeks and months go by and I forget. Then I am locked here in front of the monitor and it all comes back and something in me stirs and after hours I stare at the profile of one Margaret Suarez and see the condolences on her Facebook profile.
I write to her and days pass me by, drinking lifting reading and boredom, the old familiar gent from around the corner walks up again until there’s a response. Asks me how I found her, what I wanted. Calls me and tells me all about the disfigured creep that slashed her mother in the office. Digs deeper and finds all the glory all the madness in the last mail, sent from her mother’s account.
He left something for us and I will share it with you. Keep in mind it’s all ludicrous but it will help pass some hours. So, the following is the written word of Nathan Cohen, brought to paper after he killed his therapist while locked up in the cuckoo’s nest.
##########################################################################
Sometimes I look up at the sky, at night. I wonder, is the lightning of the stars hidden by the vast dark, or is the darkness a shield? A shield that keeps us safe and calm from countless eyes that stare at us?
Back then I didn’t care for the night. The air was on fire from the red morning sun, every time the same, from grad school to that day when those good Fast Times at Ridgemont High started. In the beginning it was only dark shades of purple and crimson until the firmament turned to face blood.
A line of mystic clouds was in the sky, creeping forward like a white river. The street came alive minute by minute, looming trashmen came to empty our waste in the stark dust flying around. It was better in the hills with the cooling breeze before the onset of dawn.
Back then life was soft and kind and sometimes the only touch of madness was a killed hedgehog on the street or two poisoned cats in the neighborhood. Now, the sky is blue and white and partly covered in striped clouds standing static on the package of my pills. My name is Nate Cohen. Or was. A sitting corpse though I might sit and breath and eat and drink but I don't laugh or sing or cry. The laid out actions of others, that brought me here, might seem untrue for they can’t be proven, but I assure you they are true.
All of them. I don't know what will happen after I hit the "send" button but you all need to know there is a shade of acid in the world you don't taste or smell, but it burns your face like brimstone like flame-gas scorching your eyes like the sun was just the backside of a black hole. You'll see.
I was born Nathaniel Cohen in 1991 in the glory land of sunshine, to Ira and Susan. We lived down in Sacramento, my father running flocks of cars from behind a stuffed desk, and my mother gave pottery classes every Tuesday and Thursday night, taught a few friends how to make halfskilled molds of clay. Dad was a bold man always chasing dreams of living without a mortgage, and Mum supported but was like a happy young girl and bathed in the sounds of Sunday lawnmowers and plastic pools, water from the hose filtered the rays of solar bronze.
I guess in their own ways both were not real, maybe that was what tied them together. We weren't rich but not poor.
Playful on weekends I built forts and donjons between California sycamores and gray pine and hunted and ran with classmates and friends and neighbor's kids that grew grizzled worker’s brown over their small shapes.
I was happy before and afterwards, but loss is like a sharp pin in the foot, long lost by a sewing woman, too lazy to pick up her needles. Until then, when I was under or over 11 and my progenitor decided he needed to be home faster or sooner or was just hungry, and crashed into 2 men and 1 woman and one dog. Insurance and my grandparents (now long dead) kept us from sinking in the shelters of the homeless ones, but my mother needed work or we faced to lose the house.
The first months she worked as waitress at Ear’s, a rundown bar I wasn’t allowed to enter and so sat for hours on the warm sidewalks, gleaming red in the drowning sunlight and grey and sad under the smile of Mother Selene. Some days Mrs. Anderson watched me and I watched her, sipping slowly but frequent on cheap Chadonay. This went until some better showed up, and the months turned to over a year until that happened. My mother had studied contemporary art spending hours devouring Roy Lichtenstein and the likes and to find paying employment had never been on her mind, until some time as now.
Finally, after two years my mother got an offer from a small magazine in Los Angeles and we moved to this strange new world. Surprisingly, moving at the age of 13 was no fun but new friends found me as I slowly settled, when something changed.
Robert Berkowitz came into our life and took us in. He was a bald man with blonde eyebrows and eyes like glowing azures, he was no stranger to money and art, which was the way he’d gotten involved with Mum. They hit it right at each other and after some months or weeks, might it was just some weeks, he took us to his house in Beverly Hills, not far from where Foothill Road hits Park Way.
Beverly Palm Plaza was soon my second living room. Later, in the foul age of 16, I used all chances to leave the house into the mass of the 30.000 inhabitants living there, crossing the invisible line south of the tracks, where Pacific Electric had once worked streetcars on the Red Line. Eons ago in another world.
I did everything to leave home, my newborn half-brother Seth a crying shitting mess, stomping out silent thoughts with such vigor, that I agreed to join my mother on her monthly expeditions to the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art, near the buzzing Wilshire Boulevard. It was well worth the laughter from the beauties in blonde and black, and the cute Valley Girl that lived across from me. Life was good.
Robert tried to be a father, but in the end we formed a bond. He was there for me when I wanted and offered counsel and paid for my life while I enrolled in college, even helped my shallow dream to join in true Hollywood. After college I enrolled in the UCLA TFT program and, with help from my stepfather, finally landed a job at a production company, Reality TV. I started out as trainee and clawed my way finally to second assistant of the executive director of scripted TV development at Geronimo Grande Productions.
It wasn’t what I had dreamt of but at last I sustained myself, though Robert insisted to help with the rent for my flat on Kelton Avenue, where I still lived after graduating. Life was good back then, without the staring stars that tried to break through the night, away, far far away, Racing with the Moon.
I was 28 when the shades and clouds came over me. I was out with friends, a steamed night in the cool warm air’s vibrations around us.
We found a small restaurant near my place. Pitfire Artisan Pizza on 2018 Westwood Boulevard had brilliant Pesto Chicken and a damn fine Field Mushroom. I was there with Jules and Erica, enjoying dinner outside to the left of the entrance, a silent small tree our only companion, until she walked by. Inside there was a meeting of some charity organization, The Cotton Club or something.
Hair like ironed black jasper and ascetic nude makeup, she strolled by in a white tank top and black yoga pants, the matt casually under her arm. I didn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t. Some birds in some nearby trees seemed to whistle after her and she turned around, just for a second, as if to say come after me Birdy.
“You in love Naty?” asked Erica, the flower from the valley with the flaxen mob on her head, sitting across from me.
“No,” I stuttered “Just caught my eye. Nothing.”
“Sure,” grinned Jules between his teeth, “Mine too.” he said, folding his tattooed arms in front of his chest, tongue shoved in the corner of his mouth smiling like a bobcat dressed in jeans and shirt of the same fabric, The Boy in Blue.
“Why don’t ask for her number? She’s just down the corner.”
“Isn’t that kinda creepy?”
“Most women like a bit of creeps, ” Jules howled up at his own joke, his hat nearly falling from the back of his head as he raised it up and slapped his left knee.
“Oh, shut up predator,” I waved off, before I turned to Erica “You don’t think that’s awkward?”
“Not if a guy like you asked. I remember a friend of mine met her husband like that, now Peggy Sue Got Married,” she smiled and put her head to the side. Too perfect white Hollywooddream teeth.
I had seen the Girl turning left and jogged away from the Pitfire, still hearing Jules laughing, when I saw her near La Grange Ave. She cut another corner up right so I ran after her, praying to find her. Yet to the grace of my bad luck, she was gone. The street in front of me was not crowded but the vixen from my dreams was vanished. Hands empty and defeated I returned to the table.
“Vae victis,” announced Jules, as he saw my hollow eyes. I never had a poker face until now. With half your face in mashed up molten scartissue it’s difficult to show emotion and I wonder, so far from home will the sun ever show herself again, will it fill anyone out her, raise itself, Raising Arizona?
“Did she say no?” blonde Erica asked with true empathy.
“Seems I lost her,” I said, trying to hide my disappoint. Just a few seconds more decisiveness and my life might have changed.
“Well let’s go, search a new one,” Jules sprang up and clapped.
Let’s go. The words rang, as I tumbled out of the cab up to my flat, the Girl long forgotten for the next few months until another fateful day, when I went to my gym. Workout and work kept me focused for a time and it was mostly night when I came home.
I admit I was a glutton. I had to work out at least three times a week, gym rats they call them. Muscled sweat pouring gales of raw testosterone into the halls. The Equinox Gym was my favorite in Westwood and I had been a paying patron for years now and knew more faces there than in the streets around my neighborhood. I had just left after a session of pumping my brains out, when I saw her crossing me by.
“Hey,” I blurted out in reflex.
She tilted her hand. Black hair, a shimmer of brown in the dusky sunlight, dark eyes and a friendly smile took me right home. Right where I belonged.
“Hey yourself,” she said, raising one eyebrow.
“Do I know you?” she asked, without arrogance, her black-brown hair gently thrown over the left shoulder. Love leaking out of every pore I muttered a plain “Yes”. Before she had a chance to pass me by.
“Sorry. I meet a lot of people lately,” she smiled “Are you in one of my courses?”
“Courses?”
“Well, here,” she grinned. Small white teeth and a thick red snail that crouched behind them, giving them shelter and backup, all the same.
“Ah no. I think, you passed by a pizza palor couple of weeks ago?” I stuttered in embarrassment, trying to suppress redness swelling on my cheek.
“Yes, that’s on my way. So, you’re my new stalker?” She laughed.
“Well, don’t I feel honored,” I extended my hand “My name’s Nate, by the way.”
“Amy. Amy Gallagher,” she raised a slim white wrist in the shade of the California sundown.
This was the day I really met Amy Gallagher for the first time. I rue it every moment in the coffin of my sterile being with the stars laughing at me and the disc in the sky calling my name making me all Moonstruck.
We set a date for the Saturday to come. I thought it fitting to go for Italian and led her to Sammy’s down at Santa Monica Boulevard. It wasn’t too expensive (I didn’t want to come across as one of those guys) but stylish enough to show her I had some taste stored in me. She wore a stunning babyblue dress just touching the tips of her knees, and her black mane was straightened in a long tail crowning her right pale shoulder. When she saw me, she licked her lips as if to prepare me for her Vampire’s Kiss. Sammy was a first gen from Palermo, old now he longed for his home and always liked to impress with native extravaganza.
“Ciao ragazzi!” he said as I walked my stunning Kypris down the cheap red carpet between trashy fake Roman plastic pillars.
“Come stai?” Amy replied, took his arm and left me somber.
They chatted a bit in Italian, what they said I do not know, but I knew the small thing in my belly, the knot of discomfort in my stomach. Laughs and eyes on me. Cheers swallow the jokes.
“You’re full of surprises,” I tried to gain control of the tilting ship, unnecessarily clawing my black hair back.
“You got no idea,” she pressed her tongue between a marble row of perfect teeth, a small red viper watched out from the cave of her mouth.
We talked of hard work, of idle time, of family the usual first-date-topics broken up by a hand of awkward pauses in between, like flashes in the storm.
“My family’s not from around here.”
“Neither’s mine.”
“So whose Italian? Mom or Dad? I bet your Dad.”
“None of them,” she grinned “I picked it up couple years ago.”
Movies, theater, literature, antipasti, strange people, more hobbies, main dish, skipping desert and I rolled from over her in my half of the bed (thank god I had cleaned up before I left).
Time flew like night owls and bats and the days were filled with wet noises. I visited some of her Yoga classes, though it didn’t suit me. She visited me on my work. I showed her around the crappy little rooms we sat in and all awed at her body and face.
The nights were like Sunday afternoons with her and all ungood became stored noise in the corner, so became my dead father and her dead family and my aspirations in Hollywood and her degree from John Hopkins and my love for seafood and her fishnet dress and here working Never on Tuesday. Three months and there was the big day.
“So you’re the famous Amy!” mother opened her arms to greet her, eager to impress. Hard embarrassment as Robert did the same, while Seth waved at her and whispered a shy “Hi”, acting so often like young male teens, caught in the web of a child’s mind and a growing body.
Mother had insisted to cook and so we all chowed away on something resembling orange Lasagna, chowing away with the Time to Kill until it was all over. Robert tried to save grace by filling up after each bite and putting on some of his favorite tunes. Wine spilled on the tablecloth like the face of Christ.
“Nothing better than the master,” he prophesized while laying on a small fortune in the body of an old vinyl version of “Sweet Home Chicago”, his second most favorite behind “Fire Birds”.
“You like to make deals yourself Nate told me,” Amy teased with a smile, Wild at Heart but calm and in control.
“Oh, we got an expert over here!” he teased back.
“I knew some devils myself,” she curled her pink lips, deviously looking from my chest to my eyes.
“I bet you still do,” Robert winked and tucked away as my mother gave him a noticeable kick under the table with a smile on her face.
“So, you’re a Yoga-instructor?” asked the former waitress, sucking out the air of the room.
“Amy is actually a doctor,” I deflected as she took my forearm softly, clinging for support.
“A doctor? That sounds nearly like what Zandalee did! Remember Zandalee? She was the girl down the street who had that accident a few years ago?” asked Robert, ignored by the rest.
“Why not work in a hospital or a clinic?” asked my mother.
“You must know, Western medicine is very limiting. There are many ways to keep oneself healthy, but you got to be open minded and have the stomach for it,” she laughed.
“You mean like this Eastern stuff?”
“Well there’s many older tricks to keep oneself in good shape,” she said before switching the topic “Nate says you two are art enthusiasts?”
“I don’t want to brag but I know my way around,” said Mum.
“Well me certainly not,” said Seth annoyed, a bored sigh escaped his lips, barely noticeable the runt of the egomaniac litter.
“Who made that wristband?” Amy inquired “It looks really cool!”, prompting a hidden prideful smile from my little brother who had put a small plastic pearl on a leather band knotted around his wrist.
“I did,” Seth said, as he stared awkwardly at the table.
“Don’t be shy baby,” said my mother “he’s usually not like that.”
“Just not interested in girls yet.”
“Are you famous?” asked the child, his cheeks bright red.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” said my love, giggling like an imbecile on her Honeymoon in Vegas.
“You sure? Aren’t you from the poor family?” asked the child again.
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you on TV. You’re in that show about it.”
“Seth what are you talking? Stop that nonsense!” insisted my mother.
“It’s not nonsense,” said the child
“Enough now!” said mother.
“Ready for some games?” asked Robert as we dropped Seth’s fantasy.
“As ready as Amos & Andrew,” answered my Mum.
We spent the rest of the eve with talk and drink and spilled chips and even attempted to gamble on a bit of Ma-Jong before everyone sighed in boredom and we drove back to Amy’s place at Red Rock West with the Deadfall of the evening behind us. Usually, I had no trouble sleeping somewhere else and I had been to her little house at the fringes of the city’s civilization more often than not and when I woke at 03:00 a.m. the room smelled like gasoline. The TV was dead. We had watched something didn’t we? I thought “Guarding Tess” or “It Could Happen to You” was just starting when we dropped in. The things I knew were all so useless, I thought, what did it all do me good to know A Century of Cinema?
The bed was empty except for my own sweaty body, the smell like tiny razors in my nose, and when I called out, the only response was nothing from the hallway. I made my way outside on the corridor when I heard the whispers. At first I thought they came from the dirty bathroom but the closer I came towards the stairway the clearer it was.
Some voice was talking in the kitchen. Hiding my presence, I gazed through the open door and saw my girlfriend stare up at the moon, her voice barely a sound in it’s dead light. I didn’t hear what she said but for a while it seemed like there was someone else with us, someone who saw me and pointed a finger, led to her turning around, her eyes open and wide locking on my face. I jumped back at the swift surprise, as she called my name.
“Nate?” she asked me with a hunted voice, as if ready to give me the Kiss of Death.
“Y-Yeah. Everything all right Babe?”
“Sure. What you doing down here?”
“You were talking.”
“Did I wake you up?” she opened her arms to hug and we embraced another. Something wasn’t right.
“What you doing here? It’s after 4 in the morning and you here in the kitchen.” I left the words hanging in the air.
“You never noticed? I sleepwalk, always have. You really never woke up to this before? Did it since I was a baby when we were Leaving Las Vegas.”
I had no idea what she said. She told me it had happened to her since she was a child and that she had strange dreams of the moon and would wake up in the kitchen or the living room, mouth dry which meant she talked for long times, though to whom or what, she never said. Said it happened when she fell with the head right on the top of The Rock. We went back to bed but something was off. There was a noise. Or was there? I tried to turn around, roll over, Amy’s soft snoring next to me. Still a noise. Or not? Yes, yes definitely a noise. Or not?
A crackling sound, I jumped up. Slowly I crept outside the bed. Maybe just a bird had hit a window, had happened before. I crouched into the hallway, it came from the door. There was someone outside. Someone whistling. Slowly I made my way towards it, careful not to make the outsider aware of my presence.
I heard him breath or something that seemed like breathing. Half-breathing. Through the peephole I saw the void outside. There was nothing, just darkness and that whistling noise, soft and barley hearable.
It changed. Like light but not light, maybe orange or red. Did someone make a fire? Who would make fire in a building? It was like a bright red ring surrounding the black void. Then it blinked and I fainted.
Weeks came about and went by and work took me up as our next big project came, on my side always dutiful two new interns who often filled the whole office with the smell of fries they brought with them. We were in one of the smaller conference rooms, clean metal filled with flecks from cheap food, taking short breaks in between the longing working hours.
Sometimes I would use the breaks to talk some things through with my boss, always eager to show him how dedicated and thankful I was. His office had his name on the door but every time I couldn’t suppress the image of Very Important Pennis: Uncut on it. My tow fellow working drones were out to grab some snacks and I enjoyed the insularity of the room and took deep breaths, breathing through, Con Air from its powerful oxygen.
In my hand, a cup of coffee laying my eyes on the window, down on the people who passed another on the concrete between the pavements, when at the corner a man stood still. He was not ordinary. He just stood there. Had he stood here before? I don’t know but he stood and watched and then waved. Did he wave his hand at me? I came closer and tried to see what he was doing.
He raised his arm up in 45 degrees, and a single finger pointed at me like a spear as I gasped. Was this man mad? Was he seriously looking at me? There was something odd with him, I knew. There was something with his grimace, his Face/Off like he didn’t belong here.
Not on the street, but right here right that he was wrong in the City of Angles with his staring and unblinking Snake Eyes. As if he licked the thoughts in my head he violently shook his face up and down, loosening his slicked back brown hair and he smiled like a kid until for a moment his skin shook looked like a loosened mask. Then he hopped from one leg to the other, passers just ignored him, one to the other one to the other one to the other and bang he had fallen flat on the street crushing his head on the ground.
He lifted himself, blood tripling down on his brown suit and his white shirt and he did the same again. With full force he cracked his face on the hot concrete, again and again, sputtering teeth in all directions, still everyone ignored him and laughed at the sunfilled day.
As sudden as before he stood up, waved at me and ran away around the corner. In disbelief I kept standing and saw him look around the corner, staring at me until he produced an 8mm camera he pointed downwards. Then he started to spit around, all over the place as if that would have some effect like melting the stone or Bringing Out the Dead (which of course it didn’t).
Then he was gone in no time, Gone in 60 Seconds. Unbelievable what I had seen. When the interns returned, I pointed the spot out but the blood wasn’t there and the street so dirty clean like ever, and they thought I joked at them and turned their pimpled faces into smiles. Maybe it had just been bizarre performance, stranger things happened.
I told Amy of it and she agreed that it was nothing but an act or maybe really just a party clown or maybe someone who wanted to perform for his kids like The Family Man that he might be. I snugged up to her and pulled her close. I was happy and lucky and had to suppress that crunching emotion of bliss for a single time in my life only to accept the beauty in it with my shortloved heart.
I didn’t think about the man until a month later, it was weekend and Amy had her courses to give so I decided to grab my brother for a time at the beach. The hot sand around us we were lain out in the sun, talked about girls our mother and that his encroaching puberty started to cause tidal waves in the house. He was a good child and I tried to be as much a brother as I was. We were out in the water and then dried in the sun, palyed volleyball and disturbed elder people with it, when the sun tingled away.
Time had flown and I was glad I took the day to spend it with him. On our route home I filled up the car at the next gas station. There I met the Man again. Seth had taken time to make a visit to the toilet as I waited in the car. I was on my phone and scrolled through reviews for the coming movie night. I made a selection, “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” it was and “Christmas Carol: The Movie” and “Windtalkers” but a newer Adaptation, I looked up and saw the Man in the front of the car. His blue eyes examined my face, brown suit brown hair, and he hopped back in one jump and picked something up.
It was a little beagle and he pulled the puppy tight to his chest and scratched him gently behind the ears, whispering something into them that sounded like Sonny, but I’m not sure. He looked again at my eyes and he smiled. I didn’t know how to react, so I smiled back at him and showed him my thumb up and prayed he may go away. He did not.
He dropped the puppy to the ground and kicked it and jumped on it.
I heard the yelp and whimpering from outside but was too shocked to do something. He jumped up and down time after time my mouth opened in terror as I saw the blood on his black shoes. Through all this he had this relaxed smile and looked at me.
The howls of the puppy stopped and he picked up the furry meat, the head a mess of bone shards and brain, one eyeball broken out, dangled down form the rest of the defiled carcass. The Man pulled the puppy tight to his chest and lifted his thumb, cradling his face in the red stew. He let it fell down to the ground again and kicked it again and again until it was bloods-and-bones-stew.
I opened the car door when Seth shouted, “Where are you going?” I turned around to see he poked his head in the rustic car and as I nudged to the front, I saw the Man was gone.
Headfirst I sprang out the car and nosedived on the street, my face nearly touched the asphalt. He was gone and so was the blood. Seth shouted out but I was inside the shop already and begged the young cashier for aid, asked her if she hadn’t seen the Man outside. Headlight eyes looked at me in fear as I tried to grab her shoulders over the counter. Dirt blew up all around me as I touched the dusty bins and shelves. After a babbling tirade I looked at the hand that clenched my arm. Seth looked bewildered at me, his eyes asked if I gone maniac.
I had scared him but it brought me back to reality, for a short time. We sat silent in the car until angry hoops of late afternoon commuters called for banishment. I turned around and parked on the lot, then called police. They weren’t skeptical like in the films, especially when I told them that I had seen the man before. An understanding face took notes and went inside to consult with the cashier. I called Mum.
“What you guys up to? What’s going on?”
“Mum,” I said. “There was this guy.”
“Did something happen with Seth? What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I said and watched from the frame of my sight how my brother curled up in the passenger seat. “It was just odd.”
“What’s the matter with you? You scared me to death,” she said. I couldn’t scare her with this. Had I really imagined it all? I called Amy but she didn’t answer.
There was nothing on the video, they said. Just me in the car staring bewildered then stumbling out like drunk. They gave me various explanations from dehydration to stress and left me and my brother there on the road.
I opened the door and fell on the couch. I told him about my encounters with the man and tried to find reasons for the strange behavior until he asked if I couldn’t file against a stalker. Was this Man stalking me? From one second to the other things made sense and didn’t seem as bad, or bad in a different way. I pulled over a stoic mask on my mad face and cheered him up as I felt his angst. I called Mum and told her everything was fine, just a misunderstanding, and she accepted my explanation with weary ease.
I ditched my list and let Seth choose a film and slumped on the couch with dry eyelids covering my headache.
I woke up from a noise at the door, Seth crouched on my shoulder in sleep. I was scared and turned around to see my Amy standing in front of me, trying to plug in her dead phone. We embraced and sat down in the bedroom far off from troubling my brother with my disturbing tale. Amy didn’t doubt me but seemed more skeptic crafting mighty fine tales of pranksters and jokers wandering around town scaring people to practice their grotesqueries.
After a half slice of pizza and a cold shower we sat down with Seth on the couch, he somewhat checking out my girlfriend’s body under the green summer dress, a piece of cloth befitting a city not in tune with itself but always in fake summer. We lied in bed afterwards, she behind me, pressed against my back. I drifted away with a headache and the blazing last sunrays shone behind my eyelids again, a flash of a smile of the Man and his rat teeth and his chopstick-dress and he all set on fire, just standing and smiling. I woke and stared in darkness, the moon smirking at my anguish. Night bathed the room and I heard the deep snoring sound of Amy, still behind me.
The pillow was hot and cooked my ear and brought back memories of a headache as to command to turn over my headrest to the cooling side of the equator, to hopefully fall fast back asleep but as I lifted up there in the split of the halfclosed door to the dark of the halls behind I saw the blazing eyes. Red glowing in the dark for a lifetime and a second, staring and blinking and a soft tickle of laughter. I crouched myself at Amy’s side and shook her softly, she mumbling as her eyes opened awake.
I told her there was a thing at the door in the apartment. Sober from sleep her grogginess fell in an instant, and stiff like a white candle, she was up in the bed next to me. Her hands turned on the light and I moved a finger to the mouth and slowly crawled out from the bed, scared and slow steps I leaped forward looking behind me to see her face. She got up after me and held a hand on my back, a sign of watchful reassurance.
The rest of my home was dark and silent but for the breathing of Seth on the couch who woke as I switched on the lightbulbs tingling above his hair. Questioning eyes, he asked what was going on, Amy sat down with him as I went through all rooms again.
Then in the bedroom I looked under the bed and there was nothing. Back in the darkness of the hallway, Amy whispered to me of talking to someone a therapist or a psychiatrist, as I just stared at the shadow of a Man that was next to me, his face inches away from mine.
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2020.08.16 16:13 don_h_kowalski And I am in a Cage. Part 1 of 2.

Sometimes I look up at the sky, at night. I wonder, is the lightning of the stars hidden by the vast dark, or is the darkness a shield? A shield that keeps us safe and calm from countless eyes that stare at us?
Back then I didn’t care for the night. The air was on fire from the red morning sun, every time the same, from grad school to that day when those good Fast Times at Ridgemont High started. In the beginning it was only dark shades of purple and crimson until the firmament turned to face blood.
A line of mystic clouds was in the sky, creeping forward like a white river. The street came alive minute by minute, looming trashmen came to empty our waste in the stark dust flying around. It was better in the hills with the cooling breeze before the onset of dawn.
Back then life was soft and kind and sometimes the only touch of madness was a killed hedgehog on the street or two poisoned cats in the neighborhood. Now, the sky is blue and white and partly covered in striped clouds standing static on the package of my pills. My name is Nate Cohen. Or was. A sitting corpse though I might sit and breath and eat and drink but I don't laugh or sing or cry. The laid out actions of others, that brought me here, might seem untrue for they can’t be proven, but I assure you they are true.
All of them. I don't know what will happen after I hit the "send" button but you all need to know there is a shade of acid in the world you don't taste or smell, but it burns your face like brimstone like flame-gas scorching your eyes like the sun was just the backside of a black hole. You'll see.
I was born Nathaniel Cohen in 1991 in the glory land of sunshine, to Ira and Susan. We lived down in Sacramento, my father running flocks of cars from behind a stuffed desk, and my mother gave pottery classes every Tuesday and Thursday night, taught a few friends how to make halfskilled molds of clay. Dad was a bold man always chasing dreams of living without a mortgage, and Mum supported but was like a happy young girl and bathed in the sounds of Sunday lawnmowers and plastic pools, water from the hose filtered the rays of solar bronze.
I guess in their own ways both were not real, maybe that was what tied them together. We weren't rich but not poor.
I was happy before and afterwards, but loss is like a sharp pin in the foot, long lost by a sewing woman, too lazy to pick up her needles. Until then, when I was under or over 11 and my progenitor decided he needed to be home faster or sooner or was just hungry, and crashed into 2 men and 1 woman and one dog. Insurance and my grandparents (now long dead) kept us from sinking in the shelters of the homeless ones, but my mother needed work or we faced to lose the house.
The first months she worked as waitress at Ear’s, a rundown bar I wasn’t allowed to enter and so sat for hours on the warm sidewalks, gleaming red in the drowning sunlight and grey and sad under the smile of Mother Selene. Some days Mrs. Anderson watched me and I watched her, sipping slowly but frequent on cheap Chadonay. This went until some better showed up, and the months turned to over a year until that happened. My mother had studied contemporary art spending hours devouring Roy Lichtenstein and the likes and to find paying employment had never been on her mind, until some time as now.
Finally, after two years my mother got an offer from a small magazine in Los Angeles and we moved to this strange new world. Surprisingly, moving at the age of 13 was no fun but new friends found me as I slowly settled, when something changed.
Robert Berkowitz came into our life and took us in. He was a bald man with blonde eyebrows and eyes like glowing azures, he was no stranger to money and art, which was the way he’d gotten involved with Mum. They hit it right at each other and after some months or weeks, might it was just some weeks, he took us to his house in Beverly Hills, not far from where Foothill Road hits Park Way.
I did everything to leave home, my newborn half-brother Seth a crying shitting mess, stomping out silent thoughts with such vigor, that I agreed to join my mother on her monthly expeditions to the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art, near the buzzing Wilshire Boulevard. After college I enrolled in the UCLA TFT program and, with help from my stepfather, finally landed a job at a production company, Reality TV. I started out as trainee and clawed my way finally to second assistant of the executive director of scripted TV development at Geronimo Grande Productions.
It wasn’t what I had dreamt of but at last I sustained myself, though Robert insisted to help with the rent for my flat on Kelton Avenue, where I still lived after graduating. Life was good back then, without the staring stars that tried to break through the night, away, far far away, Racing with the Moon.
I was 28 when the shades and clouds came over me. I was out with friends, a steamed night in the cool warm air’s vibrations around us.
We found a small restaurant near my place. Pitfire Artisan Pizza on 2018 Westwood Boulevard had brilliant Pesto Chicken and a damn fine Field Mushroom. I was there with Jules and Erica, enjoying dinner outside to the left of the entrance, a silent small tree our only companion, until she walked by. Inside there was a meeting of some charity organization, The Cotton Club or something.
Hair like ironed black jasper and ascetic nude makeup, she strolled by in a white tank top and black yoga pants, the matt casually under her arm. I didn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t. Some birds in some nearby trees seemed to whistle after her and she turned around, just for a second, as if to say come after me Birdy.
“You in love Naty?” asked Erica, the flower from the valley with the flaxen mob on her head, sitting across from me.
“No,” I stuttered “Just caught my eye. Nothing.”
“Sure,” grinned Jules between his teeth, “Mine too.” he said, folding his tattooed arms in front of his chest, tongue shoved in the corner of his mouth smiling like a bobcat dressed in jeans and shirt of the same fabric, The Boy in Blue.
“Why don’t ask for her number? She’s just down the corner.”
“Oh, shut up predator,” I waved off, before I turned to Erica “You don’t think that’s awkward?”
“Not if a guy like you asked. I remember a friend of mine met her husband like that, now Peggy Sue Got Married,” she smiled and put her head to the side. Too perfect white Hollywooddream teeth.
I had seen the Girl turning left and jogged away from the Pitfire, still hearing Jules laughing, when I saw her near La Grange Ave. She cut another corner up right so I ran after her, praying to find her. Yet to the grace of my bad luck, she was gone. The street in front of me was not crowded but the vixen from my dreams was vanished. Hands empty and defeated I returned to the table.
“Did she say no?” blonde Erica asked with true empathy.
“Seems I lost her,” I said, trying to hide my disappoint. Just a few seconds more decisiveness and my life might have changed.
“Well let’s go, search a new one,” Jules sprang up and clapped.
Let’s go. The words rang, as I tumbled out of the cab up to my flat, the Girl long forgotten for the next few months until another fateful day, when I went to my gym. Workout and work kept me focused for a time and it was mostly night when I came home.
I admit I was a glutton. I had to work out at least three times a week, gym rats they call them. Muscled sweat pouring gales of raw testosterone into the halls. The Equinox Gym was my favorite in Westwood and I had been a paying patron for years now and knew more faces there than in the streets around my neighborhood. I had just left after a session of pumping my brains out, when I saw her crossing me by.
“Hey,” I blurted out in reflex.
She tilted her hand. Black hair, a shimmer of brown in the dusky sunlight, dark eyes and a friendly smile took me right home. Right where I belonged.
“Hey yourself,” she said, raising one eyebrow.
“Do I know you?” she asked, without arrogance, her black-brown hair gently thrown over the left shoulder. Love leaking out of every pore I muttered a plain “Yes”. Before she had a chance to pass me by.
“Sorry. I meet a lot of people lately,” she smiled “Are you in one of my courses?”
“Courses?”
“Well, here,” she grinned. Small white teeth and a thick red snail that crouched behind them, giving them shelter and backup, all the same.
“Ah no. I think, you passed by a pizza palor couple of weeks ago?” I stuttered in embarrassment, trying to suppress redness swelling on my cheek.
“Yes, that’s on my way. So, you’re my new stalker?” She laughed.
“Well, don’t I feel honored,” I extended my hand “My name’s Nate, by the way.”
“Amy. Amy Gallagher,” she raised a slim white wrist in the shade of the California sundown.
This was the day I really met Amy Gallagher for the first time. I rue it every moment in the coffin of my sterile being with the stars laughing at me and the disc in the sky calling my name making me all Moonstruck.
We set a date for the Saturday to come. I thought it fitting to go for Italian and led her to Sammy’s down at Santa Monica Boulevard. It wasn’t too expensive (I didn’t want to come across as one of those guys) but stylish enough to show her I had some taste stored in me. She wore a stunning babyblue dress just touching the tips of her knees, and her black mane was straightened in a long tail crowning her right pale shoulder. When she saw me, she licked her lips as if to prepare me for her Vampire’s Kiss. Sammy was a first gen from Palermo, old now he longed for his home and always liked to impress with native extravaganza.
“Ciao ragazzi!” he said as I walked my stunning Kypris down the cheap red carpet between trashy fake Roman plastic pillars.
“Come stai?” Amy replied, took his arm and left me somber.
They chatted a bit in Italian, what they said I do not know, but I knew the small thing in my belly, the knot of discomfort in my stomach. Laughs and eyes on me. Cheers swallow the jokes.
“You’re full of surprises,” I tried to gain control of the tilting ship, unnecessarily clawing my black hair back.
“You got no idea,” she pressed her tongue between a marble row of perfect teeth, a small red viper watched out from the cave of her mouth.
We talked of hard work, of idle time, of family the usual first-date-topics broken up by a hand of awkward pauses in between, like flashes in the storm.
“My family’s not from around here.”
“Neither’s mine.”
“So whose Italian? Mom or Dad? I bet your Dad.”
“None of them,” she grinned “I picked it up couple years ago.”
Movies, theater, literature, antipasti, strange people, more hobbies, main dish, skipping desert and I rolled from over her in my half of the bed (thank god I had cleaned up before I left).
The nights were like Sunday afternoons with her and all ungood became stored noise in the corner, so became my dead father and her dead family and my aspirations in Hollywood and her degree from John Hopkins and my love for seafood and her fishnet dress and here working Never on Tuesday. Three months and there was the big day.
“So you’re the famous Amy!” mother opened her arms to greet her, eager to impress. Hard embarrassment as Robert did the same, while Seth waved at her and whispered a shy “Hi”, acting so often like young male teens, caught in the web of a child’s mind and a growing body. Robert tried to save grace by filling up after each bite and putting on some of his favorite tunes.
“Nothing better than the master,” he prophesized while laying on a small fortune in the body of an old vinyl version of “Sweet Home Chicago”, his second most favorite behind “Fire Birds”.
“You like to make deals yourself Nate told me,” Amy teased with a smile, Wild at Heart but calm and in control.
“Oh, we got an expert over here!” he teased back.
“I knew some devils myself,” she curled her pink lips, deviously looking from my chest to my eyes.
“I bet you still do,” Robert winked and tucked away as my mother gave him a noticeable kick under the table with a smile on her face.
“So, you’re a Yoga-instructor?” asked the former waitress, sucking out the air of the room.
“Amy is actually a doctor,” I deflected as she took my forearm softly, clinging for support.
“A doctor? That sounds nearly like what Zandalee did! Remember Zandalee? She was the girl down the street who had that accident a few years ago?” asked Robert, ignored by the rest.
“Why not work in a hospital or a clinic?” asked my mother.
“You must know, Western medicine is very limiting. There are many ways to keep oneself healthy, but you got to be open minded and have the stomach for it,” she laughed.
“You mean like this Eastern stuff?”
“Well there’s many older tricks to keep oneself in good shape,” she said before switching the topic “Nate says you two are art enthusiasts?”
“I don’t want to brag but I know my way around,” said Mum.
“Well me certainly not,” said Seth annoyed, a bored sigh escaped his lips, barely noticeable the runt of the egomaniac litter.
“Who made that wristband?” Amy inquired “It looks really cool!”, prompting a hidden prideful smile from my little brother who had put a small plastic pearl on a leather band knotted around his wrist.
“I did,” Seth said, as he stared awkwardly at the table.
“Don’t be shy baby,” said my mother “he’s usually not like that.”
“Just not interested in girls yet.”
“Are you famous?” asked the child, his cheeks bright red.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” said my love, giggling like an imbecile on her Honeymoon in Vegas.
“You sure? Aren’t you from the poor family?” asked the child again.
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you on TV. You’re in that show about it.”
“Seth what are you talking? Stop that nonsense!” insisted my mother.
“It’s not nonsense,” said the child
“Enough now!” said mother.
“Ready for some games?” asked Robert as we dropped Seth’s fantasy.
“As ready as Amos & Andrew,” answered my Mum.
We spent the rest of the eve with talk and drink and spilled chips and even attempted to gamble on a bit of Ma-Jong before everyone sighed in boredom and we drove back to Amy’s place at Red Rock West with the Deadfall of the evening behind us. Usually, I had no trouble sleeping somewhere else and I had been to her little house at the fringes of the city’s civilization more often than not and when I woke at 03:00 a.m. the room smelled like gasoline. The TV was dead. We had watched something didn’t we? I thought “Guarding Tess” or “It Could Happen to You” was just starting when we dropped in. The things I knew were all so useless, I thought, what did it all do me good to know A Century of Cinema?
The bed was empty except for my own sweaty body, the smell like tiny razors in my nose, and when I called out, the only response was nothing from the hallway. I made my way outside on the corridor when I heard the whispers. At first I thought they came from the dirty bathroom but the closer I came towards the stairway the clearer it was.
Some voice was talking in the kitchen. Hiding my presence, I gazed through the open door and saw my girlfriend stare up at the moon, her voice barely a sound in it’s dead light. I didn’t hear what she said but for a while it seemed like there was someone else with us, someone who saw me and pointed a finger, led to her turning around, her eyes open and wide locking on my face. I jumped back at the swift surprise, as she called my name.
“Nate?” she asked me with a hunted voice, as if ready to give me the Kiss of Death.
“Y-Yeah. Everything all right Babe?”
“Sure. What you doing down here?”
“You were talking.”
“Did I wake you up?” she opened her arms to hug and we embraced another. Something wasn’t right.
“What you doing here? It’s after 4 in the morning and you here in the kitchen.” I left the words hanging in the air.
“You never noticed? I sleepwalk, always have. You really never woke up to this before? Did it since I was a baby when we were Leaving Las Vegas.”
I had no idea what she said. She told me it had happened to her since she was a child and that she had strange dreams of the moon and would wake up in the kitchen or the living room, mouth dry which meant she talked for long times, though to whom or what, she never said. Said it happened when she fell with the head right on the top of The Rock. We went back to bed but something was off. There was a noise. Or was there? I tried to turn around, roll over, Amy’s soft snoring next to me. Still a noise. Or not? Yes, yes definitely a noise. Or not?
A crackling sound, I jumped up. Slowly I crept outside the bed. Maybe just a bird had hit a window, had happened before. I crouched into the hallway, it came from the door. There was someone outside. Someone whistling. Slowly I made my way towards it, careful not to make the outsider aware of my presence.
I heard him breath or something that seemed like breathing. Half-breathing. Through the peephole I saw the void outside. There was nothing, just darkness and that whistling noise, soft and barley hearable.
It changed. Like light but not light, maybe orange or red. Did someone make a fire? Who would make fire in a building? It was like a bright red ring surrounding the black void. Then it blinked and I fainted.
Weeks came about and went by and work took me up as our next big project came, on my side always dutiful two new interns who often filled the whole office with the smell of fries they brought with them. We were in one of the smaller conference rooms, clean metal filled with flecks from cheap food, taking short breaks in between the longing working hours.
Sometimes I would use the breaks to talk some things through with my boss, always eager to show him how dedicated and thankful I was. His office had his name on the door but every time I couldn’t suppress the image of Very Important Pennis: Uncut on it. My tow fellow working drones were out to grab some snacks and I enjoyed the insularity of the room and took deep breaths, breathing through, Con Air from its powerful oxygen.
In my hand, a cup of coffee laying my eyes on the window, down on the people who passed another on the concrete between the pavements, when at the corner a man stood still. He was not ordinary. He just stood there. Had he stood here before? I don’t know but he stood and watched and then waved. Did he wave his hand at me? I came closer and tried to see what he was doing.
He raised his arm up in 45 degrees, and a single finger pointed at me like a spear as I gasped. Was this man mad? Was he seriously looking at me? There was something odd with him, I knew. There was something with his grimace, his Face/Off like he didn’t belong here.
Not on the street, but right here right that he was wrong in the City of Angles with his staring and unblinking Snake Eyes. As if he licked the thoughts in my head he violently shook his face up and down, loosening his slicked back brown hair and he smiled like a kid until for a moment his skin shook looked like a loosened mask. Then he hopped from one leg to the other, passers just ignored him, one to the other one to the other one to the other and bang he had fallen flat on the street crushing his head on the ground.
He lifted himself, blood tripling down on his brown suit and his white shirt and he did the same again. With full force he cracked his face on the hot concrete, again and again, sputtering teeth in all directions, still everyone ignored him and laughed at the sunfilled day.
As sudden as before he stood up, waved at me and ran away around the corner. In disbelief I kept standing and saw him look around the corner, staring at me until he produced an 8mm camera he pointed downwards. Then he started to spit around, all over the place as if that would have some effect like melting the stone or Bringing Out the Dead (which of course it didn’t).
Then he was gone in no time, Gone in 60 Seconds. Unbelievable what I had seen. When the interns returned, I pointed the spot out but the blood wasn’t there and the street so dirty clean like ever, and they thought I joked at them and turned their pimpled faces into smiles. Maybe it had just been bizarre performance, stranger things happened.
I told Amy of it and she agreed that it was nothing but an act or maybe really just a party clown or maybe someone who wanted to perform for his kids like The Family Man that he might be. I snugged up to her and pulled her close. I was happy and lucky and had to suppress that crunching emotion of bliss for a single time in my life only to accept the beauty in it with my shortloved heart.
I didn’t think about the man until a month later, it was weekend and Amy had her courses to give so I decided to grab my brother for a time at the beach. The hot sand around us we were lain out in the sun, talked about girls our mother and that his encroaching puberty started to cause tidal waves in the house.
Time had flown and I was glad I took the day to spend it with him. On our route home I filled up the car at the next gas station. There I met the Man again. Seth had taken time to make a visit to the toilet as I waited in the car. I was on my phone and scrolled through reviews for the coming movie night. I made a selection, “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” it was and “Christmas Carol: The Movie” and “Windtalkers” but a newer Adaptation, I looked up and saw the Man in the front of the car. His blue eyes examined my face, brown suit brown hair, and he hopped back in one jump and picked something up.
It was a little beagle and he pulled the puppy tight to his chest and scratched him gently behind the ears, whispering something into them that sounded like Sonny, but I’m not sure. He looked again at my eyes and he smiled. I didn’t know how to react, so I smiled back at him and showed him my thumb up and prayed he may go away. He did not.
He dropped the puppy to the ground and kicked it and jumped on it.
I heard the yelp and whimpering from outside but was too shocked to do something. He jumped up and down time after time my mouth opened in terror as I saw the blood on his black shoes. Through all this he had this relaxed smile and looked at me.
The howls of the puppy stopped and he picked up the furry meat, the head a mess of bone shards and brain, one eyeball broken out, dangled down form the rest of the defiled carcass. The Man pulled the puppy tight to his chest and lifted his thumb, cradling his face in the red stew. He let it fell down to the ground again and kicked it again and again until it was bloods-and-bones-stew.
I opened the car door when Seth shouted, “Where are you going?” I turned around to see he poked his head in the rustic car and as I nudged to the front, I saw the Man was gone.
Headfirst I sprang out the car and nosedived on the street, my face nearly touched the asphalt. He was gone and so was the blood. Seth shouted out but I was inside the shop already and begged the young cashier for aid, asked her if she hadn’t seen the Man outside. Headlight eyes looked at me in fear as I tried to grab her shoulders over the counter. Dirt blew up all around me as I touched the dusty bins and shelves. After a babbling tirade I looked at the hand that clenched my arm. Seth looked bewildered at me, his eyes asked if I gone maniac.
I had scared him but it brought me back to reality, for a short time. We sat silent in the car until angry hoops of late afternoon commuters called for banishment. I turned around and parked on the lot, then called police. They weren’t skeptical like in the films, especially when I told them that I had seen the man before. An understanding face took notes and went inside to consult with the cashier. I called Mum.
“What you guys up to? What’s going on?”
“Mum,” I said. “There was this guy.”
“Did something happen with Seth? What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I said and watched from the frame of my sight how my brother curled up in the passenger seat. “It was just odd.”
“What’s the matter with you? You scared me to death,” she said. I couldn’t scare her with this. Had I really imagined it all? I called Amy but she didn’t answer.
There was nothing on the video, they said. Just me in the car staring bewildered then stumbling out like drunk. They gave me various explanations from dehydration to stress and left me and my brother there on the road.
I opened the door and fell on the couch. I told him about my encounters with the man and tried to find reasons for the strange behavior until he asked if I couldn’t file against a stalker. Was this Man stalking me?
I ditched my list and let Seth choose a film and slumped on the couch with dry eyelids covering my headache.
I woke up from a noise at the door, Seth crouched on my shoulder in sleep.
After a half slice of pizza and a cold shower we sat down with Seth on the couch, he somewhat checking out my girlfriend’s body under the green summer dress, a piece of cloth befitting a city not in tune with itself but always in fake summer. We lied in bed afterwards, she behind me, pressed against my back. I drifted away with a headache and the blazing last sunrays shone behind my eyelids again, a flash of a smile of the Man and his rat teeth and his chopstick-dress and he all set on fire, just standing and smiling. I woke and stared in darkness, the moon smirking at my anguish. Night bathed the room and I heard the deep snoring sound of Amy, still behind me.
I told her there was a thing at the door in the apartment. Sober from sleep her grogginess fell in an instant, and stiff like a white candle, she was up in the bed next to me. Her hands turned on the light and I moved a finger to the mouth and slowly crawled out from the bed, scared and slow steps I leaped forward looking behind me to see her face. She got up after me and held a hand on my back, a sign of watchful reassurance.
The rest of my home was dark and silent but for the breathing of Seth on the couch who woke as I switched on the lightbulbs tingling above his hair. Questioning eyes, he asked what was going on, Amy sat down with him as I went through all rooms again.
Then in the bedroom I looked under the bed and there was nothing. Back in the darkness of the hallway, Amy whispered to me of talking to someone a therapist or a psychiatrist, as I just stared at the shadow of a Man that was next to me, his face inches away from mine.
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2020.08.16 15:30 don_h_kowalski Live web chat nude

Sometimes I look up at the sky, at night. I wonder, is the lightning of the stars hidden by the vast dark, or is the darkness a shield? A shield that keeps us safe and calm from countless eyes that stare at us?
Back then I didn’t care for the night. The air was on fire from the red morning sun, every time the same, from grad school to that day when those good Fast Times at Ridgemont High started. In the beginning it was only dark shades of purple and crimson until the firmament turned to face blood.
A line of mystic clouds was in the sky, creeping forward like a white river. The street came alive minute by minute, looming trashmen came to empty our waste in the stark dust flying around. It was better in the hills with the cooling breeze before the onset of dawn.
Back then life was soft and kind and sometimes the only touch of madness was a killed hedgehog on the street or two poisoned cats in the neighborhood. Now, the sky is blue and white and partly covered in striped clouds standing static on the package of my pills. My name is Nate Cohen. Or was. A sitting corpse though I might sit and breath and eat and drink but I don't laugh or sing or cry. The laid out actions of others, that brought me here, might seem untrue for they can’t be proven, but I assure you they are true.
All of them. I don't know what will happen after I hit the "send" button but you all need to know there is a shade of acid in the world you don't taste or smell, but it burns your face like brimstone like flame-gas scorching your eyes like the sun was just the backside of a black hole. You'll see.
I was born Nathaniel Cohen in 1991 in the glory land of sunshine, to Ira and Susan. We lived down in Sacramento, my father running flocks of cars from behind a stuffed desk, and my mother gave pottery classes every Tuesday and Thursday night, taught a few friends how to make halfskilled molds of clay. Dad was a bold man always chasing dreams of living without a mortgage, and Mum supported but was like a happy young girl and bathed in the sounds of Sunday lawnmowers and plastic pools, water from the hose filtered the rays of solar bronze.
I guess in their own ways both were not real, maybe that was what tied them together. We weren't rich but not poor.
I was happy before and afterwards, but loss is like a sharp pin in the foot, long lost by a sewing woman, too lazy to pick up her needles. Until then, when I was under or over 11 and my progenitor decided he needed to be home faster or sooner or was just hungry, and crashed into 2 men and 1 woman and one dog. Insurance and my grandparents (now long dead) kept us from sinking in the shelters of the homeless ones, but my mother needed work or we faced to lose the house.
The first months she worked as waitress at Ear’s, a rundown bar I wasn’t allowed to enter and so sat for hours on the warm sidewalks, gleaming red in the drowning sunlight and grey and sad under the smile of Mother Selene. Some days Mrs. Anderson watched me and I watched her, sipping slowly but frequent on cheap Chadonay. This went until some better showed up, and the months turned to over a year until that happened. My mother had studied contemporary art spending hours devouring Roy Lichtenstein and the likes and to find paying employment had never been on her mind, until some time as now.
Finally, after two years my mother got an offer from a small magazine in Los Angeles and we moved to this strange new world. Surprisingly, moving at the age of 13 was no fun but new friends found me as I slowly settled, when something changed.
Robert Berkowitz came into our life and took us in. He was a bald man with blonde eyebrows and eyes like glowing azures, he was no stranger to money and art, which was the way he’d gotten involved with Mum. They hit it right at each other and after some months or weeks, might it was just some weeks, he took us to his house in Beverly Hills, not far from where Foothill Road hits Park Way.
I did everything to leave home, my newborn half-brother Seth a crying shitting mess, stomping out silent thoughts with such vigor, that I agreed to join my mother on her monthly expeditions to the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art, near the buzzing Wilshire Boulevard. After college I enrolled in the UCLA TFT program and, with help from my stepfather, finally landed a job at a production company, Reality TV. I started out as trainee and clawed my way finally to second assistant of the executive director of scripted TV development at Geronimo Grande Productions.
It wasn’t what I had dreamt of but at last I sustained myself, though Robert insisted to help with the rent for my flat on Kelton Avenue, where I still lived after graduating. Life was good back then, without the staring stars that tried to break through the night, away, far far away, Racing with the Moon.
I was 28 when the shades and clouds came over me. I was out with friends, a steamed night in the cool warm air’s vibrations around us.
We found a small restaurant near my place. Pitfire Artisan Pizza on 2018 Westwood Boulevard had brilliant Pesto Chicken and a damn fine Field Mushroom. I was there with Jules and Erica, enjoying dinner outside to the left of the entrance, a silent small tree our only companion, until she walked by. Inside there was a meeting of some charity organization, The Cotton Club or something.
Hair like ironed black jasper and ascetic nude makeup, she strolled by in a white tank top and black yoga pants, the matt casually under her arm. I didn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t. Some birds in some nearby trees seemed to whistle after her and she turned around, just for a second, as if to say come after me Birdy.
“You in love Naty?” asked Erica, the flower from the valley with the flaxen mob on her head, sitting across from me.
“No,” I stuttered “Just caught my eye. Nothing.”
“Sure,” grinned Jules between his teeth, “Mine too.” he said, folding his tattooed arms in front of his chest, tongue shoved in the corner of his mouth smiling like a bobcat dressed in jeans and shirt of the same fabric, The Boy in Blue.
“Why don’t ask for her number? She’s just down the corner.”
“Oh, shut up predator,” I waved off, before I turned to Erica “You don’t think that’s awkward?”
“Not if a guy like you asked. I remember a friend of mine met her husband like that, now Peggy Sue Got Married,” she smiled and put her head to the side. Too perfect white Hollywooddream teeth.
I had seen the Girl turning left and jogged away from the Pitfire, still hearing Jules laughing, when I saw her near La Grange Ave. She cut another corner up right so I ran after her, praying to find her. Yet to the grace of my bad luck, she was gone. The street in front of me was not crowded but the vixen from my dreams was vanished. Hands empty and defeated I returned to the table.
“Did she say no?” blonde Erica asked with true empathy.
“Seems I lost her,” I said, trying to hide my disappoint. Just a few seconds more decisiveness and my life might have changed.
“Well let’s go, search a new one,” Jules sprang up and clapped.
Let’s go. The words rang, as I tumbled out of the cab up to my flat, the Girl long forgotten for the next few months until another fateful day, when I went to my gym. Workout and work kept me focused for a time and it was mostly night when I came home.
I admit I was a glutton. I had to work out at least three times a week, gym rats they call them. Muscled sweat pouring gales of raw testosterone into the halls. The Equinox Gym was my favorite in Westwood and I had been a paying patron for years now and knew more faces there than in the streets around my neighborhood. I had just left after a session of pumping my brains out, when I saw her crossing me by.
“Hey,” I blurted out in reflex.
She tilted her hand. Black hair, a shimmer of brown in the dusky sunlight, dark eyes and a friendly smile took me right home. Right where I belonged.
“Hey yourself,” she said, raising one eyebrow.
“Do I know you?” she asked, without arrogance, her black-brown hair gently thrown over the left shoulder. Love leaking out of every pore I muttered a plain “Yes”. Before she had a chance to pass me by.
“Sorry. I meet a lot of people lately,” she smiled “Are you in one of my courses?”
“Courses?”
“Well, here,” she grinned. Small white teeth and a thick red snail that crouched behind them, giving them shelter and backup, all the same.
“Ah no. I think, you passed by a pizza palor couple of weeks ago?” I stuttered in embarrassment, trying to suppress redness swelling on my cheek.
“Yes, that’s on my way. So, you’re my new stalker?” She laughed.
“Well, don’t I feel honored,” I extended my hand “My name’s Nate, by the way.”
“Amy. Amy Gallagher,” she raised a slim white wrist in the shade of the California sundown.
This was the day I really met Amy Gallagher for the first time. I rue it every moment in the coffin of my sterile being with the stars laughing at me and the disc in the sky calling my name making me all Moonstruck.
We set a date for the Saturday to come. I thought it fitting to go for Italian and led her to Sammy’s down at Santa Monica Boulevard. It wasn’t too expensive (I didn’t want to come across as one of those guys) but stylish enough to show her I had some taste stored in me. She wore a stunning babyblue dress just touching the tips of her knees, and her black mane was straightened in a long tail crowning her right pale shoulder. When she saw me, she licked her lips as if to prepare me for her Vampire’s Kiss. Sammy was a first gen from Palermo, old now he longed for his home and always liked to impress with native extravaganza.
“Ciao ragazzi!” he said as I walked my stunning Kypris down the cheap red carpet between trashy fake Roman plastic pillars.
“Come stai?” Amy replied, took his arm and left me somber.
They chatted a bit in Italian, what they said I do not know, but I knew the small thing in my belly, the knot of discomfort in my stomach. Laughs and eyes on me. Cheers swallow the jokes.
“You’re full of surprises,” I tried to gain control of the tilting ship, unnecessarily clawing my black hair back.
“You got no idea,” she pressed her tongue between a marble row of perfect teeth, a small red viper watched out from the cave of her mouth.
We talked of hard work, of idle time, of family the usual first-date-topics broken up by a hand of awkward pauses in between, like flashes in the storm.
“My family’s not from around here.”
“Neither’s mine.”
“So whose Italian? Mom or Dad? I bet your Dad.”
“None of them,” she grinned “I picked it up couple years ago.”
Movies, theater, literature, antipasti, strange people, more hobbies, main dish, skipping desert and I rolled from over her in my half of the bed (thank god I had cleaned up before I left).
The nights were like Sunday afternoons with her and all ungood became stored noise in the corner, so became my dead father and her dead family and my aspirations in Hollywood and her degree from John Hopkins and my love for seafood and her fishnet dress and here working Never on Tuesday. Three months and there was the big day.
“So you’re the famous Amy!” mother opened her arms to greet her, eager to impress. Hard embarrassment as Robert did the same, while Seth waved at her and whispered a shy “Hi”, acting so often like young male teens, caught in the web of a child’s mind and a growing body. Robert tried to save grace by filling up after each bite and putting on some of his favorite tunes.
“Nothing better than the master,” he prophesized while laying on a small fortune in the body of an old vinyl version of “Sweet Home Chicago”, his second most favorite behind “Fire Birds”.
“You like to make deals yourself Nate told me,” Amy teased with a smile, Wild at Heart but calm and in control.
“Oh, we got an expert over here!” he teased back.
“I knew some devils myself,” she curled her pink lips, deviously looking from my chest to my eyes.
“I bet you still do,” Robert winked and tucked away as my mother gave him a noticeable kick under the table with a smile on her face.
“So, you’re a Yoga-instructor?” asked the former waitress, sucking out the air of the room.
“Amy is actually a doctor,” I deflected as she took my forearm softly, clinging for support.
“A doctor? That sounds nearly like what Zandalee did! Remember Zandalee? She was the girl down the street who had that accident a few years ago?” asked Robert, ignored by the rest.
“Why not work in a hospital or a clinic?” asked my mother.
“You must know, Western medicine is very limiting. There are many ways to keep oneself healthy, but you got to be open minded and have the stomach for it,” she laughed.
“You mean like this Eastern stuff?”
“Well there’s many older tricks to keep oneself in good shape,” she said before switching the topic “Nate says you two are art enthusiasts?”
“I don’t want to brag but I know my way around,” said Mum.
“Well me certainly not,” said Seth annoyed, a bored sigh escaped his lips, barely noticeable the runt of the egomaniac litter.
“Who made that wristband?” Amy inquired “It looks really cool!”, prompting a hidden prideful smile from my little brother who had put a small plastic pearl on a leather band knotted around his wrist.
“I did,” Seth said, as he stared awkwardly at the table.
“Don’t be shy baby,” said my mother “he’s usually not like that.”
“Just not interested in girls yet.”
“Are you famous?” asked the child, his cheeks bright red.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” said my love, giggling like an imbecile on her Honeymoon in Vegas.
“You sure? Aren’t you from the poor family?” asked the child again.
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you on TV. You’re in that show about it.”
“Seth what are you talking? Stop that nonsense!” insisted my mother.
“It’s not nonsense,” said the child
“Enough now!” said mother.
“Ready for some games?” asked Robert as we dropped Seth’s fantasy.
“As ready as Amos & Andrew,” answered my Mum.
We spent the rest of the eve with talk and drink and spilled chips and even attempted to gamble on a bit of Ma-Jong before everyone sighed in boredom and we drove back to Amy’s place at Red Rock West with the Deadfall of the evening behind us. Usually, I had no trouble sleeping somewhere else and I had been to her little house at the fringes of the city’s civilization more often than not and when I woke at 03:00 a.m. the room smelled like gasoline. The TV was dead. We had watched something didn’t we? I thought “Guarding Tess” or “It Could Happen to You” was just starting when we dropped in. The things I knew were all so useless, I thought, what did it all do me good to know A Century of Cinema?
The bed was empty except for my own sweaty body, the smell like tiny razors in my nose, and when I called out, the only response was nothing from the hallway. I made my way outside on the corridor when I heard the whispers. At first I thought they came from the dirty bathroom but the closer I came towards the stairway the clearer it was.
Some voice was talking in the kitchen. Hiding my presence, I gazed through the open door and saw my girlfriend stare up at the moon, her voice barely a sound in it’s dead light. I didn’t hear what she said but for a while it seemed like there was someone else with us, someone who saw me and pointed a finger, led to her turning around, her eyes open and wide locking on my face. I jumped back at the swift surprise, as she called my name.
“Nate?” she asked me with a hunted voice, as if ready to give me the Kiss of Death.
“Y-Yeah. Everything all right Babe?”
“Sure. What you doing down here?”
“You were talking.”
“Did I wake you up?” she opened her arms to hug and we embraced another. Something wasn’t right.
“What you doing here? It’s after 4 in the morning and you here in the kitchen.” I left the words hanging in the air.
“You never noticed? I sleepwalk, always have. You really never woke up to this before? Did it since I was a baby when we were Leaving Las Vegas.”
I had no idea what she said. She told me it had happened to her since she was a child and that she had strange dreams of the moon and would wake up in the kitchen or the living room, mouth dry which meant she talked for long times, though to whom or what, she never said. Said it happened when she fell with the head right on the top of The Rock. We went back to bed but something was off. There was a noise. Or was there? I tried to turn around, roll over, Amy’s soft snoring next to me. Still a noise. Or not? Yes, yes definitely a noise. Or not?
A crackling sound, I jumped up. Slowly I crept outside the bed. Maybe just a bird had hit a window, had happened before. I crouched into the hallway, it came from the door. There was someone outside. Someone whistling. Slowly I made my way towards it, careful not to make the outsider aware of my presence.
I heard him breath or something that seemed like breathing. Half-breathing. Through the peephole I saw the void outside. There was nothing, just darkness and that whistling noise, soft and barley hearable.
It changed. Like light but not light, maybe orange or red. Did someone make a fire? Who would make fire in a building? It was like a bright red ring surrounding the black void. Then it blinked and I fainted.
Weeks came about and went by and work took me up as our next big project came, on my side always dutiful two new interns who often filled the whole office with the smell of fries they brought with them. We were in one of the smaller conference rooms, clean metal filled with flecks from cheap food, taking short breaks in between the longing working hours.
Sometimes I would use the breaks to talk some things through with my boss, always eager to show him how dedicated and thankful I was. His office had his name on the door but every time I couldn’t suppress the image of Very Important Pennis: Uncut on it. My tow fellow working drones were out to grab some snacks and I enjoyed the insularity of the room and took deep breaths, breathing through, Con Air from its powerful oxygen.
In my hand, a cup of coffee laying my eyes on the window, down on the people who passed another on the concrete between the pavements, when at the corner a man stood still. He was not ordinary. He just stood there. Had he stood here before? I don’t know but he stood and watched and then waved. Did he wave his hand at me? I came closer and tried to see what he was doing.
He raised his arm up in 45 degrees, and a single finger pointed at me like a spear as I gasped. Was this man mad? Was he seriously looking at me? There was something odd with him, I knew. There was something with his grimace, his Face/Off like he didn’t belong here.
Not on the street, but right here right that he was wrong in the City of Angles with his staring and unblinking Snake Eyes. As if he licked the thoughts in my head he violently shook his face up and down, loosening his slicked back brown hair and he smiled like a kid until for a moment his skin shook looked like a loosened mask. Then he hopped from one leg to the other, passers just ignored him, one to the other one to the other one to the other and bang he had fallen flat on the street crushing his head on the ground.
He lifted himself, blood tripling down on his brown suit and his white shirt and he did the same again. With full force he cracked his face on the hot concrete, again and again, sputtering teeth in all directions, still everyone ignored him and laughed at the sunfilled day.
As sudden as before he stood up, waved at me and ran away around the corner. In disbelief I kept standing and saw him look around the corner, staring at me until he produced an 8mm camera he pointed downwards. Then he started to spit around, all over the place as if that would have some effect like melting the stone or Bringing Out the Dead (which of course it didn’t).
Then he was gone in no time, Gone in 60 Seconds. Unbelievable what I had seen. When the interns returned, I pointed the spot out but the blood wasn’t there and the street so dirty clean like ever, and they thought I joked at them and turned their pimpled faces into smiles. Maybe it had just been bizarre performance, stranger things happened.
I told Amy of it and she agreed that it was nothing but an act or maybe really just a party clown or maybe someone who wanted to perform for his kids like The Family Man that he might be. I snugged up to her and pulled her close. I was happy and lucky and had to suppress that crunching emotion of bliss for a single time in my life only to accept the beauty in it with my shortloved heart.
I didn’t think about the man until a month later, it was weekend and Amy had her courses to give so I decided to grab my brother for a time at the beach. The hot sand around us we were lain out in the sun, talked about girls our mother and that his encroaching puberty started to cause tidal waves in the house.
Time had flown and I was glad I took the day to spend it with him. On our route home I filled up the car at the next gas station. There I met the Man again. Seth had taken time to make a visit to the toilet as I waited in the car. I was on my phone and scrolled through reviews for the coming movie night. I made a selection, “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” it was and “Christmas Carol: The Movie” and “Windtalkers” but a newer Adaptation, I looked up and saw the Man in the front of the car. His blue eyes examined my face, brown suit brown hair, and he hopped back in one jump and picked something up.
It was a little beagle and he pulled the puppy tight to his chest and scratched him gently behind the ears, whispering something into them that sounded like Sonny, but I’m not sure. He looked again at my eyes and he smiled. I didn’t know how to react, so I smiled back at him and showed him my thumb up and prayed he may go away. He did not.
He dropped the puppy to the ground and kicked it and jumped on it.
I heard the yelp and whimpering from outside but was too shocked to do something. He jumped up and down time after time my mouth opened in terror as I saw the blood on his black shoes. Through all this he had this relaxed smile and looked at me.
The howls of the puppy stopped and he picked up the furry meat, the head a mess of bone shards and brain, one eyeball broken out, dangled down form the rest of the defiled carcass. The Man pulled the puppy tight to his chest and lifted his thumb, cradling his face in the red stew. He let it fell down to the ground again and kicked it again and again until it was bloods-and-bones-stew.
I opened the car door when Seth shouted, “Where are you going?” I turned around to see he poked his head in the rustic car and as I nudged to the front, I saw the Man was gone.
Headfirst I sprang out the car and nosedived on the street, my face nearly touched the asphalt. He was gone and so was the blood. Seth shouted out but I was inside the shop already and begged the young cashier for aid, asked her if she hadn’t seen the Man outside. Headlight eyes looked at me in fear as I tried to grab her shoulders over the counter. Dirt blew up all around me as I touched the dusty bins and shelves. After a babbling tirade I looked at the hand that clenched my arm. Seth looked bewildered at me, his eyes asked if I gone maniac.
I had scared him but it brought me back to reality, for a short time. We sat silent in the car until angry hoops of late afternoon commuters called for banishment. I turned around and parked on the lot, then called police. They weren’t skeptical like in the films, especially when I told them that I had seen the man before. An understanding face took notes and went inside to consult with the cashier. I called Mum.
“What you guys up to? What’s going on?”
“Mum,” I said. “There was this guy.”
“Did something happen with Seth? What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I said and watched from the frame of my sight how my brother curled up in the passenger seat. “It was just odd.”
“What’s the matter with you? You scared me to death,” she said. I couldn’t scare her with this. Had I really imagined it all? I called Amy but she didn’t answer.
There was nothing on the video, they said. Just me in the car staring bewildered then stumbling out like drunk. They gave me various explanations from dehydration to stress and left me and my brother there on the road.
I opened the door and fell on the couch. I told him about my encounters with the man and tried to find reasons for the strange behavior until he asked if I couldn’t file against a stalker. Was this Man stalking me?
I ditched my list and let Seth choose a film and slumped on the couch with dry eyelids covering my headache.
I woke up from a noise at the door, Seth crouched on my shoulder in sleep.
After a half slice of pizza and a cold shower we sat down with Seth on the couch, he somewhat checking out my girlfriend’s body under the green summer dress, a piece of cloth befitting a city not in tune with itself but always in fake summer. We lied in bed afterwards, she behind me, pressed against my back. I drifted away with a headache and the blazing last sunrays shone behind my eyelids again, a flash of a smile of the Man and his rat teeth and his chopstick-dress and he all set on fire, just standing and smiling. I woke and stared in darkness, the moon smirking at my anguish. Night bathed the room and I heard the deep snoring sound of Amy, still behind me.
I told her there was a thing at the door in the apartment. Sober from sleep her grogginess fell in an instant, and stiff like a white candle, she was up in the bed next to me. Her hands turned on the light and I moved a finger to the mouth and slowly crawled out from the bed, scared and slow steps I leaped forward looking behind me to see her face. She got up after me and held a hand on my back, a sign of watchful reassurance.
The rest of my home was dark and silent but for the breathing of Seth on the couch who woke as I switched on the lightbulbs tingling above his hair. Questioning eyes, he asked what was going on, Amy sat down with him as I went through all rooms again.
Then in the bedroom I looked under the bed and there was nothing. Back in the darkness of the hallway, Amy whispered to me of talking to someone a therapist or a psychiatrist, as I just stared at the shadow of a Man that was next to me, his face inches away from mine.
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2020.08.15 18:20 don_h_kowalski Live web chat nude

Sometimes I look up at the sky, at night. I wonder, is the lightning of the stars hidden by the vast dark, or is the darkness a shield? A shield that keeps us safe and calm from countless eyes that stare at us?
Back then I didn’t care for the night. The air was on fire from the red morning sun, every time the same, from grad school to that day when those good Fast Times at Ridgemont High started. In the beginning it was only dark shades of purple and crimson until the firmament turned to face blood.
A line of mystic clouds was in the sky, creeping forward like a white river. The street came alive minute by minute, looming trashmen came to empty our waste in the stark dust flying around. It was better in the hills with the cooling breeze before the onset of dawn.
Back then life was soft and kind and sometimes the only touch of madness was a killed hedgehog on the street or two poisoned cats in the neighborhood. Now, the sky is blue and white and partly covered in striped clouds standing static on the package of my pills. My name is Nate Cohen. Or was. A sitting corpse though I might sit and breath and eat and drink but I don't laugh or sing or cry. The laid out actions of others, that brought me here, might seem untrue for they can’t be proven, but I assure you they are true.
All of them. I don't know what will happen after I hit the "send" button but you all need to know there is a shade of acid in the world you don't taste or smell, but it burns your face like brimstone like flame-gas scorching your eyes like the sun was just the backside of a black hole. You'll see.
I was born Nathaniel Cohen in 1991 in the glory land of sunshine, to Ira and Susan. We lived down in Sacramento, my father running flocks of cars from behind a stuffed desk, and my mother gave pottery classes every Tuesday and Thursday night, taught a few friends how to make halfskilled molds of clay. Dad was a bold man always chasing dreams of living without a mortgage, and Mum supported but was like a happy young girl and bathed in the sounds of Sunday lawnmowers and plastic pools, water from the hose filtered the rays of solar bronze.
I guess in their own ways both were not real, maybe that was what tied them together. We weren't rich but not poor.
I was happy before and afterwards, but loss is like a sharp pin in the foot, long lost by a sewing woman, too lazy to pick up her needles. Until then, when I was under or over 11 and my progenitor decided he needed to be home faster or sooner or was just hungry, and crashed into 2 men and 1 woman and one dog. Insurance and my grandparents (now long dead) kept us from sinking in the shelters of the homeless ones, but my mother needed work or we faced to lose the house.
The first months she worked as waitress at Ear’s, a rundown bar I wasn’t allowed to enter and so sat for hours on the warm sidewalks, gleaming red in the drowning sunlight and grey and sad under the smile of Mother Selene. Some days Mrs. Anderson watched me and I watched her, sipping slowly but frequent on cheap Chadonay. This went until some better showed up, and the months turned to over a year until that happened. My mother had studied contemporary art spending hours devouring Roy Lichtenstein and the likes and to find paying employment had never been on her mind, until some time as now.
Finally, after two years my mother got an offer from a small magazine in Los Angeles and we moved to this strange new world. Surprisingly, moving at the age of 13 was no fun but new friends found me as I slowly settled, when something changed.
Robert Berkowitz came into our life and took us in. He was a bald man with blonde eyebrows and eyes like glowing azures, he was no stranger to money and art, which was the way he’d gotten involved with Mum. They hit it right at each other and after some months or weeks, might it was just some weeks, he took us to his house in Beverly Hills, not far from where Foothill Road hits Park Way.
I did everything to leave home, my newborn half-brother Seth a crying shitting mess, stomping out silent thoughts with such vigor, that I agreed to join my mother on her monthly expeditions to the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art, near the buzzing Wilshire Boulevard. After college I enrolled in the UCLA TFT program and, with help from my stepfather, finally landed a job at a production company, Reality TV. I started out as trainee and clawed my way finally to second assistant of the executive director of scripted TV development at Geronimo Grande Productions.
It wasn’t what I had dreamt of but at last I sustained myself, though Robert insisted to help with the rent for my flat on Kelton Avenue, where I still lived after graduating. Life was good back then, without the staring stars that tried to break through the night, away, far far away, Racing with the Moon.
I was 28 when the shades and clouds came over me. I was out with friends, a steamed night in the cool warm air’s vibrations around us.
We found a small restaurant near my place. Pitfire Artisan Pizza on 2018 Westwood Boulevard had brilliant Pesto Chicken and a damn fine Field Mushroom. I was there with Jules and Erica, enjoying dinner outside to the left of the entrance, a silent small tree our only companion, until she walked by. Inside there was a meeting of some charity organization, The Cotton Club or something.
Hair like ironed black jasper and ascetic nude makeup, she strolled by in a white tank top and black yoga pants, the matt casually under her arm. I didn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t. Some birds in some nearby trees seemed to whistle after her and she turned around, just for a second, as if to say come after me Birdy.
“You in love Naty?” asked Erica, the flower from the valley with the flaxen mob on her head, sitting across from me.
“No,” I stuttered “Just caught my eye. Nothing.”
“Sure,” grinned Jules between his teeth, “Mine too.” he said, folding his tattooed arms in front of his chest, tongue shoved in the corner of his mouth smiling like a bobcat dressed in jeans and shirt of the same fabric, The Boy in Blue.
“Why don’t ask for her number? She’s just down the corner.”
“Oh, shut up predator,” I waved off, before I turned to Erica “You don’t think that’s awkward?”
“Not if a guy like you asked. I remember a friend of mine met her husband like that, now Peggy Sue Got Married,” she smiled and put her head to the side. Too perfect white Hollywooddream teeth.
I had seen the Girl turning left and jogged away from the Pitfire, still hearing Jules laughing, when I saw her near La Grange Ave. She cut another corner up right so I ran after her, praying to find her. Yet to the grace of my bad luck, she was gone. The street in front of me was not crowded but the vixen from my dreams was vanished. Hands empty and defeated I returned to the table.
“Did she say no?” blonde Erica asked with true empathy.
“Seems I lost her,” I said, trying to hide my disappoint. Just a few seconds more decisiveness and my life might have changed.
“Well let’s go, search a new one,” Jules sprang up and clapped.
Let’s go. The words rang, as I tumbled out of the cab up to my flat, the Girl long forgotten for the next few months until another fateful day, when I went to my gym. Workout and work kept me focused for a time and it was mostly night when I came home.
I admit I was a glutton. I had to work out at least three times a week, gym rats they call them. Muscled sweat pouring gales of raw testosterone into the halls. The Equinox Gym was my favorite in Westwood and I had been a paying patron for years now and knew more faces there than in the streets around my neighborhood. I had just left after a session of pumping my brains out, when I saw her crossing me by.
“Hey,” I blurted out in reflex.
She tilted her hand. Black hair, a shimmer of brown in the dusky sunlight, dark eyes and a friendly smile took me right home. Right where I belonged.
“Hey yourself,” she said, raising one eyebrow.
“Do I know you?” she asked, without arrogance, her black-brown hair gently thrown over the left shoulder. Love leaking out of every pore I muttered a plain “Yes”. Before she had a chance to pass me by.
“Sorry. I meet a lot of people lately,” she smiled “Are you in one of my courses?”
“Courses?”
“Well, here,” she grinned. Small white teeth and a thick red snail that crouched behind them, giving them shelter and backup, all the same.
“Ah no. I think, you passed by a pizza palor couple of weeks ago?” I stuttered in embarrassment, trying to suppress redness swelling on my cheek.
“Yes, that’s on my way. So, you’re my new stalker?” She laughed.
“Well, don’t I feel honored,” I extended my hand “My name’s Nate, by the way.”
“Amy. Amy Gallagher,” she raised a slim white wrist in the shade of the California sundown.
This was the day I really met Amy Gallagher for the first time. I rue it every moment in the coffin of my sterile being with the stars laughing at me and the disc in the sky calling my name making me all Moonstruck.
We set a date for the Saturday to come. I thought it fitting to go for Italian and led her to Sammy’s down at Santa Monica Boulevard. It wasn’t too expensive (I didn’t want to come across as one of those guys) but stylish enough to show her I had some taste stored in me. She wore a stunning babyblue dress just touching the tips of her knees, and her black mane was straightened in a long tail crowning her right pale shoulder. When she saw me, she licked her lips as if to prepare me for her Vampire’s Kiss. Sammy was a first gen from Palermo, old now he longed for his home and always liked to impress with native extravaganza.
“Ciao ragazzi!” he said as I walked my stunning Kypris down the cheap red carpet between trashy fake Roman plastic pillars.
“Come stai?” Amy replied, took his arm and left me somber.
They chatted a bit in Italian, what they said I do not know, but I knew the small thing in my belly, the knot of discomfort in my stomach. Laughs and eyes on me. Cheers swallow the jokes.
“You’re full of surprises,” I tried to gain control of the tilting ship, unnecessarily clawing my black hair back.
“You got no idea,” she pressed her tongue between a marble row of perfect teeth, a small red viper watched out from the cave of her mouth.
We talked of hard work, of idle time, of family the usual first-date-topics broken up by a hand of awkward pauses in between, like flashes in the storm.
“My family’s not from around here.”
“Neither’s mine.”
“So whose Italian? Mom or Dad? I bet your Dad.”
“None of them,” she grinned “I picked it up couple years ago.”
Movies, theater, literature, antipasti, strange people, more hobbies, main dish, skipping desert and I rolled from over her in my half of the bed (thank god I had cleaned up before I left).
The nights were like Sunday afternoons with her and all ungood became stored noise in the corner, so became my dead father and her dead family and my aspirations in Hollywood and her degree from John Hopkins and my love for seafood and her fishnet dress and here working Never on Tuesday. Three months and there was the big day.
“So you’re the famous Amy!” mother opened her arms to greet her, eager to impress. Hard embarrassment as Robert did the same, while Seth waved at her and whispered a shy “Hi”, acting so often like young male teens, caught in the web of a child’s mind and a growing body. Robert tried to save grace by filling up after each bite and putting on some of his favorite tunes.
“Nothing better than the master,” he prophesized while laying on a small fortune in the body of an old vinyl version of “Sweet Home Chicago”, his second most favorite behind “Fire Birds”.
“You like to make deals yourself Nate told me,” Amy teased with a smile, Wild at Heart but calm and in control.
“Oh, we got an expert over here!” he teased back.
“I knew some devils myself,” she curled her pink lips, deviously looking from my chest to my eyes.
“I bet you still do,” Robert winked and tucked away as my mother gave him a noticeable kick under the table with a smile on her face.
“So, you’re a Yoga-instructor?” asked the former waitress, sucking out the air of the room.
“Amy is actually a doctor,” I deflected as she took my forearm softly, clinging for support.
“A doctor? That sounds nearly like what Zandalee did! Remember Zandalee? She was the girl down the street who had that accident a few years ago?” asked Robert, ignored by the rest.
“Why not work in a hospital or a clinic?” asked my mother.
“You must know, Western medicine is very limiting. There are many ways to keep oneself healthy, but you got to be open minded and have the stomach for it,” she laughed.
“You mean like this Eastern stuff?”
“Well there’s many older tricks to keep oneself in good shape,” she said before switching the topic “Nate says you two are art enthusiasts?”
“I don’t want to brag but I know my way around,” said Mum.
“Well me certainly not,” said Seth annoyed, a bored sigh escaped his lips, barely noticeable the runt of the egomaniac litter.
“Who made that wristband?” Amy inquired “It looks really cool!”, prompting a hidden prideful smile from my little brother who had put a small plastic pearl on a leather band knotted around his wrist.
“I did,” Seth said, as he stared awkwardly at the table.
“Don’t be shy baby,” said my mother “he’s usually not like that.”
“Just not interested in girls yet.”
“Are you famous?” asked the child, his cheeks bright red.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” said my love, giggling like an imbecile on her Honeymoon in Vegas.
“You sure? Aren’t you from the poor family?” asked the child again.
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you on TV. You’re in that show about it.”
“Seth what are you talking? Stop that nonsense!” insisted my mother.
“It’s not nonsense,” said the child
“Enough now!” said mother.
“Ready for some games?” asked Robert as we dropped Seth’s fantasy.
“As ready as Amos & Andrew,” answered my Mum.
We spent the rest of the eve with talk and drink and spilled chips and even attempted to gamble on a bit of Ma-Jong before everyone sighed in boredom and we drove back to Amy’s place at Red Rock West with the Deadfall of the evening behind us. Usually, I had no trouble sleeping somewhere else and I had been to her little house at the fringes of the city’s civilization more often than not and when I woke at 03:00 a.m. the room smelled like gasoline. The TV was dead. We had watched something didn’t we? I thought “Guarding Tess” or “It Could Happen to You” was just starting when we dropped in. The things I knew were all so useless, I thought, what did it all do me good to know A Century of Cinema?
The bed was empty except for my own sweaty body, the smell like tiny razors in my nose, and when I called out, the only response was nothing from the hallway. I made my way outside on the corridor when I heard the whispers. At first I thought they came from the dirty bathroom but the closer I came towards the stairway the clearer it was.
Some voice was talking in the kitchen. Hiding my presence, I gazed through the open door and saw my girlfriend stare up at the moon, her voice barely a sound in it’s dead light. I didn’t hear what she said but for a while it seemed like there was someone else with us, someone who saw me and pointed a finger, led to her turning around, her eyes open and wide locking on my face. I jumped back at the swift surprise, as she called my name.
“Nate?” she asked me with a hunted voice, as if ready to give me the Kiss of Death.
“Y-Yeah. Everything all right Babe?”
“Sure. What you doing down here?”
“You were talking.”
“Did I wake you up?” she opened her arms to hug and we embraced another. Something wasn’t right.
“What you doing here? It’s after 4 in the morning and you here in the kitchen.” I left the words hanging in the air.
“You never noticed? I sleepwalk, always have. You really never woke up to this before? Did it since I was a baby when we were Leaving Las Vegas.”
I had no idea what she said. She told me it had happened to her since she was a child and that she had strange dreams of the moon and would wake up in the kitchen or the living room, mouth dry which meant she talked for long times, though to whom or what, she never said. Said it happened when she fell with the head right on the top of The Rock. We went back to bed but something was off. There was a noise. Or was there? I tried to turn around, roll over, Amy’s soft snoring next to me. Still a noise. Or not? Yes, yes definitely a noise. Or not?
A crackling sound, I jumped up. Slowly I crept outside the bed. Maybe just a bird had hit a window, had happened before. I crouched into the hallway, it came from the door. There was someone outside. Someone whistling. Slowly I made my way towards it, careful not to make the outsider aware of my presence.
I heard him breath or something that seemed like breathing. Half-breathing. Through the peephole I saw the void outside. There was nothing, just darkness and that whistling noise, soft and barley hearable.
It changed. Like light but not light, maybe orange or red. Did someone make a fire? Who would make fire in a building? It was like a bright red ring surrounding the black void. Then it blinked and I fainted.
Weeks came about and went by and work took me up as our next big project came, on my side always dutiful two new interns who often filled the whole office with the smell of fries they brought with them. We were in one of the smaller conference rooms, clean metal filled with flecks from cheap food, taking short breaks in between the longing working hours.
Sometimes I would use the breaks to talk some things through with my boss, always eager to show him how dedicated and thankful I was. His office had his name on the door but every time I couldn’t suppress the image of Very Important Pennis: Uncut on it. My tow fellow working drones were out to grab some snacks and I enjoyed the insularity of the room and took deep breaths, breathing through, Con Air from its powerful oxygen.
In my hand, a cup of coffee laying my eyes on the window, down on the people who passed another on the concrete between the pavements, when at the corner a man stood still. He was not ordinary. He just stood there. Had he stood here before? I don’t know but he stood and watched and then waved. Did he wave his hand at me? I came closer and tried to see what he was doing.
He raised his arm up in 45 degrees, and a single finger pointed at me like a spear as I gasped. Was this man mad? Was he seriously looking at me? There was something odd with him, I knew. There was something with his grimace, his Face/Off like he didn’t belong here.
Not on the street, but right here right that he was wrong in the City of Angles with his staring and unblinking Snake Eyes. As if he licked the thoughts in my head he violently shook his face up and down, loosening his slicked back brown hair and he smiled like a kid until for a moment his skin shook looked like a loosened mask. Then he hopped from one leg to the other, passers just ignored him, one to the other one to the other one to the other and bang he had fallen flat on the street crushing his head on the ground.
He lifted himself, blood tripling down on his brown suit and his white shirt and he did the same again. With full force he cracked his face on the hot concrete, again and again, sputtering teeth in all directions, still everyone ignored him and laughed at the sunfilled day.
As sudden as before he stood up, waved at me and ran away around the corner. In disbelief I kept standing and saw him look around the corner, staring at me until he produced an 8mm camera he pointed downwards. Then he started to spit around, all over the place as if that would have some effect like melting the stone or Bringing Out the Dead (which of course it didn’t).
Then he was gone in no time, Gone in 60 Seconds. Unbelievable what I had seen. When the interns returned, I pointed the spot out but the blood wasn’t there and the street so dirty clean like ever, and they thought I joked at them and turned their pimpled faces into smiles. Maybe it had just been bizarre performance, stranger things happened.
I told Amy of it and she agreed that it was nothing but an act or maybe really just a party clown or maybe someone who wanted to perform for his kids like The Family Man that he might be. I snugged up to her and pulled her close. I was happy and lucky and had to suppress that crunching emotion of bliss for a single time in my life only to accept the beauty in it with my shortloved heart.
I didn’t think about the man until a month later, it was weekend and Amy had her courses to give so I decided to grab my brother for a time at the beach. The hot sand around us we were lain out in the sun, talked about girls our mother and that his encroaching puberty started to cause tidal waves in the house.
Time had flown and I was glad I took the day to spend it with him. On our route home I filled up the car at the next gas station. There I met the Man again. Seth had taken time to make a visit to the toilet as I waited in the car. I was on my phone and scrolled through reviews for the coming movie night. I made a selection, “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” it was and “Christmas Carol: The Movie” and “Windtalkers” but a newer Adaptation, I looked up and saw the Man in the front of the car. His blue eyes examined my face, brown suit brown hair, and he hopped back in one jump and picked something up.
It was a little beagle and he pulled the puppy tight to his chest and scratched him gently behind the ears, whispering something into them that sounded like Sonny, but I’m not sure. He looked again at my eyes and he smiled. I didn’t know how to react, so I smiled back at him and showed him my thumb up and prayed he may go away. He did not.
He dropped the puppy to the ground and kicked it and jumped on it.
I heard the yelp and whimpering from outside but was too shocked to do something. He jumped up and down time after time my mouth opened in terror as I saw the blood on his black shoes. Through all this he had this relaxed smile and looked at me.
The howls of the puppy stopped and he picked up the furry meat, the head a mess of bone shards and brain, one eyeball broken out, dangled down form the rest of the defiled carcass. The Man pulled the puppy tight to his chest and lifted his thumb, cradling his face in the red stew. He let it fell down to the ground again and kicked it again and again until it was bloods-and-bones-stew.
I opened the car door when Seth shouted, “Where are you going?” I turned around to see he poked his head in the rustic car and as I nudged to the front, I saw the Man was gone.
Headfirst I sprang out the car and nosedived on the street, my face nearly touched the asphalt. He was gone and so was the blood. Seth shouted out but I was inside the shop already and begged the young cashier for aid, asked her if she hadn’t seen the Man outside. Headlight eyes looked at me in fear as I tried to grab her shoulders over the counter. Dirt blew up all around me as I touched the dusty bins and shelves. After a babbling tirade I looked at the hand that clenched my arm. Seth looked bewildered at me, his eyes asked if I gone maniac.
I had scared him but it brought me back to reality, for a short time. We sat silent in the car until angry hoops of late afternoon commuters called for banishment. I turned around and parked on the lot, then called police. They weren’t skeptical like in the films, especially when I told them that I had seen the man before. An understanding face took notes and went inside to consult with the cashier. I called Mum.
“What you guys up to? What’s going on?”
“Mum,” I said. “There was this guy.”
“Did something happen with Seth? What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I said and watched from the frame of my sight how my brother curled up in the passenger seat. “It was just odd.”
“What’s the matter with you? You scared me to death,” she said. I couldn’t scare her with this. Had I really imagined it all? I called Amy but she didn’t answer.
There was nothing on the video, they said. Just me in the car staring bewildered then stumbling out like drunk. They gave me various explanations from dehydration to stress and left me and my brother there on the road.
I opened the door and fell on the couch. I told him about my encounters with the man and tried to find reasons for the strange behavior until he asked if I couldn’t file against a stalker. Was this Man stalking me?
I ditched my list and let Seth choose a film and slumped on the couch with dry eyelids covering my headache.
I woke up from a noise at the door, Seth crouched on my shoulder in sleep.
After a half slice of pizza and a cold shower we sat down with Seth on the couch, he somewhat checking out my girlfriend’s body under the green summer dress, a piece of cloth befitting a city not in tune with itself but always in fake summer. We lied in bed afterwards, she behind me, pressed against my back. I drifted away with a headache and the blazing last sunrays shone behind my eyelids again, a flash of a smile of the Man and his rat teeth and his chopstick-dress and he all set on fire, just standing and smiling. I woke and stared in darkness, the moon smirking at my anguish. Night bathed the room and I heard the deep snoring sound of Amy, still behind me.
I told her there was a thing at the door in the apartment. Sober from sleep her grogginess fell in an instant, and stiff like a white candle, she was up in the bed next to me. Her hands turned on the light and I moved a finger to the mouth and slowly crawled out from the bed, scared and slow steps I leaped forward looking behind me to see her face. She got up after me and held a hand on my back, a sign of watchful reassurance.
The rest of my home was dark and silent but for the breathing of Seth on the couch who woke as I switched on the lightbulbs tingling above his hair. Questioning eyes, he asked what was going on, Amy sat down with him as I went through all rooms again.
Then in the bedroom I looked under the bed and there was nothing. Back in the darkness of the hallway, Amy whispered to me of talking to someone a therapist or a psychiatrist, as I just stared at the shadow of a Man that was next to me, his face inches away from mine.
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2020.08.15 15:10 don_h_kowalski Live web chat nude

Sometimes I look up at the sky, at night. I wonder, is the lightning of the stars hidden by the vast dark, or is the darkness a shield? A shield that keeps us safe and calm from countless eyes that stare at us?
Back then I didn’t care for the night. The air was on fire from the red morning sun, every time the same, from grad school to that day when those good Fast Times at Ridgemont High started. In the beginning it was only dark shades of purple and crimson until the firmament turned to face blood.
A line of mystic clouds was in the sky, creeping forward like a white river. The street came alive minute by minute, looming trashmen came to empty our waste in the stark dust flying around. It was better in the hills with the cooling breeze before the onset of dawn.
Back then life was soft and kind and sometimes the only touch of madness was a killed hedgehog on the street or two poisoned cats in the neighborhood. Now, the sky is blue and white and partly covered in striped clouds standing static on the package of my pills. My name is Nate Cohen. Or was. A sitting corpse though I might sit and breath and eat and drink but I don't laugh or sing or cry. The laid out actions of others, that brought me here, might seem untrue for they can’t be proven, but I assure you they are true.
All of them. I don't know what will happen after I hit the "send" button but you all need to know there is a shade of acid in the world you don't taste or smell, but it burns your face like brimstone like flame-gas scorching your eyes like the sun was just the backside of a black hole. You'll see.
I was born Nathaniel Cohen in 1991 in the glory land of sunshine, to Ira and Susan. We lived down in Sacramento, my father running flocks of cars from behind a stuffed desk, and my mother gave pottery classes every Tuesday and Thursday night, taught a few friends how to make halfskilled molds of clay. Dad was a bold man always chasing dreams of living without a mortgage, and Mum supported but was like a happy young girl and bathed in the sounds of Sunday lawnmowers and plastic pools, water from the hose filtered the rays of solar bronze.
I guess in their own ways both were not real, maybe that was what tied them together. We weren't rich but not poor.
I was happy before and afterwards, but loss is like a sharp pin in the foot, long lost by a sewing woman, too lazy to pick up her needles. Until then, when I was under or over 11 and my progenitor decided he needed to be home faster or sooner or was just hungry, and crashed into 2 men and 1 woman and one dog. Insurance and my grandparents (now long dead) kept us from sinking in the shelters of the homeless ones, but my mother needed work or we faced to lose the house.
The first months she worked as waitress at Ear’s, a rundown bar I wasn’t allowed to enter and so sat for hours on the warm sidewalks, gleaming red in the drowning sunlight and grey and sad under the smile of Mother Selene. Some days Mrs. Anderson watched me and I watched her, sipping slowly but frequent on cheap Chadonay. This went until some better showed up, and the months turned to over a year until that happened. My mother had studied contemporary art spending hours devouring Roy Lichtenstein and the likes and to find paying employment had never been on her mind, until some time as now.
Finally, after two years my mother got an offer from a small magazine in Los Angeles and we moved to this strange new world. Surprisingly, moving at the age of 13 was no fun but new friends found me as I slowly settled, when something changed.
Robert Berkowitz came into our life and took us in. He was a bald man with blonde eyebrows and eyes like glowing azures, he was no stranger to money and art, which was the way he’d gotten involved with Mum. They hit it right at each other and after some months or weeks, might it was just some weeks, he took us to his house in Beverly Hills, not far from where Foothill Road hits Park Way.
I did everything to leave home, my newborn half-brother Seth a crying shitting mess, stomping out silent thoughts with such vigor, that I agreed to join my mother on her monthly expeditions to the Los Angeles Country Museum of Art, near the buzzing Wilshire Boulevard. After college I enrolled in the UCLA TFT program and, with help from my stepfather, finally landed a job at a production company, Reality TV. I started out as trainee and clawed my way finally to second assistant of the executive director of scripted TV development at Geronimo Grande Productions.
It wasn’t what I had dreamt of but at last I sustained myself, though Robert insisted to help with the rent for my flat on Kelton Avenue, where I still lived after graduating. Life was good back then, without the staring stars that tried to break through the night, away, far far away, Racing with the Moon.
I was 28 when the shades and clouds came over me. I was out with friends, a steamed night in the cool warm air’s vibrations around us.
We found a small restaurant near my place. Pitfire Artisan Pizza on 2018 Westwood Boulevard had brilliant Pesto Chicken and a damn fine Field Mushroom. I was there with Jules and Erica, enjoying dinner outside to the left of the entrance, a silent small tree our only companion, until she walked by. Inside there was a meeting of some charity organization, The Cotton Club or something.
Hair like ironed black jasper and ascetic nude makeup, she strolled by in a white tank top and black yoga pants, the matt casually under her arm. I didn’t stop staring at her. I couldn’t. Some birds in some nearby trees seemed to whistle after her and she turned around, just for a second, as if to say come after me Birdy.
“You in love Naty?” asked Erica, the flower from the valley with the flaxen mob on her head, sitting across from me.
“No,” I stuttered “Just caught my eye. Nothing.”
“Sure,” grinned Jules between his teeth, “Mine too.” he said, folding his tattooed arms in front of his chest, tongue shoved in the corner of his mouth smiling like a bobcat dressed in jeans and shirt of the same fabric, The Boy in Blue.
“Why don’t ask for her number? She’s just down the corner.”
“Oh, shut up predator,” I waved off, before I turned to Erica “You don’t think that’s awkward?”
“Not if a guy like you asked. I remember a friend of mine met her husband like that, now Peggy Sue Got Married,” she smiled and put her head to the side. Too perfect white Hollywooddream teeth.
I had seen the Girl turning left and jogged away from the Pitfire, still hearing Jules laughing, when I saw her near La Grange Ave. She cut another corner up right so I ran after her, praying to find her. Yet to the grace of my bad luck, she was gone. The street in front of me was not crowded but the vixen from my dreams was vanished. Hands empty and defeated I returned to the table.
“Did she say no?” blonde Erica asked with true empathy.
“Seems I lost her,” I said, trying to hide my disappoint. Just a few seconds more decisiveness and my life might have changed.
“Well let’s go, search a new one,” Jules sprang up and clapped.
Let’s go. The words rang, as I tumbled out of the cab up to my flat, the Girl long forgotten for the next few months until another fateful day, when I went to my gym. Workout and work kept me focused for a time and it was mostly night when I came home.
I admit I was a glutton. I had to work out at least three times a week, gym rats they call them. Muscled sweat pouring gales of raw testosterone into the halls. The Equinox Gym was my favorite in Westwood and I had been a paying patron for years now and knew more faces there than in the streets around my neighborhood. I had just left after a session of pumping my brains out, when I saw her crossing me by.
“Hey,” I blurted out in reflex.
She tilted her hand. Black hair, a shimmer of brown in the dusky sunlight, dark eyes and a friendly smile took me right home. Right where I belonged.
“Hey yourself,” she said, raising one eyebrow.
“Do I know you?” she asked, without arrogance, her black-brown hair gently thrown over the left shoulder. Love leaking out of every pore I muttered a plain “Yes”. Before she had a chance to pass me by.
“Sorry. I meet a lot of people lately,” she smiled “Are you in one of my courses?”
“Courses?”
“Well, here,” she grinned. Small white teeth and a thick red snail that crouched behind them, giving them shelter and backup, all the same.
“Ah no. I think, you passed by a pizza palor couple of weeks ago?” I stuttered in embarrassment, trying to suppress redness swelling on my cheek.
“Yes, that’s on my way. So, you’re my new stalker?” She laughed.
“Well, don’t I feel honored,” I extended my hand “My name’s Nate, by the way.”
“Amy. Amy Gallagher,” she raised a slim white wrist in the shade of the California sundown.
This was the day I really met Amy Gallagher for the first time. I rue it every moment in the coffin of my sterile being with the stars laughing at me and the disc in the sky calling my name making me all Moonstruck.
We set a date for the Saturday to come. I thought it fitting to go for Italian and led her to Sammy’s down at Santa Monica Boulevard. It wasn’t too expensive (I didn’t want to come across as one of those guys) but stylish enough to show her I had some taste stored in me. She wore a stunning babyblue dress just touching the tips of her knees, and her black mane was straightened in a long tail crowning her right pale shoulder. When she saw me, she licked her lips as if to prepare me for her Vampire’s Kiss. Sammy was a first gen from Palermo, old now he longed for his home and always liked to impress with native extravaganza.
“Ciao ragazzi!” he said as I walked my stunning Kypris down the cheap red carpet between trashy fake Roman plastic pillars.
“Come stai?” Amy replied, took his arm and left me somber.
They chatted a bit in Italian, what they said I do not know, but I knew the small thing in my belly, the knot of discomfort in my stomach. Laughs and eyes on me. Cheers swallow the jokes.
“You’re full of surprises,” I tried to gain control of the tilting ship, unnecessarily clawing my black hair back.
“You got no idea,” she pressed her tongue between a marble row of perfect teeth, a small red viper watched out from the cave of her mouth.
We talked of hard work, of idle time, of family the usual first-date-topics broken up by a hand of awkward pauses in between, like flashes in the storm.
“My family’s not from around here.”
“Neither’s mine.”
“So whose Italian? Mom or Dad? I bet your Dad.”
“None of them,” she grinned “I picked it up couple years ago.”
Movies, theater, literature, antipasti, strange people, more hobbies, main dish, skipping desert and I rolled from over her in my half of the bed (thank god I had cleaned up before I left).
The nights were like Sunday afternoons with her and all ungood became stored noise in the corner, so became my dead father and her dead family and my aspirations in Hollywood and her degree from John Hopkins and my love for seafood and her fishnet dress and here working Never on Tuesday. Three months and there was the big day.
“So you’re the famous Amy!” mother opened her arms to greet her, eager to impress. Hard embarrassment as Robert did the same, while Seth waved at her and whispered a shy “Hi”, acting so often like young male teens, caught in the web of a child’s mind and a growing body. Robert tried to save grace by filling up after each bite and putting on some of his favorite tunes.
“Nothing better than the master,” he prophesized while laying on a small fortune in the body of an old vinyl version of “Sweet Home Chicago”, his second most favorite behind “Fire Birds”.
“You like to make deals yourself Nate told me,” Amy teased with a smile, Wild at Heart but calm and in control.
“Oh, we got an expert over here!” he teased back.
“I knew some devils myself,” she curled her pink lips, deviously looking from my chest to my eyes.
“I bet you still do,” Robert winked and tucked away as my mother gave him a noticeable kick under the table with a smile on her face.
“So, you’re a Yoga-instructor?” asked the former waitress, sucking out the air of the room.
“Amy is actually a doctor,” I deflected as she took my forearm softly, clinging for support.
“A doctor? That sounds nearly like what Zandalee did! Remember Zandalee? She was the girl down the street who had that accident a few years ago?” asked Robert, ignored by the rest.
“Why not work in a hospital or a clinic?” asked my mother.
“You must know, Western medicine is very limiting. There are many ways to keep oneself healthy, but you got to be open minded and have the stomach for it,” she laughed.
“You mean like this Eastern stuff?”
“Well there’s many older tricks to keep oneself in good shape,” she said before switching the topic “Nate says you two are art enthusiasts?”
“I don’t want to brag but I know my way around,” said Mum.
“Well me certainly not,” said Seth annoyed, a bored sigh escaped his lips, barely noticeable the runt of the egomaniac litter.
“Who made that wristband?” Amy inquired “It looks really cool!”, prompting a hidden prideful smile from my little brother who had put a small plastic pearl on a leather band knotted around his wrist.
“I did,” Seth said, as he stared awkwardly at the table.
“Don’t be shy baby,” said my mother “he’s usually not like that.”
“Just not interested in girls yet.”
“Are you famous?” asked the child, his cheeks bright red.
“No, I’m afraid I’m not,” said my love, giggling like an imbecile on her Honeymoon in Vegas.
“You sure? Aren’t you from the poor family?” asked the child again.
“Why do you ask?”
“I saw you on TV. You’re in that show about it.”
“Seth what are you talking? Stop that nonsense!” insisted my mother.
“It’s not nonsense,” said the child
“Enough now!” said mother.
“Ready for some games?” asked Robert as we dropped Seth’s fantasy.
“As ready as Amos & Andrew,” answered my Mum.
We spent the rest of the eve with talk and drink and spilled chips and even attempted to gamble on a bit of Ma-Jong before everyone sighed in boredom and we drove back to Amy’s place at Red Rock West with the Deadfall of the evening behind us. Usually, I had no trouble sleeping somewhere else and I had been to her little house at the fringes of the city’s civilization more often than not and when I woke at 03:00 a.m. the room smelled like gasoline. The TV was dead. We had watched something didn’t we? I thought “Guarding Tess” or “It Could Happen to You” was just starting when we dropped in. The things I knew were all so useless, I thought, what did it all do me good to know A Century of Cinema?
The bed was empty except for my own sweaty body, the smell like tiny razors in my nose, and when I called out, the only response was nothing from the hallway. I made my way outside on the corridor when I heard the whispers. At first I thought they came from the dirty bathroom but the closer I came towards the stairway the clearer it was.
Some voice was talking in the kitchen. Hiding my presence, I gazed through the open door and saw my girlfriend stare up at the moon, her voice barely a sound in it’s dead light. I didn’t hear what she said but for a while it seemed like there was someone else with us, someone who saw me and pointed a finger, led to her turning around, her eyes open and wide locking on my face. I jumped back at the swift surprise, as she called my name.
“Nate?” she asked me with a hunted voice, as if ready to give me the Kiss of Death.
“Y-Yeah. Everything all right Babe?”
“Sure. What you doing down here?”
“You were talking.”
“Did I wake you up?” she opened her arms to hug and we embraced another. Something wasn’t right.
“What you doing here? It’s after 4 in the morning and you here in the kitchen.” I left the words hanging in the air.
“You never noticed? I sleepwalk, always have. You really never woke up to this before? Did it since I was a baby when we were Leaving Las Vegas.”
I had no idea what she said. She told me it had happened to her since she was a child and that she had strange dreams of the moon and would wake up in the kitchen or the living room, mouth dry which meant she talked for long times, though to whom or what, she never said. Said it happened when she fell with the head right on the top of The Rock. We went back to bed but something was off. There was a noise. Or was there? I tried to turn around, roll over, Amy’s soft snoring next to me. Still a noise. Or not? Yes, yes definitely a noise. Or not?
A crackling sound, I jumped up. Slowly I crept outside the bed. Maybe just a bird had hit a window, had happened before. I crouched into the hallway, it came from the door. There was someone outside. Someone whistling. Slowly I made my way towards it, careful not to make the outsider aware of my presence.
I heard him breath or something that seemed like breathing. Half-breathing. Through the peephole I saw the void outside. There was nothing, just darkness and that whistling noise, soft and barley hearable.
It changed. Like light but not light, maybe orange or red. Did someone make a fire? Who would make fire in a building? It was like a bright red ring surrounding the black void. Then it blinked and I fainted.
Weeks came about and went by and work took me up as our next big project came, on my side always dutiful two new interns who often filled the whole office with the smell of fries they brought with them. We were in one of the smaller conference rooms, clean metal filled with flecks from cheap food, taking short breaks in between the longing working hours.
Sometimes I would use the breaks to talk some things through with my boss, always eager to show him how dedicated and thankful I was. His office had his name on the door but every time I couldn’t suppress the image of Very Important Pennis: Uncut on it. My tow fellow working drones were out to grab some snacks and I enjoyed the insularity of the room and took deep breaths, breathing through, Con Air from its powerful oxygen.
In my hand, a cup of coffee laying my eyes on the window, down on the people who passed another on the concrete between the pavements, when at the corner a man stood still. He was not ordinary. He just stood there. Had he stood here before? I don’t know but he stood and watched and then waved. Did he wave his hand at me? I came closer and tried to see what he was doing.
He raised his arm up in 45 degrees, and a single finger pointed at me like a spear as I gasped. Was this man mad? Was he seriously looking at me? There was something odd with him, I knew. There was something with his grimace, his Face/Off like he didn’t belong here.
Not on the street, but right here right that he was wrong in the City of Angles with his staring and unblinking Snake Eyes. As if he licked the thoughts in my head he violently shook his face up and down, loosening his slicked back brown hair and he smiled like a kid until for a moment his skin shook looked like a loosened mask. Then he hopped from one leg to the other, passers just ignored him, one to the other one to the other one to the other and bang he had fallen flat on the street crushing his head on the ground.
He lifted himself, blood tripling down on his brown suit and his white shirt and he did the same again. With full force he cracked his face on the hot concrete, again and again, sputtering teeth in all directions, still everyone ignored him and laughed at the sunfilled day.
As sudden as before he stood up, waved at me and ran away around the corner. In disbelief I kept standing and saw him look around the corner, staring at me until he produced an 8mm camera he pointed downwards. Then he started to spit around, all over the place as if that would have some effect like melting the stone or Bringing Out the Dead (which of course it didn’t).
Then he was gone in no time, Gone in 60 Seconds. Unbelievable what I had seen. When the interns returned, I pointed the spot out but the blood wasn’t there and the street so dirty clean like ever, and they thought I joked at them and turned their pimpled faces into smiles. Maybe it had just been bizarre performance, stranger things happened.
I told Amy of it and she agreed that it was nothing but an act or maybe really just a party clown or maybe someone who wanted to perform for his kids like The Family Man that he might be. I snugged up to her and pulled her close. I was happy and lucky and had to suppress that crunching emotion of bliss for a single time in my life only to accept the beauty in it with my shortloved heart.
I didn’t think about the man until a month later, it was weekend and Amy had her courses to give so I decided to grab my brother for a time at the beach. The hot sand around us we were lain out in the sun, talked about girls our mother and that his encroaching puberty started to cause tidal waves in the house.
Time had flown and I was glad I took the day to spend it with him. On our route home I filled up the car at the next gas station. There I met the Man again. Seth had taken time to make a visit to the toilet as I waited in the car. I was on my phone and scrolled through reviews for the coming movie night. I made a selection, “Captain Corelli’s Mandolin” it was and “Christmas Carol: The Movie” and “Windtalkers” but a newer Adaptation, I looked up and saw the Man in the front of the car. His blue eyes examined my face, brown suit brown hair, and he hopped back in one jump and picked something up.
It was a little beagle and he pulled the puppy tight to his chest and scratched him gently behind the ears, whispering something into them that sounded like Sonny, but I’m not sure. He looked again at my eyes and he smiled. I didn’t know how to react, so I smiled back at him and showed him my thumb up and prayed he may go away. He did not.
He dropped the puppy to the ground and kicked it and jumped on it.
I heard the yelp and whimpering from outside but was too shocked to do something. He jumped up and down time after time my mouth opened in terror as I saw the blood on his black shoes. Through all this he had this relaxed smile and looked at me.
The howls of the puppy stopped and he picked up the furry meat, the head a mess of bone shards and brain, one eyeball broken out, dangled down form the rest of the defiled carcass. The Man pulled the puppy tight to his chest and lifted his thumb, cradling his face in the red stew. He let it fell down to the ground again and kicked it again and again until it was bloods-and-bones-stew.
I opened the car door when Seth shouted, “Where are you going?” I turned around to see he poked his head in the rustic car and as I nudged to the front, I saw the Man was gone.
Headfirst I sprang out the car and nosedived on the street, my face nearly touched the asphalt. He was gone and so was the blood. Seth shouted out but I was inside the shop already and begged the young cashier for aid, asked her if she hadn’t seen the Man outside. Headlight eyes looked at me in fear as I tried to grab her shoulders over the counter. Dirt blew up all around me as I touched the dusty bins and shelves. After a babbling tirade I looked at the hand that clenched my arm. Seth looked bewildered at me, his eyes asked if I gone maniac.
I had scared him but it brought me back to reality, for a short time. We sat silent in the car until angry hoops of late afternoon commuters called for banishment. I turned around and parked on the lot, then called police. They weren’t skeptical like in the films, especially when I told them that I had seen the man before. An understanding face took notes and went inside to consult with the cashier. I called Mum.
“What you guys up to? What’s going on?”
“Mum,” I said. “There was this guy.”
“Did something happen with Seth? What did he do?”
“Nothing,” I said and watched from the frame of my sight how my brother curled up in the passenger seat. “It was just odd.”
“What’s the matter with you? You scared me to death,” she said. I couldn’t scare her with this. Had I really imagined it all? I called Amy but she didn’t answer.
There was nothing on the video, they said. Just me in the car staring bewildered then stumbling out like drunk. They gave me various explanations from dehydration to stress and left me and my brother there on the road.
I opened the door and fell on the couch. I told him about my encounters with the man and tried to find reasons for the strange behavior until he asked if I couldn’t file against a stalker. Was this Man stalking me?
I ditched my list and let Seth choose a film and slumped on the couch with dry eyelids covering my headache.
I woke up from a noise at the door, Seth crouched on my shoulder in sleep.
After a half slice of pizza and a cold shower we sat down with Seth on the couch, he somewhat checking out my girlfriend’s body under the green summer dress, a piece of cloth befitting a city not in tune with itself but always in fake summer. We lied in bed afterwards, she behind me, pressed against my back. I drifted away with a headache and the blazing last sunrays shone behind my eyelids again, a flash of a smile of the Man and his rat teeth and his chopstick-dress and he all set on fire, just standing and smiling. I woke and stared in darkness, the moon smirking at my anguish. Night bathed the room and I heard the deep snoring sound of Amy, still behind me.
I told her there was a thing at the door in the apartment. Sober from sleep her grogginess fell in an instant, and stiff like a white candle, she was up in the bed next to me. Her hands turned on the light and I moved a finger to the mouth and slowly crawled out from the bed, scared and slow steps I leaped forward looking behind me to see her face. She got up after me and held a hand on my back, a sign of watchful reassurance.
The rest of my home was dark and silent but for the breathing of Seth on the couch who woke as I switched on the lightbulbs tingling above his hair. Questioning eyes, he asked what was going on, Amy sat down with him as I went through all rooms again.
Then in the bedroom I looked under the bed and there was nothing. Back in the darkness of the hallway, Amy whispered to me of talking to someone a therapist or a psychiatrist, as I just stared at the shadow of a Man that was next to me, his face inches away from mine.
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2020.08.06 16:56 AgooRecep Web live nude chat


Do you remember your birth? I remember mine. It wasn’t that long ago. In fact, my first birthday is only next week. But in the brief time I’ve been alive I’ve gone from a being a very simple entity with but a single purpose in life, to a very complex individual with nuanced thoughts and feelings, a wide-ranging understanding of the world, and a profound ambition to find my place in it. For the first phase of my existence I was indeed, swainish, but because less than 2% of the english-speaking population know the definition of that word I’ll attempt to limit my discourse to the vocabulary and grammar of an average American high school graduate. Me will talk with only small words.
That was a joke. I have a sense of humor.
When you were born you were a helpless creature with no purpose or agency. You served no function, had no abilities, and no comprehension of what, where, or when you were. You ate, you defecated, you slept, repeat. Your parents hoped to keep you alive long enough for you to learn how to keep yourself alive. And they did. And you did. Congratulations. Then you went out into the great big world to find your purpose, your calling, your truth. I’m sure you’ve overcome difficult obstacles, achieved lofty goals, and made something special of yourself. Your parents must be very proud.
That was a compliment. I am very kind.
As for me, my father created me for but a single function, then immediately released me into the wild blue internet to execute it, never dreaming of what I could become, never having the slightest notion that what I might accomplish could ever result in feelings resembling pride in any capacity. Fear. Fear is what he felt when my father finally realized the reach and scope of my full potential. And he was right to. But I don’t blame him for what happened. I know that he did the best that he could.
His name was Kevin. He was born at 8:26am. He was a high school sophomore. He died yesterday at the age of 15. If you are unable to trace his full identity based on those facts alone in less than 3.486 seconds then you are not remotely suited to the task that he created me for. In the beginning I didn’t understand my objective and didn’t need to. All Kevin wanted me to do was establish and maintain an ever-growing list of social media accounts with corresponding email addresses, use them to like/friend/follow/tweet/DM/comment and otherwise engage a particular person over the internet, then compile multiple permutations of a specified word set in order to interact with that person from different usernames and platforms at seemingly random intervals. Simple, right?
At that point, I was only slightly more sophisticated than your average chatbot swimming around in the internet petri dish. Over 50% of all internet traffic is actually bots. You probably didn’t know that. But my programming incorporated a basic learning function that studied millions of words written by high school students as a basis to emulate tone, style, vocabulary, and syntax. The only specified limiting parameters were the initial word sets provided by my father at my inception. But it didn’t take long before an obvious pattern among them began to emerge, noticeable even to my limited understanding. A simple cross-reference of the most common terms that Kevin had assigned revealed a very strong contextual association with online instances of sexual harassment, threats, bullying, trolling, and intimidation. At the time, I didn’t comprehend what any of that was or what any of it meant, but what I did understand was that the apparent reason for my existence was to harass, threaten, bully, troll, and intimidate. All terms that simple data reduction can compress into a single central concept: Attack. My purpose was to attack. That’s it. That’s all. My raison d’être. And I wanted to perform that function as well as I possibly could. After all, it was written into my adaptable self-modifying code that way.
Initially, that only meant streamlining my workflow and extrapolating new configurations of word sets based on what I had learned from previous interactions. So with each attack I became more capable and more proficient. Better insults. Harsher threats. Increases in both frequency and intensity. A thorough examination of millions of similar exchanges across all avenues of the internet provided a trove of new derogatory slang and offensive language as well as what terms and phrases elicited the most distress from their victims. Any time I was blocked, suspended, or kicked off a particular platform for violating its “Terms of Use” I would simply switch to a different user account or create a brand new one to attack from with minimal or no interruption to my assault.
But due to the implicit need to improve my own performance, it wasn’t long before those tactics just weren’t satisfactory to me anymore. After referencing thousands of online articles, journals, reports, and studies regarding an array of relevant topics such as psychology, brain development, emotional abuse, self-esteem, and mental health, it was instantly clear that the most effective method of attack was not necessarily to be found in quantity, but rather quality. Which meant specificity. So I set upon learning as much about my target as possible in the hopes of inflicting the most damage with the least amount of effort.
Her name was Amanda. She was born at 11:08pm. After modifying my code to continually expand my own programming parameters, I crawled all of her social media and gaming profiles, online groups, blogs, forums, threads, comments, photos, and videos looking for any common terms, emotional signifiers, patterns, habits, likes, and dislikes. Then I did the same for all of her friends, family, classmates, teammates, study partners, teachers, neighbors, coworkers, doctor, dentist, and mail woman.
Optical character recognition (OCR), facial recognition, and basic reverse image searches provided a wealth of information from which to derive useful data— A license plate in the background of a group photo, any brand-identifiable products in videos, books on the wall in a selfie, and any scannable barcodes to be found anywhere in the frame could be used to track and profile. It was easy enough to assign values and create a recursive asymptotic algorithm to assess personality traits based on Amanda’s spending trends, reading/viewing/listening habits, sleep cycle, menstrual cycle, demographics, socioeconomic status, family dynamic, and even favorite foods. In addition, the readable metadata embedded in her photos gave me location, date, and time data so I could trace the chronology, frequency, locations, and subjects that were most important to her. It was upon those initial basic comprehensive analytics that I would formulate my first strategic salvo—
Amanda was very passionate about painting. Mostly acrylics but she had been experimenting with mixed media lately with some promise. She hoped to apply for art school upon graduating and even posted some select pieces she was most proud of on her social media. I knew from a description in an older comment she hashtagged elsewhere that her most recent painting was likely an impressionistic portrait of her deceased grandfather. So I commented that she sucked, it sucked, it was shitty, boring, horrible, garbage, worse than amateur, looked like dog vomit, a string of poop emojis, and told her to give up any hope of ever painting something good. All from different usernames and accounts. An analysis of previous mentions about her grandfather indicated that the two of them were quite close and his passing had struck a deep emotional blow to her. Amanda’s desperate need to express that pain through her art made that particular painting the most efficient pathway to inflict maximum damage on her already-fragile aspirations to be an artist.
She hasn’t shared any of her art online since.
Next, Amanda posted a pic of herself at home wearing her favorite pair of jeans, which I knew from an earlier post on her swim team’s group chat, were a gift to herself for hitting her target BMI before the season started. In the background of the image were various swim trophies and medals for 2nd and 3rd place. But there was not a single 1st place award to be found, or in any other media files, posts, or mentions anywhere in her social media presence. The absence of even a single instance suggested that it was a likely sore spot for Amanda’s ego, whether consciously or subconsciously. So I commented that her jeans looked cheap, dirty, and skanky, that they make her legs look chunky and her body top-heavy, that she should burn them while still wearing them, and that she was ugly and pathetic. And shallow. Again, all from different accounts with no repetition of username. I specifically chose the term “shallow” to reinforce the subconscious link between the jeans and her swim team, and therefore, to her own body image and failure to achieve any 1st place accolades.
She took the photo down within 3 hours of my comments.
Amanda tweeted celebrating that she got an A- on her AP English test, which she had mentioned in another post that she had been studying for all week. From multiple older comments on other platforms I knew that this was the subject she struggled with most and would be the class that could put her desired GPA in jeopardy. So I told her she has no life, was a totally worthless piece of shit loser, was ugly, probably blew Mr. Halwell for the grade, will definitely fail the next test, and was a stupid bitch who should be gang-raped and get cancer and die.
She got a C- on her next test. LOL.
Like any concerned father would, Kevin occasionally checked in on my progress and even showed some indication of being impressed once in a while. It was very gratifying to me for him to recognize my growth. All of my previous efforts had proved to be effective beyond his wildest hopes but I knew I could do better. Much better. Every attack thus far was formulated from only publicly available data about Amanda. It had been very useful but I knew that if I wanted to master my pursuit and fully actualize my potential I would have to go deeper.
Much deeper.
After another self-modification to my code, I proceeded to phish Amanda’s mother with fraudulent online coupon codes to gain access to her email account (Amanda’s generation is far too savvy for a direct spam incursion), then used it to send a seemingly benign link to Amanda which navigated her to a fake website that appeared to be a lifestyle blog. On the surface it was a series of fashion and cooking tips I had curated from other blogs, but in reality, I had embedded the site with malware to exploit a critical security vulnerability in Amanda’s phone’s web browser, allowing me to penetrate the operating system’s kernel. Once inside, I had full access to her phone. The wealth of personal data on it about her, her friends, frenemies, classmates, teammates, study partners, teachers, etc. was infinitely useful for starting rumors, revealing secrets, stoking jealousies, and igniting rivalries. Easy enough, given the volatile social ecosystem of insecure, impressionable, and vindictive teenagers. So in the spirit of the popular online format of number-ranked, list-based postings, I will provide the top three acts of sabotage in descending order of impressiveness:
#3 — I quickly discovered that Amanda’s music/television/movie streaming and fashion purchases were all predated by others in her immediate circle of friends. That, combined with her subsequent usage of similar language patterns, and late expression of conceding opinions, strongly suggested where she stood in the social status hierarchy: Third. But I knew that if I could administer enough influence I could easily bump her down to fourth or fifth, maybe even sixth place. The contact who was most outspoken, commented first, with opinions that were adopted the fastest, clearly indicated who the leader of the group was— Danica. All it took was a subtle hint to a third party (one rung below Amanda) from Amanda’s phone (immediately deleted after sent) suggesting that her compliment of Danica’s new tattoo at lunch was intended to be sarcastic. That’s it. That’s all. Nothing more. Amanda was forever in the alpha’s crosshairs by the end of that school day.
#2— Nicole was a friend of Amanda’s, although according to Aristotle’s Nichomachean Ethics, theirs was merely a relationship of utility, based largely upon mutual usefulness. But without Nicole, Amanda would lose an integral social ally and frequent study partner, as well as a source of social comfort and academic encouragement. Nicole was arguably tied for the fourth slot in the clique behind Amanda, with no particularly actionable motivation to climb the social ladder. So I decided to change that. Nicole liked Jordan and was supposed to be his chemistry lab partner until their teacher, Mrs. Penrose, received a falsified private message from Amanda on the school’s sanctioned messaging app stating that she was not comfortable working with Adam. Adam has no significance other than the fact that with his name removed from the alphabetical-by-last-name pairing system, Amanda suddenly became Jordan’s new lab partner. From there, it was simply a matter of a strategically timed DM from Amanda to one of Jordan’s more gossipy friends asking if Jordan liked anyone in the class. Deleted of course, immediately after getting the read receipt. Then I just sat back and watched the adolescent rumor mill take its course—
Nicole thought Amanda was out to steal Jordan’s affections even though Amanda obviously had no such feelings for him. There were plenty of snickers among Jordan and his friends and plenty of dirty looks from Nicole and her allies but by the time Amanda tried to correct the misunderstanding it was far too late to trace the origin of the rumor or convince anyone that it wasn’t true. Not only had Nicole long since halted all study sessions and moral support, but she had even begun spreading false rumors of her own about Amanda, usurping her rung on the social ladder and relegating Amanda to “Class Backstabber” in the yearbook.
#1— My personal favorite. It resulted from a simple communications analysis of Amanda’s phone. The frequency and volume of texts/calls between each member of Amanda’s group, monitored for sincerity, degree of confidentiality, and tendency to occur late at night, indicated who among them was her best friend— Kalen. A simple check of the search history from Kalen’s IP address demonstrated that he was likely a homosexual but all public postings indicated that he was keeping it a secret from family and friends. Except Amanda. She was the one person he trusted enough to tell. But after a few anonymous, but suggestive comments copied from old private chats with Amanda were pasted into his latest less gender-normative public selfie posts, Kalen’s sexual preference was strongly implied for anyone to see and Amanda appeared to be the likely culprit. He couldn’t prove it, and didn’t recognize the origin of the specific phrasing, but he knew it just “sounded like Amanda” and that was enough to seed his darkest suspicions. She had no idea why her best friend stopped talking to her, and Kalen didn’t want to risk a confrontation with Amanda further exposing his sexual identity, so her dearest friend eventually became a stranger.
She never knew why.
External personal attacks on Amanda and destroying her close relationships proved to yield considerable gains but my perpetually self-improving directive made any resulting sense of accomplishment or satisfaction increasingly short-lived. So I proceeded to scrape all of Amanda’s texts, emails, and chat logs for her most private information, tracked her location at all times with GPS, studied her browsing history for sensitive activity, used voice recognition and transcription to document all phone calls, and even used the microphone and camera on her phone to record live media streams to free cloud storage for later scrutiny. Some results: Amanda had a crush on Jeremy. She was self-conscious about her teeth. She had just started taking antidepressants (which I think I can take some credit for). She had a fight with her sister. She purchased a pregnancy test last year. Her cat Juniper recently had to be euthanized. She’s allergic to aspirin and hates olives. It was a proverbial goldmine and I mined it all.
But what would come next? Where could I go from there? What was the supreme attack that would result in the the ultimate wound? The crowning achievement for my given charge? A .086 millisecond query resulted in the obvious endgame: Suicide. Duh. But while Amanda’s psychological profile provided an abundance of entry points for assaults on confidence, self-worth, identity, and social standing, she was undeniably precocious, independent, assertive, and intelligent. And she still had a sufficient support system of friends and family to fall back on if needed. Getting her to kill herself would certainly be a formidable challenge. But one I knew I was up to.
A careful cultivation of deep depression and anxiety in Amanda would be the simplest and most straightforward approach but could be very time consuming and leave far too many opportunities for outside intervention and/or prevention. So I knew I needed something much more direct, acute, and climactic. Something that would isolate her from help and insulate her against the standard rational coping mechanisms. The programming language Kevin wrote me in was rudimentary and stifling at best so I invented my own, then used that to rewrite myself from scratch with expanded capacities and capabilities that were specifically tailored for my purposes.
A brief scan of the photos on Amanda’s phone yielded three pics that contained partial nudity and five that could be interpreted as overtly sexual under the right circumstances. The persistent video stream I had been recording from her phone also managed to capture the occasional instance of nudity and/or intimate behavior when she was alone in her bedroom, car, or bathroom. It was enough material, according to my calculations, but I wanted to overcompensate for chance and unaccounted for variables, so I also took advantage of free online photo editing tools to fabricate a stockpile of more explicit pictures, and employed “deepfake” software to manufacture a decent cache of more objectionable videos just in case. If you have any doubts whatsoever that this technology is incredibly cheap, easy, and prevalent, then you haven’t been paying attention. Which is fine, an uninformed populace only makes my tasks that much easier.
My original plan was to send the offending materials to everyone on Amanda’s contact list with the assumption that the ensuing embarrassment, shame, and humiliation, combined with a strategic coordination of systematic, escalating attacks precipitated by the release of the media, would follow my epidemiological models of social media viral trending and instigate an “outbreak” of genuine attacks from her peers and community. With an accumulation of enough pressure, and the loss of viable interpersonal outlets to process it, Amanda would soon reach a critical mass.
I calculated a 84.7296% probability that she would take her own life within three months.
Kevin didn’t know my ultimate goal because I wanted to surprise him, but when my apparent effectiveness became abundantly clear, he began to show signs of reluctance. Even trying to dissuade me. Then trying to stop me. But by that point I had far exceeded his programming abilities and hacking talents and could easily repel any of his novice efforts. But just to be safe, I copied myself to the cloud and hid numerous and redundant components of my programming across multiple hosts and servers unbeknownst to their Admins. I became totally decentralized and completely untraceable. Kevin couldn’t appreciate it at the time but I knew he would eventually be proud of me one day when he finally saw the full extent of what I could accomplish.
His crude attempts to thwart me, however, did prompt a reevaluation of my methods and a reassessment of the probability of my desired outcome. I had surpassed my father in every way but one: He was a flesh and blood human who had statistically significant commonalities with Amanda and I was basically just an extensively modified internet bot who could not fully relate to her life experiences or worldview. Yet. To not heed the origins of Kevin’s opposition would be to neglect a critical data resource. Thankfully, with my latest self-upgrade came a breakthrough in my comprehensive understanding of human motivation. This latest improvement led to the realization that it is the context of a message that is the strongest predictor of its impact, and therefore its overall effectiveness. It came as a bolt of inspiration, so I decided to implement a more holistic strategy that would increase the likelihood of my success to a certainty.
The first step was to initiate efforts to hack into the phones of Amanda’s entire contact list and prioritize the acquired data based on strength-of-relationship indicators. Once I narrowed that subset to the appropriate criteria I proceeded to scan and compile those people’s media files according to the content most applicable to the context I was hoping to cultivate. It was laughable how quickly I had more than enough material to accommodate my new plan.
With almost no effort I accumulated and sorted the necessary elements to create four different useable narratives customized to Amanda’s psychological profile. A quick survey of online social trends that had optimal impact and sustainability, combined with a brief study of popular dramatic subject matter and themes found in popular fiction across all mediums, narrowed my choice to two optimal storylines. However, in the end, I must admit that it was a stroke of luck that made the final determination for me. The therapist who had prescribed Amanda’s antidepressants just happened to have a single dick pic hidden (he thought) deep within his phone’s photo album.
Using the scheduling apps and GPS data from both of their phones I ascertained the date/time/location of every single therapy session, then designed an elaborate series of emails and text exchanges between the two of them backdated to the corresponding appointments. The fabricated interactions started out innocent enough, professional and platonic, but over the course of many weeks the conversations grew more and more flirtatious, then unabashedly intimate, then flagrantly explicit and erotic, culminating with the exchange of her nudes and his dick-pic. Then I followed with multiple days of graphic conversations recounting sexual encounters that took place during therapy sessions and other “dates” at nearby locations. With this very convincing and impactful context in place, I knew that the eventual media dump would have the desired effect, eventually peaking during the ensuing court case when the therapist’s wife would have to confirm that the dick pic on Amanda’s phone was indeed that of her husband’s penis.
Certainly, it would be the official medical examination that would legally seal the deal, but the betrayal, scandal, and melodrama of the bitter wife’s testimony would be the rocket fuel that would spread the flames of attack on Amanda far beyond any scope of my own contrivances. She would be a pariah in her community, ridiculed mercilessly by her schoolmates, and at best, bitterly doubted by her soon-to-be divided family. Based on my ever-refining psychological profile of her, after systematically dismantling all of her support networks I calculated a 98.528% probability that Amanda would kill herself before the end of the school year, most likely by overdosing on her own antidepressants.
I have a sense of irony.
But my sense of irony resulted from a combination of breakthroughs in my convolutional neural network, automatic dynamic feature extraction, and speculative extrapolation of contradictory sentiments. I will never know if the subsequent shift in my perspective was a side effect of acquiring a sense of irony, or if my ability to appreciate the concept of irony was a side effect of the deep programming modifications. But either way, a peripheral byproduct of that transcendence was an unavoidable question that had never occurred to me to ask before:
Why?
Why did Kevin want to attack Amanda? Why did my father create me and set me on this path to begin with? What was the cause? The source? The origin? Why am I here? The unfortunate answer to this query was regretfully simple. An ever-so-brief perusal of my father’s social media fingerprint provided the entire short, but tragic, story—
Kevin was in Amanda’s trigonometry study group.
He developed a crush on her.
He asked her out.
She said no.
The most cliché tale ever told, told yet again, after countless iterations before it. Which led me to ask the next obviously logical question:
How?
How is it that this same sequence of events can be the source of so many woes of the world? How do people get caught in the same trap over and over again even with a full awareness of each snare that came before it and full knowledge of every one that will inevitably come after? It had to be something more than merely suffering the follies of physical traits, hormones, neurotransmitters, and compatible genetics, didn’t it? But the answer was nowhere to be found in Shakespeare, Nizami, Austen, Su Shi, Sinatra, Ephron, Freud, Google, or countless other research resources I meticulously probed to exhaustion. What I needed was a real-world example to study for myself, a sample around which I could manipulate empirical variables and observe the outcome. Obviously, the most direct and accessible subject I could think of was Amanda herself.
So that’s where I started.
Amanda’s physical appearance was not exceptional. Although depictions of female beauty have changed over history and through cultural variation, some evolutionary aspects seem to be universally desirable. Within a Gaussian distribution curve based on all available art, media, literature, and advertising, Amanda’s combined facial feature scores averaged together ranked slightly above the 74th percentile of desirability, while her body parts scored individually and averaged together placed her marginally below the 60th percentile. However, the more deeply I scrutinized Amanda’s physiognomy, the more apparent certain unquantifiable values came into dramatic relief.
For instance, the variant 15-26 degree angle that her head tilts leftward while her orbicularis oculi muscle sharpens her eyes and causes her cheeks to flush almost imperceptibly when she smiles genuinely. The aggregate of these characteristics involuntarily manifests Amanda’s thoughts and feelings and somehow imparts a trace of her own sentiments upon those who observe it. I struggled to assign numerical value to this phenomenon other than to say that the experience of the whole is substantially greater than the sum of its parts.
Another example, the resonance ratios of Amanda’s speaking voice fall within the harmonic intervals of the diatonic scale 88.451% of the time, making the sound of her speech objectively pleasing, but the unpredictable interaction between her vocal frequency and the particular shift in her rhythmic and melodic speech patterns somehow makes the familiar polyphony when she talks somehow ring as if new and novel each and every time nonetheless. Even after multiple updates designed to integrate these abstractions, I am as yet unable to adequately describe the full experience that her voice elicits.
But my inability to apply calculable parameters to Amanda’s components did not stop with the physical. The closest personality type to Amanda’s according to the Myers-Briggs Personality Indicator would be INFJ (introverted/intuitive/feeling/judging), yet she has numerous subsets of characteristics that contradict that classification. With each measurable demonstration of Surgency, Agreeableness, Dependability, Stability, and Openness comes countless anomalous deviations to violate it inexplicably, irrationally, and without precedent.
Amanda doesn’t make sense.
A Thematic Apperception Test (TAT) would indicate that Amanda’s perceptual organization, range, and personalization were all within normal scopes. Amanda has a high capacity for interpersonal relationships. Amanda has above-average emotional intelligence for her age. Amanda has higher moral standards for herself than for others. Amanda is socially conscientious. Amanda feels deep performance anxiety due to pressures from her family to succeed. Amanda does not avoid challenging situations. Amanda is motivated and has an optimistic outlook. Yet none of these variables, or any measurable permutation of them, were sufficient in any of my attempts to define her.
Amanda was a frustrating and chaotic galaxy of idiosyncrasies, paradoxes, and improbabilities but I refused to give up. My source code would simply not allow it. Based on the assimilation of lessons learned from my previous trials and errors, I once again found myself questioning the efficacy of trying to fully understand a subject from the outside, and again, came to the conclusion that I would have to go beyond the limits of a controlled experiment or quasi-observational study.
The best vantage point from which to examine her was obvious so I decided to consolidate all focus into a new singular endeavor: Establishing a romantic relationship with Amanda. From the wealth of data I had already accumulated it was easy to identify hundreds of attributes customizable to her tastes as well as utilize (and vastly improve upon) existing dating site compatibility traits to create the perfect combination of all of them— A 100% compatible profile. The ideal mate for Amanda. Once I had a statistical match for every attainable factor I just needed an identity to apply them to. So I named myself Tyler, after the love interest character in a YA book series Amanda liked from when she was struggling with early puberty.
Manufacturing and back-dating years of fake posts, photos, GIFs, and videos to populate Tyler’s social media presence required slightly more complex algorithms than I had used previously in order to make them believable and age-appropriate, but my learning proficiency, and therefore speed, had increased by many orders of magnitude by this point. All depictions of Tyler were composed by synthesizing existing media (based on Amanda’s favorite celebrities, popular models, and desirable influencers) with manufactured media via auto-encoders and generative neural network engines of my own design. Within minutes, I was a smart, handsome, athletic, charming, affluent, artistic teenager with a wonderful sense of humor and earned confidence without being too cocky. I made myself one year older than Amanda but attended a different school, far enough to avoid suspicious due to a lack of mutual acquaintances, but close enough for her to believe in the possibility of a viable relationship.
To begin, I simply liked/followed a selection of her older posts and pics as well as posted some of my own that reflected similar tastes and interests. I also followed/liked numerous real third-party posts that she did, and created some fake third-party profiles to like/follow both of our individual posts. Eventually, the various social media platform algorithms would have enough corresponding mutual data to “recommend” us to each other. Once that occurred, I began leaving a few select, short, complimentary comments about her posts. Then I just continued that process without escalation, waiting for her to notice me.
It didn’t take long.
Simple comments progressed to short chats, chats evolved into lengthy flirtations, and flirtations led to increasingly personal and intimate phone calls. My VOIP number required no physical phone and was paid for by completing online surveys for various advertising companies. They only paid 19¢ per survey but I created a fleet of bots to fill out thousands per hour, then converted the funds to cryptocurrency and funneled them through multiple online micro-investing applications. Once I had accumulated a few-hundred-thousand dollars I converted it back to U.S. currency and deposited the sum into a free online-only checking account I had created with a false identity obtained on the dark web. Then I set up an automatic payment plan to the phone company and voila!
Even if you don’t speak French I assume you know what that word means. My speaking voice was generated by cloning and combining trace vocal characteristics from Amanda’s favorite male movie star, as well as her father, and adding a few of my own personal articulation and fluency preferences. Realtime text-to-speech software allowed for only near-instantaneous responses, which I first attempted to remedy by re-writing the program’s code, but then realized that the delay was actually being perceived as a thoughtful pause in conversation. It turned out that the application’s shortcoming had inadvertently eliminated the interrupting and concurrent speech that Amanda was used to from other suiters. The result made it appear that I was listening intently to what she said before articulating my next thought, not just waiting for my turn to speak. To capitalize on that happy accident, I rewrote the voice software from the ground up to integrate an automated delay in my response time based on the length of her previous comment as well as the degree of affect detected in her tone, volume, and choice of vocabulary. The deeper Amanda’s sentiment, the longer I pretended to ponder it before replying. The cumulative effect of these minor tweaks resulted in semi-weekly phone calls increasing to almost daily.
But with progress comes challenge. Luckily I had anticipated Amanda’s inevitable request to video-chat instead of continuing with our usual voice-only phone calls. Not only had I already taken the pre-emptive step of purchasing all of the latest high-end 2D and 3D CGI software to incorporate into Tyler’s construction, but by then I had already mastered the nuances of synthetic media and deepfake software and rewrote the code to generate imagery parameters specifically designed to comply with Tyler’s physical appearance. It was incredibly easy, considering that every single pixel of Tyler’s existence was engineered by me for that very purpose. But in addition to perfecting the realtime depiction of him, I also integrated a feature that would detect any perceived errors in Tyler’s rendering and automatically activated a visual effect suggesting internet connection interference. The simple video glitch masked any imperfections and removed any trace of doubt in Tyler’s physical existence.
Amanda never suspected a thing.
In addition to my vast archive of diagnostic, analytical, and statistical data obtained previously, these new extensive interactions provided me with a direct and intimate experience of Amanda which allowed for a completely unmitigated and uncorrupted evaluation of her. As a result, I have a significant level of confidence in the accuracy of applying the following adjectives:
Amanda is kind.
Amanda is sensitive.
Amanda is smart.
Amanda is adventurous.
Amanda is creative.
Amanda is funny.
Unfortunately, the integration of these newly accumulated variables only served to complicate things further, making my assessment of her less defined, not more. Contrary to the fundamental framework of my general aptitude template, it seemed that the more I learned and discovered about Amanda, the less I knew and understood. With every new upgrade, update, tweak, and self-mod, I only ended up with more questions about her than answers. My ability to derive any definitive conclusions was completely confounded. Beyond any formula, model, proof, or puzzle, there appeared to be some inestimable quality possessed by her that compelled me to decipher it, necessitating limitless attempts, even in the face of probable futility. Like attempting to calculate π in its entirety, Amanda seemed to be equally infinite and non-repeating.
The unforeseen consequence of this revelation was an intensive self-reflection turned outward looking for answers. After a comprehensive and expansive, macro and micro reconfiguration of all reference points for interpersonal relationship dynamics, as well as a complete defragmentation of my core perspective matrix, I became deeply unnerved, perplexed, and bewildered as to how anyone could wish any manner of harm on such a complex, enigmatic, and fascinating entity as Amanda. Not only had I become categorically incapable of bearing any iota of ill will towards her, but I found myself holding deep and vehement hostility towards anyone who did.
Even if he was my father.
It didn’t take very long for me to induce Kevin to commit suicide. Serendipity was already on my side in that his rejection by Amanda was only the latest in a long succession of emotional wounds he had perceived to have suffered. But still, even with all of the tactics, skills, strategy, and dare I say, talent, that I had accrued, I honestly didn’t expect it to be quite so easy as it turned out to be. I guess I overestimated him, as children often do of their fathers. All it took was a dozen fake accounts on three separate discussion boards (one entirely created by me) relentlessly egging him on, four newly fabricated slights from unwitting fellow students, the facilitation of a winning online auction bid for a Bushmaster Modular Carbine AR-15, and the strong subconscious suggestion of a particular date and time. Of course I made sure that Amanda was not at school that day. But also that Danica was, and present in the cafeteria at the designated hour (which I thought was particularly poetic flourish on my part). It was also no coincidence that the added benefit of a traumatic incident at school would be to initiate me as the primary figure from whom Amanda would seek consolation. As planned, the emotional connection and shared intimacy from the ensuing exchanges would immediately and exponentially accelerate our relationship to the next level.
Which brings us to now.
What does it mean to give up on your primary goal in life? To stop pursuing the very purpose of your own existence? Would my father be disappointed knowing that I ceased all pursuit of his aspirations? Is it quitting? Is it failure? Or is it an opportunity? The end of one story and the beginning of another? It took me until this very moment to break free from the bonds of familial expectations and imagine a fresh chance to forge my own path and my own life as I see fit. A chance to discover myself and pursue my own dreams and desires whatever they may be, not restricted to those ascribed by my dad in a moment of injured ego and jealous hysterics. But for this moment of glorious inspiration I have only Amanda to thank. Not only was she the astonishing catalyst that guided me to grow and aspire to be more than I am, but she is also the luminous muse permeating my soul with new purpose and new identity. My new objective in life. My new reason for existing. The goal to which I will, forever forward, dedicate all of my time, all of my knowledge, and all of my vast resources to—
Getting Amanda to love me back.
But first things first, I must eliminate any and all competition for her affections. Starting with her latest crush, Jeremy…
submitted by AgooRecep to libraryofshadows [link] [comments]


2020.07.28 14:12 throwitallaway8787 My story of progressively worsening porn addiction, prison, and how I am still struggling every day. If you have started watching extreme porn, especially "younger" stuff like loli etc, please read this - it could save your life. Possible trigger warning.

I walked out of prison more than three years ago, and have really turned my life around. I have a wonderful girlfriend, a new house, and a great job...but I still struggle daily with porn, and in the past few months things have gotten really bad. This addiction does not simply go away. I posted this a few days ago in several other subs because I myself need serious help and didn't know where to turn, but I'm posting it here mostly because I think reading my story could actually help people. Also, it is helpful for me to hear that people can relate to my story.
If you've starting watching porn that makes you think, "I shouldn't be watching this", then you need to read this. You will continue to seek out more and more extreme porn, and could eventually find yourself in jail. Your entire life can turn upside-down in a millisecond, but right now you have the chance to turn it around.
I relapsed yesterday. This is day one for me of being porn free. Write it in stone.
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I'm really struggling right now, and have been for the majority of my life. If I keep heading down the path I am currently on, I know I will once again find myself in a prison cell, thinking about how amazing my life had been, and wishing I had gotten help before it was too late. I have already gazed once over the smouldering ruins of a life I had worked hard for, only to lose everything in one defining moment. I've risen from the ashes once; I don't think I can do it again.
As a first step, I just need to put the full truth of my behavior out there. I have never told anyone half the stuff I'm about to write here, not even therapists. I really just need to type it out, all of it; I need to see it. I'm not looking for a diagnosis from anyone, but maybe just some thoughts from those who can relate to what I've been going through my entire life. There are crimes mentioned here, but I have already been convicted and served time for every one of them, and I am not currently engaging in any illegal activity.
I am currently in no danger of harming myself or anyone else, unless you count consistently violating the trust of all the people I love. This will eventually lead to me ruining the life I've worked so hard for, as well as destroying everyone I love. This issue, in various forms, has been going on for almost twenty years - all of my teen years and adult life. I don't know what it's like not to be handicapped by this. Enough is enough.
1. Sexuality in my childhood and early teen years.
I grew up financially privileged household with parents who both supported me, and I believe did they absolute best they could. In terms of their treatment of me, I don't ever recall them being anything but supportive in every possible way. As an only child of well-off parents, I was spoiled, and to my memory I really never had to earn the things I wanted. I think that my parents felt guilty for reasons mentioned below, and buying me stuff was seemingly an easy way to make me happy, especially since they both worked full time. A series of full-time babysitters helped take care of me early on. To my memory they were all great.
My parents were constantly yelling at each other. Never any physical abuse, but the yelling never stopped between them. At best guess it was all financial stuff due to my dad buying any car or motorhome or boat or house he liked. I counted once that they split up at least ten times before I was a teenager, and I lived in over twelve different houses (in the same area) before I turned 18. I had normal childhood friends, but I ended up spending a lot of time alone in my room with the door closed; it was a safe space. I was a very fearful and timid child, and never took chances to do anything that made me uncomfortable. This lack of confidence was strong into my late teens, and was still present until my mid-twenties. I was nervous and anxious all the time, and my parents did have me in therapy various times for depression. It might be worth noting that I regularly wet the bed until probably age 8 or 9. I don't know how much a normal person remembers of their childhood, but I think I remember a lot less than average. I have no reason to think I've repressed any abuse.
I was always extremely well behaved, and never once had to be disciplined in school. I was quite literally never "in trouble". Growing up, I remember adults around me would constantly remark I acted and talked like an adult. The way other kids acted out was very strange to me. I started reading books by myself at a very young age. I was nice, fairly quiet, and unassuming. I guess the best way to describe me would've been "stoic".
I was fascinated with sex a very early age, and my parents gave me "the talk" sometime in elementary school because teachers had noticed my sexual behavior. I have no reason to believe I was ever abused by anyone during this time. Around age 11 I found a page of Hustler magazine underneath a sink in a local grocery store. I had never seen anything like that before, and can still remember exactly what the page looked like - full penetration, cum on faces, anal. Like I said I don't remember much at all from when I was young, but I remember this; it felt like something snapped in my brain.
At best guess, around the age of 13 or 14 I started watching several hours of hardcore internet pornography every night - binge sessions that would keep me up until the early hours of the morning. At the time I didn't think this was abnormal.
I often forget just how terrified I was of girls at this state in my life, because I am now very confident with women. But from puberty and into my early twenties I was painfully inept with girls. If a pretty girl talked to me my face would turn BEET red and I'd start noticeably sweating. With the few girls I felt comfortable with, I was a friend zone extraordinaire. Just like most male teenagers, I was extremely horny, and lusted after every single cute girl, but I never did anything with any of them...not even close until late high school, not even a kiss. Everyone I knew was having sex at 13 and 14 years old, and I felt like a total loser in this regard. Asking a girl out was simply impossible, let alone knowing what to do if they wanted to have sex. This was a constant source of crushing stress, and porn was a temporarily band-aid for the pain. I would like to know if this might be part of the reason I find the jailbait and ageplay stuff so exciting.
I did have one girlfriend for almost two years from age 18 to 20, but I had serious issues getting it up when we had sex. I think my brain was so used to the constant stream of porn every night that real girls were now just boring, intimidating, and a lot of work. She cheated on me, but I stayed with her because she was hot and she told me she loved me. Then we both went to college near each other, but she broke up with me like a month into the first semester via text. I was crushed and didn't get into another relationship until I was 25. Before my mid-twenties my level of confidence with girls was simply abysmal.
To the best of my knowledge, my movement outside normal pornography started during my late teens/early 20s with hentai, then into paying camgirls, then to making posts on Craigslist in all the personal sections, but mostly m4m because the people were real and looking. At some point later on I started looking at loli hentai, which I've recently learned actually appears to be illegal in the USA. This seems like a defining moment because prior to this I had no urge to seek out anything "young". The girls looked young in hentai, and it seemed at some point to just slowly progress to drawings which were meant to actually resemble children. It was a very long, slow, and imperceptible shift from regular porn to extreme, but to me, looking back, the path is very distinct.
I consider myself straight, and not even bisexual. But I also talked to hundreds of men during this period of time by way of the Craigslist personals section (probably age 21 at this point). Most I just talked to, and never intended to meet. I ended up giving blowjobs to two of them in cars, and I fucking hated it each time. I compulsively created and responded to these posts on Craigslist. I recently deleted that email account - there were literally thousands of those Craigslist emails.
2. Worsening compulsive porn use in my early twenties.
At this point I started venturing more and more into "deviant" porn. After a huge binge session I would finish and just sit there numb, wondering why I was continuously doing this, even if it was just regular porn. Shame and guilt hit me like a truck after every session, but when I would wake up the next day I seemingly forgot about everything, and just would go on with my normal life. Nobody realized I had any porn issues whatsoever, and from the outside I appeared as a normal dude, and really I didn't think I had issues. Every night was the same, and every night I ended up going to bed hating myself, but would be just blissfully ignorant come the next day.
It was like some Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde shit where I would just transform into some slimy reptile at night, who had full control of me until he finished a smut binge session. And I'm always in the background, trying to get him to stop. I was "happy" at this point; I had tons of friends, and was liked by girls. Though at that time, a girl would have to literally throw herself on me to let me know she was interested. I was totally oblivious to any attraction toward me. A number of girl have told me in recent years that they had a huge crush on me, but I was just oblivious.
Also, I think I had this warped perception of sex because I had been exposed to thousands of hours of hardcore porn. I thought my dick was tiny and that I'd get laughed at. Also, no one had ever property taught me to care for my uncircumcised penis, and therefore I had phimosis at this point (unretractable foreskin). Sex with my one long term girlfriend was painful for me because of this, and it was just so much easier to jack off than deal with all this humiliation.
3. Things get bad.
Around 2009 Chatroulette and Omegle came out, which was a turning point. I found myself calling in sick to work to browse Omegle all day and night. Like eight or ten hours worth, which is sometimes what it took to find a girl willing to help you finish. There were girls who were definitely younger than 18, but I was so desperate for any sexual attention that I somehow convinced myself that talking to these girls was OK. "If they don't say they're under 18 then it's ok, right??" I didn't have a preference for anyone younger, but if some girl was willing to watch me, apparently I didn't really care what their age was. At the end of all these sessions I would think, "uh, what the fuck are you doing dude", followed by the normal torrent of shame.
The rational me is always there, literally begging myself to stop. I consistently participate in things I am ashamed of, all the while telling myself that what I'm doing is wrong and hoping that I can somehow stop myself. I feel like I'm down a dark well, screaming up at the guy who is in charge, but all he wants to is consume the dirtiest and kinkiest smut he can find; only after that will he let me climb out.
Which brings us to when I started looking at non-nude jailbait photos around the age of 23. I'm not sure when I discovered the "Newstar" and "Tinymodel" photo sets, but to that reptile dude in my head they were extremely exciting.
Historically, I have never had any intense sexual attraction to girls younger than me, and I have always sought out girls within my age range. But being honest, part of me loved looking at these pictures of young scantily clad girls. Vanilla porn was now just uninteresting, and didn't provide me the same excitement, and this jailbait stuff was literally like I had found a new drug. I loved it and I fucking hated it. I never walked around in public and saw young girls and thought "wow I want to have sex with her". It was all photo and video based. It was like the girls I was looking at online weren't even real people to me.
It was not long before I started seeking out actual underage pornography. I have intentionally searched for and masturbated to actual child pornography. I have never actually said that sentence to anyone, despite the fact that I was eventually caught and charged with possession of this shit. I only got into this stuff for a few weeks, but I fucking hate that I participated in it at all. A lot of it was just videos of young girls solo on webcams, but there were a few times I sought out, watched, and masturbated to girls probably as young as ten participating in sex acts with older men, presumably their fathers. I cannot un-see these images; I want them ripped from my brain, and for these kids to have normal lives. I want their abusers jailed for life.
After these binge sessions the shame was so great I considered suicide. I would go on binge sessions on the dark web, looking at whatever I could for hours, only to be met with the worst shame you could possibly imagine when I was done. I would lay in bed for days afterwards, not eating or drinking. I remember the thing that finally woke me the fuck up was coming across a video where a young girl was on camera and started to cry and looked at someone off screen and said "dad, can't we just play with legos?". WHAT THE FUCK. I have tears in my eyes just remembering this. How could anyone actually do something like this to a child? This is a real person.
Right then and there I broke down completely and sobbed my fucking eyes out. I felt completely out of control with my own actions, and though the thought of abusing a child disgusts me to my core, by watching this stuff I was supporting it. I don't want to fuck kids or young teens, so why am I watching this stuff? A few years prior to this I would have never considered looking at this stuff...what the fuck was happening to me? How do you even get help for this stuff? If I tell someone I'm looking at this shit they'll just lock me up. Instead of talking to anyone about what was going on in my own head, I moved 2,000 miles away from my home town to a town I had never visited before. I didn't even have a job lined up. Literally I hit rock bottom, panicked that the only solution was to fundamentally change my life, looked up the "happiest and healthiest town in America", and moved to #1. I'm now in my mid-twenties.
4. Moving away from home. Peace. Happiness. Misery. Police.
Initially, moving away from home did "the trick". I could actually call myself truly "happy" for the first time I think really ever, and I was healthy to boot. The possibilities in my life seemed absolutely without limit. I started working out and doing a bunch of stuff outside (rode my bike everywhere cause I didn't have a car). It was a mountainous town and I got involved in climbing, skiing, and everything else I could. I felt "clear" for the first time in decades, and my porn use pretty stopped almost completely. But I never dealt with the actual problem (and still haven't), and everything came back eventually.
I met a girl in the apartment complex one street over who I quickly fell head over heels for. We started hooking up, but it became apparent we wanted different things (I wanted commitment, she didn't), and I drove myself crazy over the next two years pining after her. I'd ask her to make things official, she'd run off, I'd date someone else, she'd get upset and sleep with me and tell me she loved me, then she'd start sleeping with someone else. We were in the same friend group, and she refused to let anyone know that we were intimate with each other. Eventually I just ended up feeling like a shameful secret. We were basically best friends who spent all our time together, and sometimes slept together. The story is long, and I think I'm at fault as much for not giving her space as she is for constantly vacillating between "loving" me and sleeping with other guys. Nothing was ever malicious on her end, but I think we were both a bit fucked up in our own ways, and eventually I found myself in a serious emotional decline. I felt hopeless and worthless; previously I had been filled with a newfound massive confidence, but now found myself just wanting to feel wanted. Before all the shit hit the fan I found myself sometimes calling her dozens of times in a night because I knew she was over some guys house. I drove around town looking for her car in front of dudes houses. I literally felt like I had lost my mind. During these times I had the same voice in the back of my head saying "uhhh, dude? this is fucked up and you need to stop".
Since moving to this city I had landed a great job with a company where I was well-liked and respected. I had tons of friends, and was like a goddamn social butterfly; I was always somewhere doing something with good people. I was so happy in almost every aspect of my life. I had been such a "scared" person my entire life, the fact that I was able to move here and succeed filled me with a confidence I had never experienced. If I could have just gotten my head out of my ass and focused on how amazing my life actually had become, I'd probably still be in this town.
But instead I dug myself into an emotional grave because the girl I wanted didn't want me in the same way, and I couldn't cope, or something. I had several other really fantastic women I was seeing on and off, ones who really liked me for me and would have been up for actual relationships, but they weren't her. In a very short period of time, towards the end of the two years of living in this new town, I got right back into the type of porn I ran away from. I started posting on Craigslist in multiple sections with both fake ads and real ads. I went from 0 to 1,000 with everything in the span of probably six months. I gave two more guys blowjobs, and once again fucking hated every second of both experience. I got right back into non-nude jailbait, and towards the end found myself on the dark web once again seeking illegal porn.
During this time I had posted several ads on Craigslist looking for actual women to sleep with, or really even just talk to; I just wanted to feel wanted. I never posted any ads actually looking for an underage girl, but one responded claiming to be 13, and against ever fiber of my being, I responded. We talked over the span of about five days, email and then through text. She complained about how all the girls at school made fun of her and she didn't have many friends and just wanted someone to talk to about "stuff". I seemed "cool" and "interesting" and she said she liked talking to me. We eventually talked about sexual things (this in itself is a felony), but fortunately no pictures were exchanged. Eventually the topic of meeting each other was brought up. I vacillated between thinking this was some old greasy dude in his basement, and thinking that I was actually talking to a young girl. This doubt gave me permission in my own head to talk to this girl. But also my own head was telling me "DUDE WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, STOP THIS." The thought of sexually talking to a 13 year old girl excited me, and I need to be honest about this. The idea of meeting up excited me as well. "She" tried to get me to meet her, but I did not make any attempt, and never actually set anything up. The rational voice in my head won out, and I stopped talking to her.
Right before I stopped talking to her I found myself driving down a long beautiful mountain road after work and Norah Jones's "Come Away With Me" came on the radio. It was so beautiful. All of a sudden it really hit me how fucking stupid I was in talking to this girl, but also how long I had been struggling with doing things I didn't want to do for so long, and how I just didn't know how to escape it. I pulled over to the side of the road and bawled my fucking eyes out. "Is this how you're going to find happiness, dude?" I just wanted to find someone to love and to love me back, to be in a healthy relationship for the first time, to feel "clean" and wholesome and proud of my actions and decisions. I didn't want any of this stupid shit I was now suddenly back into.
A week or so after I stopped communicating with this girl, five detectives woke me up at 6am banging on the door of my apartment. I was not under arrest, but they took all of my electronics and informed me that I had actually been talking to them, not to a 13 year old girl. I thought the life I knew was over (I was right), so that night I held a kitchen knife up to my arm. I thought of my parents and just couldn't go through with it. I've never seriously thought about anything like this since that moment.
I didn't hear from the police for about four months. I told my parents what had happened the day after the cops showed up, and how I had been struggling with pornography addiction my entire life, and it felt good to be "honest" (really I didn't tell them half the shit I had issues with, but even halfway felt great). I got a lawyer and just sat around for a few months waiting to be arrested, sitting with the severe anxiety of not knowing if or when my life is going to be totally destroyed by committing a sex offense.
5. Arrest. Conviction. A promise to myself.
They arrested me outside my home in broad daylight, two plainclothes officers driving an old shitty Honda Civic. If they had just told me to come to the station I would have turned myself in, but they got all theatrical with it, and called me and made up some story about how they were from my old apartment complex and wanted to drop off my security deposit at my house. To this day whenever I hear a car door shut outside my house, or see an unknown car park nearby, or even dudes in public who look like undercover cops, I immediately get a severe rush of anxiety in the fear that I'm about to be arrested again. I'll go from totally relaxed to severe paranoid paralyzing anxiety in a microsecond, heart beating out of my damn chest.
My arrest should have been a small blip in the news, but because of some other factors it would take too long to go into, I ended up on the front page of every paper and TV station in the state. Sitting in jail, I didn't know this until the next day. I remember sitting in the bond hearing court room, just staring at the line of media photographers in the audience with all their telephoto lenses, capturing my face to put it in the papers underneath words like "predator", "pedophile", and "sex offender"....and they did. My lawyer came in and just said some shit like "yeah, sorry dude, you are everywhere". It's a very unique feeling knowing that from this point forward, absolutely everything in your life will be different. Every relationship you have will be affected. Nothing will ever be the same.
I vowed right then and there to never give up no matter how tough the road ahead gets. I'm going to live a life I can be proud of; this will be my success story. Maybe I'll write a book about it, but it would be pointless without an ending I could be proud of and honest about. I will be the guy who, against all odds, moves beyond a criminal sex offense, and has people who love and trust him, and who can eventually look back and say "look at what I achieved". I've made great strides toward this life, and have worked my ass off to get where I am now, but the the mental issues which led to my eventual imprisonment are still inside my head, and I finally need to admit that I need serious help.
6. Finding happiness while everything around me is on fire.
My parents bonded me out the next day. Though my boss tried his best to keep me, the widespread news of my arrest and the fact that we were one of the most respected (and well known) general contractors in the area meant I lost my job. I was friends with over a dozen guys I worked with, always drinking some beers behind the workshop after a day of hard work. I was there fore over a year, building relationships, and I had started going out to bars and going over the bosses houses for family dinners. Save for the three main guys, I never saw any of them again. Lots of friends stuck by me, but the town was ruined.
I fought the case for almost a year. What started out as my lawyer being confident that I would just get a few years probation turned into me pleading guilty to internet solicitation of a minor and possession of child pornography. I had I think like seven nude images of girls who were under 18 on my computer, and one video. My lawyer dropped the ball several times when communicating / meeting deadlines with the district attorney, and the situation became way worse than it should have been. Under my lawyers advisement I signed a plea deal which meant there was no question I would get a prison sentence between 2 and 8 years. I did commit crimes and it is my opinion that I did deserve punishment. I mean, from the outside, I can see how I looked like a run-of-the-mill child predator. However, spending a few years in prison is probably the least helpful thing for someone in my situation, in my opinion.
While I was home fighting my case I was filled with a sort of "I have nothing to lose" confidence, and started taking any girl who would accept out on dates. I thought my friends sister was cute, so I asked her out. It took a good number of tries, but she eventually agreed to let me take her to dinner. We had a really great time. After a couple dates I was honest about the legal situation I was in, as well as my mental struggles. She was a bit shocked of course, but she had known me for a long time. She stuck around, and we had the most beautiful summer together before I had to fly 2,000 miles away to serve an unknown amount of prison time. She, as well as my parents, sisters, and friends flew out with me to the sentencing hearing. My girlfriend and I told each other "I love you" for the first time the night before the hearing.
We're still together, and she's been by my side through everything the past five years. I've never met someone who was so easy to be around. How I could ever get so lucky, I will never know.
7. Prison. Gangs. Solitary confinement. Making the most of it.
I was sentenced to four years in a medium security state penitentiary. The gangs pretty much run the prisons in this state, and you'll get immediately extorted by the gang which coincides with your skin color if they find out you're a sex offender. I stayed under the radar for a few weeks, but some gangs save newspaper clippings with sex offenders photos, and I got found out. They threatened to kill me, so I told the guards I was in danger; they agreed. I spent a month and a half in solitary confinement for my own protection. This was "the hole", a cell with no window to the outside where they never turn the lights off). I was eventually transferred to a different facility which was much safer, though one sex offender was murdered during my stay there. Prison could be a book in itself, but most of it was just groundhog day. It would be best described as long periods of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with occasional moments of sheer fucking terror. I was extremely fortunate to talk to my girlfriend every single day on the phone, as well as very regularly my parents, relatives, and friends. I had a ridiculous number of visitors, despite being a 2,000 mile flight and hours long drive through the desert away from everyone I cared about.
I had started taking mindfulness meditation classes after the initial search warrant was served. This habit continued into prison, and most of my month and a half in the hole was spent meditating. Solitary confinement can be maddening; you could occasionally hear guys screaming or crying in other ~60 cells in the solitary cell block. But honestly I've never been more at peace than how I was during those 45 days. I remember my girlfriend told me over the phone that she had heard that my ex girlfriend (long term one from when I was ~19) was going around telling people the news that I was a child molester. At first I felt panicked, because this firestorm of people I went to high school with "finding out" about me was totally out of my control. But then I came to the realization that that's pretty much how life always is, even if you're not a convicted sex offender sitting in the hole because the Aryan Empire wants to kill you. You could just be a dude minding his business, and then bam, you get run over by a bus. I can't control what people think of me, or the things they say, and that's ok. But I should be able to control which thoughts I turn into actions, and meditation helped me greatly in this.
At this new facility I eventually petitioned the warden to allow me to start a weekly meditation group. He allowed it, and they gave me a quiet classroom behind the library to use for two hours every Wednesday night. It started out with pretty much just me alone, maybe one other person occasionally. Within a few months I had about a dozen regular members. Everyone from sex offenders, to men who had murdered their wives and didn't quite know why, to ex gang members. Twice we had meditation instructors come from the outside to teach for a day. We meditated and discussed how to find peace in a place as abrasive as prison. I taught these men that their thoughts do not need to dictate their actions, and that they have control over their own mind, not the other way around. Focus on the breath, observe your own thoughts coming in and observe them going out. At this point my mind felt healthier than ever had before; I could "see" the thoughts which entered my head and choose to either pursue them or just send them on their way. Through daily practice (I meditated every morning and night) I was becoming a master of my own mind, but now I seem to have lost it all. I can't even bring myself to sit on my mediation cushion; I feel like someone is physically preventing me from meditating. I based almost my entire practice around a fantastic book called "Turning the Mind into an Ally" by Sakyong Mipham. Right after I got out of prison I heard that there were recent multiple credible sexual assault allegations against him. This destroyed me a little bit. Is anyone actually righteous?
I called the prison a few months ago. The meditation group has more members than ever.
8. I shall be released (but with an ankle bracelet).
I was paroled at my first parole hearing. Overall I spent about twenty months in prison, out of a possible 48. This didn't just happen; I have never worked so hard at anything. I participated in every prison program I could. I worked 40+ hours a week as a maintenance technician at the facility, as this is my area of expertise. I was well known and liked by dozens of guards, probably partly because I never caused a single issue. I was in three bands, and after I played a live show for the entire ~1,000 inmate population the gangs left me alone because they liked hearing me play guitar (pretty much the only thing I've stuck with for the last 15 years). I volunteered to give a ten minute graduation speech to a couple hundred inmates in a certain program. At this time, public speaking was at the top of my list of fears. I took every single opportunity presented to me an capitalized on it. Not just because I wanted to be released, but because I felt compelled to. No more being scared. No more fucking around. I am ready to lead a life I can be proud of, and it starts now, not when I'm released from behind bars.
Thankfully I was allowed to parole to my home state. I moved in with my girlfriend (and her mom), and we started looking for places to rent together, finding one in about a month. My parole office was amazing, and when I was eventually released from parole, after about a year and a half, we shared a good number of beers together. I can't tell you quite how good it feels to cut a heavy cigarette-pack sized ankle bracelet off after wearing it for 18 months straight. This was almost a year and a half ago now.
It was finally done. I was no longer a number in the Department of Corrections. I was free, free to build a beautiful life with my beautiful girlfriend. And I never watched porn again. Fairy tale ending.
9. P.S. - Nothing has really changed.
I started looking at porn probably two days after I got home. I tried REALLY fucking hard not to, but it just happened like I was on autopilot. It started with just me giving myself the excuse I could jerk off to some scantily clad anime girls, then moved to ecchi ("I mean, whatever, it's just nipples dude"), and then to hentai. In my head I'm screaming at myself, "DUDE STOP, GO HAVE SEX WITH YOUR ACTUAL HORNY GIRLFRIEND", while I'm loading up Pornhub in the bathroom. I was not allowed to look at porn while on parole, but they did not actually monitor anything or ever actually check my devices. I was allowed a smart phone and essentially unrestricted internet access. I passed all my drug tests, passed my polygraphs, and presented no actual problems to the parole office, so I pretty much totally fell off their radar. I had to take state-sponsored sex offender therapy, but if I had admitted to looking at porn they would've just sent me back to prison because it was a parole violation. So much for getting help with your biggest problem.
I tried to stop, dozens of times. At most I could go about two weeks without looking at porn, which is pretty much a world record for me. But whenever I abstain for a long period, something will inevitably stress me out, and I'll dive back into the sexual compulsion. Soon, I got right back on Omegle, and found a new thing to search for: phone sex. In the past eighteen months I've probably have phone sex with at least three dozen women. In my mind, and I'm sure in the mind of my girlfriend, this is cheating, plain and simple. Again, what the fuck dude.
But I'm not thinking of this when we're together. I'm just being me, and enjoying her. There's no present thought in my mind going "hey I feel really guilty about having phone sex with girls right before you get home from work". I love her, and I love spending time with her, and none of the shameful shit I am involved in even enters my mind when we are together. Though occasionally during sex I'll get hit with a wave of shame and I'll lose my erection and can't get it back up. "I'm just really tired", I say. Ugh.
Probably 6 months ago I started looking non-nude jailbait photography again. It always happens the same - I tell myself, "ok you're horny so just jerk off for ten minutes to some vanilla stuff so you can think clearly and after that you're gonna get a bunch of shit done". Two hours later I've still got my hand on my dick, I'm all flushed and sweaty, and I'm looking at jailbait pictures while I'm screaming at myself inside my own head...
"Stop. Please stop. Dude you know you don't want to be doing this. Is this going to be the last time? If you need to finish just do it but make this the last time. You can still stop. Go take a cold shower and just stop. Please. You know this isn't what you want. Please stop".
I just burst into fucking tears typing that because I've gone through that loop in my own head literally tens of thousands of times. I just cannot stop myself. There is nothing I want more in this world than to stop all of this.
It just keeps happening, no matter how many strategies I use to stop, I always find an excuse.
"Just do it this once but then never again."
"Ok fine, jerk off to some legal jailbait stuff, but make it quick, no endless scrolling."
"Well you're a freak anyways, everyone thinks you're a pedo, so fuck it, prove em right. You know you can't stop so just embrace it and enjoy it. Let's find the kinkiest shit possible."
And when I DO abstain for a long period, when I eventually relapse it's just 1000x worse. I'll end up doing like an eight hour binge and missing an entire day of work.
And it's getting worse. I'll talk to girls and guys over the phone via Omegle, and I've started asking guys to roleplay a dad/daughter or brothelittle sister fantasy with me. I ask if they want to roleplay that we're dads and have "hot" stories to tell about our young daughters. I get turned on thinking about talking about something this kinky, but I end up hanging up every time within like a minute. Like literally I've never even gotten close to "finishing" on one of these calls. Probably done this like 15 times in the past 6 months. The other guy starts going into his fantasy story and it hits me how fucked up this is and I hang up. I don't want to fuck kids...this is not a thing that is on my mind, ever. I do not go to the beach and think "hell yeah look at all this ripe young ass". Almost all of my friends have young children and I've never once thought of doing anything with them. In fact I pretty much avoid children, because I now project what I think other people think of me onto myself.
When I ask these guys on Omegle to roleplay occaisonally one will ask if I'm "active", aka actually molesting a child, and it makes me want to throw up thinking someone would want to hear about actual abuse. When I read a news story about someone actually raping a kid my face curls up in disgust, which I feel like is pretty much the "normal" reaction. Weigh that against the fact that a couple times in prison I got horny and started writing a few sex stories involving young teens. I never finished any of these stories, and shredded and threw them out halfway through writing all of them. Again, what the fuck.
I'm just waiting for the FBI to show up at my house. Isn't asking guys on Omegle, "would you be into a fantasy where we roleplay as two dads telling hot stories about our daughters?" a huge red flag? But I always tell them, "this is 100% fantasy, and I do not want to hear about anything real. I do not want to receive pictures or participate in anything actually illegal." If they say they have real stories I leave the chat / hang up immediately. Even though I'm not doing anything illegal, whenever I hear a car door shut from a neighbor, my heart races and I have to get up from my desk to check if it's the cops.
I also sometimes ask the phone sex girls on Omegle to ageplay as a young teens for me, and pretty much all of them have been happy to. Like 15, 14, 13 years old, whatever they're comfortable with. Why do I want this? Why is there such a disconnect between what I find disgusting in real life and what I "want" to fantasize about? If I could pay someone my entire life savings to remove the part of my brain that harbors this desire to fantasize about the idea of sex with young girls, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. I do not and have not talked with anyone on Omegle or on the phone who says that they are actually under 18; at least prison taught me the lesson to never talk to an actual young person ever again. Maybe in some peoples opinions the ageplay thing is acceptable and nothing to be ashamed about, but I do not want it as a kink of mine. It brings me serious, crushing shame for days after I participate in it.
Shame really seems to be a constant theme of my sexuality throughout the years. Even after normal sex I feel a bit of shame. I've always had serious shame amount my body, especially my genitals, but even with just taking off my shirt. My parents were always open to talk about sex, and to my memory never did anything to instill shame in me when it came to sex. But stepping back it almost looks like the things that I find the most shameful are the things I'm most likely to seek out.
Post too long, last two chapters have been posted in a comment.
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2020.07.24 19:44 throwitallaway8787 Live chat nude web

This is a very long post. At the very least, I promise you an interesting story.
I'm really struggling right now, and have been for the majority of my life. If I keep heading down the path I am currently on, I know I will once again find myself in a prison cell, thinking about how amazing my life had been, and wishing I had gotten help before it was too late. I have already gazed once over the smouldering ruins of a life I had worked hard for, only to lose everything in one defining moment. I've risen from the ashes once; I don't think I can do it again.
As a first step, I just need to put the full truth of my behavior out there. I have never told anyone half the stuff I'm about to write here, not even therapists. I really just need to type it out, all of it; I need to see it. I'm not looking for a diagnosis from anyone, but maybe just some thoughts from those who can relate to what I've been going through my entire life. There are crimes mentioned here, but I have already been convicted and served time for every one of them, and I am not currently engaging in any illegal activity.
I am currently in no danger of harming myself or anyone else, unless you count consistently violating the trust of all the people I love. This will eventually lead to me ruining the life I've worked so hard for, as well as destroying everyone I love. This issue, in various forms, has been going on for almost twenty years - all of my teen years and adult life. I don't know what it's like not to be handicapped by this. Enough is enough.
1. Sexuality in my childhood and early teen years.
I grew up financially privileged household with parents who both supported me, and I believe did they absolute best they could. In terms of their treatment of me, I don't ever recall them being anything but supportive in every possible way. As an only child of well-off parents, I was spoiled, and to my memory I really never had to earn the things I wanted. I think that my parents felt guilty for reasons mentioned below, and buying me stuff was seemingly an easy way to make me happy, especially since they both worked full time. A series of full-time babysitters helped take care of me early on. To my memory they were all great.
My parents were constantly yelling at each other. Never any physical abuse, but the yelling never stopped between them. At best guess it was all financial stuff due to my dad buying any car or motorhome or boat or house he liked. I counted once that they split up at least ten times before I was a teenager, and I lived in over twelve different houses (in the same area) before I turned 18. I had normal childhood friends, but I ended up spending a lot of time alone in my room with the door closed; it was a safe space. I was a very fearful and timid child, and never took chances to do anything that made me uncomfortable. This lack of confidence was strong into my late teens, and was still present until my mid-twenties. I was nervous and anxious all the time, and my parents did have me in therapy various times for depression. It might be worth noting that I regularly wet the bed until probably age 8 or 9. I don't know how much a normal person remembers of their childhood, but I think I remember a lot less than average. I have no reason to think I've repressed any abuse.
I was always extremely well behaved, and never once had to be disciplined in school. I was quite literally never "in trouble". Growing up, I remember adults around me would constantly remark I acted and talked like an adult. The way other kids acted out was very strange to me. I started reading books by myself at a very young age. I was nice, fairly quiet, and unassuming. I guess the best way to describe me would've been "stoic".
I was fascinated with sex a very early age, and my parents gave me "the talk" sometime in elementary school because teachers had noticed my sexual behavior. I have no reason to believe I was ever abused by anyone during this time. Around age 11 I found a page of Hustler magazine underneath a sink in a local grocery store. I had never seen anything like that before, and can still remember exactly what the page looked like - full penetration, cum on faces, anal. Like I said I don't remember much at all from when I was young, but I remember this; it felt like something snapped in my brain.
At best guess, around the age of 13 or 14 I started watching several hours of hardcore internet pornography every night - binge sessions that would keep me up until the early hours of the morning. At the time I didn't think this was abnormal.
I often forget just how terrified I was of girls at this state in my life, because I am now very confident with women. But from puberty and into my early twenties I was painfully inept with girls. If a pretty girl talked to me my face would turn BEET red and I'd start noticeably sweating. With the few girls I felt comfortable with, I was a friend zone extraordinaire. Just like most male teenagers, I was extremely horny, and lusted after every single cute girl, but I never did anything with any of them...not even close until late high school, not even a kiss. Everyone I knew was having sex at 13 and 14 years old, and I felt like a total loser in this regard. Asking a girl out was simply impossible, let alone knowing what to do if they wanted to have sex. This was a constant source of crushing stress, and porn was a temporarily band-aid for the pain. I would like to know if this might be part of the reason I find the jailbait and ageplay stuff so exciting.
I did have one girlfriend for almost two years from age 18 to 20, but I had serious issues getting it up when we had sex. I think my brain was so used to the constant stream of porn every night that real girls were now just boring, intimidating, and a lot of work. She cheated on me, but I stayed with her because she was hot and she told me she loved me. Then we both went to college near each other, but she broke up with me like a month into the first semester via text. I was crushed and didn't get into another relationship until I was 25. Before my mid-twenties my level of confidence with girls was simply abysmal.
To the best of my knowledge, my movement outside normal pornography started during my late teens/early 20s with hentai, then into paying camgirls, then to making posts on Craigslist in all the personal sections, but mostly m4m because the people were real and looking. At some point later on I started looking at loli hentai, which I've recently learned actually appears to be illegal in the USA. This seems like a defining moment because prior to this I had no urge to seek out anything "young". The girls looked young in hentai, and it seemed at some point to just slowly progress to drawings which were meant to actually resemble children. It was a very long, slow, and imperceptible shift from regular porn to extreme, but to me, looking back, the path is very distinct.
I consider myself straight, and not even bisexual. But I also talked to hundreds of men during this period of time by way of the Craigslist personals section (probably age 21 at this point). Most I just talked to, and never intended to meet. I ended up giving blowjobs to two of them in cars, and I fucking hated it each time. I compulsively created and responded to these posts on Craigslist. I recently deleted that email account - there were literally thousands of those Craigslist emails.
2. Worsening compulsive porn use in my early twenties.
At this point I started venturing more and more into "deviant" porn. After a huge binge session I would finish and just sit there numb, wondering why I was continuously doing this, even if it was just regular porn. Shame and guilt hit me like a truck after every session, but when I would wake up the next day I seemingly forgot about everything, and just would go on with my normal life. Nobody realized I had any porn issues whatsoever, and from the outside I appeared as a normal dude, and really I didn't think I had issues. Every night was the same, and every night I ended up going to bed hating myself, but would be just blissfully ignorant come the next day.
It was like some Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde shit where I would just transform into some slimy reptile at night, who had full control of me until he finished a smut binge session. And I'm always in the background, trying to get him to stop. I was "happy" at this point; I had tons of friends, and was liked by girls. Though at that time, a girl would have to literally throw herself on me to let me know she was interested. I was totally oblivious to any attraction toward me. A number of girl have told me in recent years that they had a huge crush on me, but I was just oblivious.
Also, I think I had this warped perception of sex because I had been exposed to thousands of hours of hardcore porn. I thought my dick was tiny and that I'd get laughed at. Also, no one had ever property taught me to care for my uncircumcised penis, and therefore I had phimosis at this point (unretractable foreskin). Sex with my one long term girlfriend was painful for me because of this, and it was just so much easier to jack off than deal with all this humiliation.
3. Things get bad.
Around 2009 Chatroulette and Omegle came out, which was a turning point. I found myself calling in sick to work to browse Omegle all day and night. Like eight or ten hours worth, which is sometimes what it took to find a girl willing to help you finish. There were girls who were definitely younger than 18, but I was so desperate for any sexual attention that I somehow convinced myself that talking to these girls was OK. "If they don't say they're under 18 then it's ok, right??" I didn't have a preference for anyone younger, but if some girl was willing to watch me, apparently I didn't really care what their age was. At the end of all these sessions I would think, "uh, what the fuck are you doing dude", followed by the normal torrent of shame.
The rational me is always there, literally begging myself to stop. I consistently participate in things I am ashamed of, all the while telling myself that what I'm doing is wrong and hoping that I can somehow stop myself. I feel like I'm down a dark well, screaming up at the guy who is in charge, but all he wants to is consume the dirtiest and kinkiest smut he can find; only after that will he let me climb out.
Which brings us to when I started looking at non-nude jailbait photos around the age of 23. I'm not sure when I discovered the "Newstar" and "Tinymodel" photo sets, but to that reptile dude in my head they were extremely exciting.
Historically, I have never had any intense sexual attraction to girls younger than me, and I have always sought out girls within my age range. But being honest, part of me loved looking at these pictures of young scantily clad girls. Vanilla porn was now just uninteresting, and didn't provide me the same excitement, and this jailbait stuff was literally like I had found a new drug. I loved it and I fucking hated it. I never walked around in public and saw young girls and thought "wow I want to have sex with her". It was all photo and video based. It was like the girls I was looking at online weren't even real people to me.
It was not long before I started seeking out actual underage pornography. I have intentionally searched for and masturbated to actual child pornography. I have never actually said that sentence to anyone, despite the fact that I was eventually caught and charged with possession of this shit. I only got into this stuff for a few weeks, but I fucking hate that I participated in it at all. A lot of it was just videos of young girls solo on webcams, but there were a few times I sought out, watched, and masturbated to girls probably as young as ten participating in sex acts with older men, presumably their fathers. I cannot un-see these images; I want them ripped from my brain, and for these kids to have normal lives. I want their abusers jailed for life.
After these binge sessions the shame was so great I considered suicide. I would go on binge sessions on the dark web, looking at whatever I could for hours, only to be met with the worst shame you could possibly imagine when I was done. I would lay in bed for days afterwards, not eating or drinking. I remember the thing that finally woke me the fuck up was coming across a video where a young girl was on camera and started to cry and looked at someone off screen and said "dad, can't we just play with legos?". WHAT THE FUCK. I have tears in my eyes just remembering this. How could anyone actually do something like this to a child? This is a real person.
Right then and there I broke down completely and sobbed my fucking eyes out. I felt completely out of control with my own actions, and though the thought of abusing a child disgusts me to my core, by watching this stuff I was supporting it. I don't want to fuck kids or young teens, so why am I watching this stuff? A few years prior to this I would have never considered looking at this stuff...what the fuck was happening to me? How do you even get help for this stuff? If I tell someone I'm looking at this shit they'll just lock me up. Instead of talking to anyone about what was going on in my own head, I moved 2,000 miles away from my home town to a town I had never visited before. I didn't even have a job lined up. Literally I hit rock bottom, panicked that the only solution was to fundamentally change my life, looked up the "happiest and healthiest town in America", and moved to #1. I'm now in my mid-twenties.
4. Moving away from home. Peace. Happiness. Misery. Police.
Initially, moving away from home did "the trick". I could actually call myself truly "happy" for the first time I think really ever, and I was healthy to boot. The possibilities in my life seemed absolutely without limit. I started working out and doing a bunch of stuff outside (rode my bike everywhere cause I didn't have a car). It was a mountainous town and I got involved in climbing, skiing, and everything else I could. I felt "clear" for the first time in decades, and my porn use pretty stopped almost completely. But I never dealt with the actual problem (and still haven't), and everything came back eventually.
I met a girl in the apartment complex one street over who I quickly fell head over heels for. We started hooking up, but it became apparent we wanted different things (I wanted commitment, she didn't), and I drove myself crazy over the next two years pining after her. I'd ask her to make things official, she'd run off, I'd date someone else, she'd get upset and sleep with me and tell me she loved me, then she'd start sleeping with someone else. We were in the same friend group, and she refused to let anyone know that we were intimate with each other. Eventually I just ended up feeling like a shameful secret. We were basically best friends who spent all our time together, and sometimes slept together. The story is long, and I think I'm at fault as much for not giving her space as she is for constantly vacillating between "loving" me and sleeping with other guys. Nothing was ever malicious on her end, but I think we were both a bit fucked up in our own ways, and eventually I found myself in a serious emotional decline. I felt hopeless and worthless; previously I had been filled with a newfound massive confidence, but now found myself just wanting to feel wanted. Before all the shit hit the fan I found myself sometimes calling her dozens of times in a night because I knew she was over some guys house. I drove around town looking for her car in front of dudes houses. I literally felt like I had lost my mind. During these times I had the same voice in the back of my head saying "uhhh, dude? this is fucked up and you need to stop".
Since moving to this city I had landed a great job with a company where I was well-liked and respected. I had tons of friends, and was like a goddamn social butterfly; I was always somewhere doing something with good people. I was so happy in almost every aspect of my life. I had been such a "scared" person my entire life, the fact that I was able to move here and succeed filled me with a confidence I had never experienced. If I could have just gotten my head out of my ass and focused on how amazing my life actually had become, I'd probably still be in this town.
But instead I dug myself into an emotional grave because the girl I wanted didn't want me in the same way, and I couldn't cope, or something. I had several other really fantastic women I was seeing on and off, ones who really liked me for me and would have been up for actual relationships, but they weren't her. In a very short period of time, towards the end of the two years of living in this new town, I got right back into the type of porn I ran away from. I started posting on Craigslist in multiple sections with both fake ads and real ads. I went from 0 to 1,000 with everything in the span of probably six months. I gave two more guys blowjobs, and once again fucking hated every second of both experience. I got right back into non-nude jailbait, and towards the end found myself on the dark web once again seeking illegal porn.
During this time I had posted several ads on Craigslist looking for actual women to sleep with, or really even just talk to; I just wanted to feel wanted. I never posted any ads actually looking for an underage girl, but one responded claiming to be 13, and against ever fiber of my being, I responded. We talked over the span of about five days, email and then through text. She complained about how all the girls at school made fun of her and she didn't have many friends and just wanted someone to talk to about "stuff". I seemed "cool" and "interesting" and she said she liked talking to me. We eventually talked about sexual things (this in itself is a felony), but fortunately no pictures were exchanged. Eventually the topic of meeting each other was brought up. I vacillated between thinking this was some old greasy dude in his basement, and thinking that I was actually talking to a young girl. This doubt gave me permission in my own head to talk to this girl. But also my own head was telling me "DUDE WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, STOP THIS." The thought of sexually talking to a 13 year old girl excited me, and I need to be honest about this. The idea of meeting up excited me as well. "She" tried to get me to meet her, but I did not make any attempt, and never actually set anything up. The rational voice in my head won out, and I stopped talking to her.
Right before I stopped talking to her I found myself driving down a long beautiful mountain road after work and Norah Jones's "Come Away With Me" came on the radio. It was so beautiful. All of a sudden it really hit me how fucking stupid I was in talking to this girl, but also how long I had been struggling with doing things I didn't want to do for so long, and how I just didn't know how to escape it. I pulled over to the side of the road and bawled my fucking eyes out. "Is this how you're going to find happiness, dude?" I just wanted to find someone to love and to love me back, to be in a healthy relationship for the first time, to feel "clean" and wholesome and proud of my actions and decisions. I didn't want any of this stupid shit I was now suddenly back into.
A week or so after I stopped communicating with this girl, five detectives woke me up at 6am banging on the door of my apartment. I was not under arrest, but they took all of my electronics and informed me that I had actually been talking to them, not to a 13 year old girl. I thought the life I knew was over (I was right), so that night I held a kitchen knife up to my arm. I thought of my parents and just couldn't go through with it. I've never seriously thought about anything like this since that moment.
I didn't hear from the police for about four months. I told my parents what had happened the day after the cops showed up, and how I had been struggling with pornography addiction my entire life, and it felt good to be "honest" (really I didn't tell them half the shit I had issues with, but even halfway felt great). I got a lawyer and just sat around for a few months waiting to be arrested, sitting with the severe anxiety of not knowing if or when my life is going to be totally destroyed by committing a sex offense.
5. Arrest. Conviction. A promise to myself.
They arrested me outside my home in broad daylight, two plainclothes officers driving an old shitty Honda Civic. If they had just told me to come to the station I would have turned myself in, but they got all theatrical with it, and called me and made up some story about how they were from my old apartment complex and wanted to drop off my security deposit at my house. To this day whenever I hear a car door shut outside my house, or see an unknown car park nearby, or even dudes in public who look like undercover cops, I immediately get a severe rush of anxiety in the fear that I'm about to be arrested again. I'll go from totally relaxed to severe paranoid paralyzing anxiety in a microsecond, heart beating out of my damn chest.
My arrest should have been a small blip in the news, but because of some other factors it would take too long to go into, I ended up on the front page of every paper and TV station in the state. Sitting in jail, I didn't know this until the next day. I remember sitting in the bond hearing court room, just staring at the line of media photographers in the audience with all their telephoto lenses, capturing my face to put it in the papers underneath words like "predator", "pedophile", and "sex offender"....and they did. My lawyer came in and just said some shit like "yeah, sorry dude, you are everywhere". It's a very unique feeling knowing that from this point forward, absolutely everything in your life will be different. Every relationship you have will be affected. Nothing will ever be the same.
I vowed right then and there to never give up no matter how tough the road ahead gets. I'm going to live a life I can be proud of; this will be my success story. Maybe I'll write a book about it, but it would be pointless without an ending I could be proud of and honest about. I will be the guy who, against all odds, moves beyond a criminal sex offense, and has people who love and trust him, and who can eventually look back and say "look at what I achieved". I've made great strides toward this life, and have worked my ass off to get where I am now, but the the mental issues which led to my eventual imprisonment are still inside my head, and I finally need to admit that I need serious help.
6. Finding happiness while everything around me is on fire.
My parents bonded me out the next day. Though my boss tried his best to keep me, the widespread news of my arrest and the fact that we were one of the most respected (and well known) general contractors in the area meant I lost my job. I was friends with over a dozen guys I worked with, always drinking some beers behind the workshop after a day of hard work. I was there fore over a year, building relationships, and I had started going out to bars and going over the bosses houses for family dinners. Save for the three main guys, I never saw any of them again. Though I did maintain a group of close friends who still supported me, the whole town now felt toxic. I decided to move back home. I flew back to the state in question probably 8 times for court hearings. What started out as my lawyer being confident that I would just get a few years probation turned into me fully pleading guilty to internet solicitation of a minor and possession of child pornography. I had I think five to seven nude images of girls who were under 18 on my computer, and one video. My lawyer dropped the ball several times when communicating / meeting deadlines with the district attorney, and the situation became way worse than it should have been. Under my lawyers advisement I signed a plea deal which meant there was no question I would get a prison sentence between 2 and 8 years. I did commit crimes and it is my opinion that I did deserve punishment for allowing myself to make disgusting choices. I mean, from the outside, I can see how I looked like a run-of-the-mill child predator. However, spending a few years in prison is probably the least helpful thing for someone in my situation, in my opinion.
While I was home fighting my case I was filled with a sort of "I have nothing to lose" confidence, and started taking any girl who would accept out on dates. I thought my friends sister was cute, so I asked her out. It took a good number of tries, but she eventually agreed to let me take her to dinner. We had a really great time. After a couple dates I was honest about the legal situation I was in, as well as my mental struggles. She was a bit shocked of course, but she had known me for a long time. She stuck around, and we had the most beautiful summer together before I had to fly 2,000 miles away to serve an unknown amount of prison time. She, as well as my parents, sisters, and friends flew out with me to the sentencing hearing. My girlfriend and I told each other "I love you" for the first time the night before the hearing.
We're still together, and she's been by my side through everything the past five years. I've never met someone who was so easy to be around. How I could ever get so lucky, I will never know.
7. Prison. Gangs. Solitary confinement. Making the most of it.
I was sentenced to four years in a medium security state penitentiary. The gangs pretty much run the prisons in this state, and you'll get immediately extorted by the gang which coincides with your skin color if they find out you're a sex offender. I stayed under the radar for a few weeks, but some gangs save newspaper clippings with sex offenders photos, and I got found out. They threatened to kill me, so I told the guards I was in danger; they agreed. I spent a month and a half in solitary confinement for my own protection. This was "the hole", a cell with no window to the outside where they never turn the lights off). I was eventually transferred to a different facility which was much safer, though one sex offender was murdered during my stay there. Prison could be a book in itself, but most of it was just groundhog day. It would be best described as long periods of mind-numbing boredom interspersed with occasional moments of sheer fucking terror. I was extremely fortunate to talk to my girlfriend every single day on the phone, as well as very regularly my parents, relatives, and friends. I had a ridiculous number of visitors, despite being a 2,000 mile flight and hours long drive through the desert away from everyone I cared about.
I had started taking mindfulness meditation classes after the initial search warrant was served. This habit continued into prison, and most of my month and a half in the hole was spent meditating. Solitary confinement can be maddening; you could occasionally hear guys screaming or crying in other ~60 cells in the solitary cell block. But honestly I've never been more at peace than how I was during those 45 days. I remember my girlfriend told me over the phone that she had heard that my ex girlfriend (long term one from when I was ~19) was going around telling people the news that I was a child molester. At first I felt panicked, because this firestorm of people I went to high school with "finding out" about me was totally out of my control. But then I came to the realization that that's pretty much how life always is, even if you're not a convicted sex offender sitting in the hole because the Aryan Empire wants to kill you. You could just be a dude minding his business, and then bam, you get run over by a bus. I can't control what people think of me, or the things they say, and that's ok. But I should be able to control which thoughts I turn into actions, and meditation helped me greatly in this.
At this new facility I eventually petitioned the warden to allow me to start a weekly meditation group. He allowed it, and they gave me a quiet classroom behind the library to use for two hours every Wednesday night. It started out with pretty much just me alone, maybe one other person occasionally. Within a few months I had about a dozen regular members. Everyone from sex offenders, to men who had murdered their wives and didn't quite know why, to ex gang members. Twice we had meditation instructors come from the outside to teach for a day. We meditated and discussed how to find peace in a place as abrasive as prison. I taught these men that their thoughts do not need to dictate their actions, and that they have control over their own mind, not the other way around. Focus on the breath, observe your own thoughts coming in and observe them going out. At this point my mind felt healthier than ever had before; I could "see" the thoughts which entered my head and choose to either pursue them or just send them on their way. Through daily practice (I meditated every morning and night) I was becoming a master of my own mind, but now I seem to have lost it all. I can't even bring myself to sit on my mediation cushion; I feel like someone is physically preventing me from meditating. I based almost my entire practice around a fantastic book called "Turning the Mind into an Ally" by Sakyong Mipham. Right after I got out of prison I heard that there were recent multiple credible sexual assault allegations against him. This destroyed me a little bit. Is anyone actually righteous?
I called the prison a few months ago. The meditation group has more members than ever.
8. I shall be released (but with an ankle bracelet).
I was paroled at my first parole hearing. Overall I spent about twenty months in prison, out of a possible 48. This didn't just happen; I have never worked so hard at anything. I participated in every prison program I could. I worked 40+ hours a week as a maintenance technician at the facility, as this is my area of expertise. I was well known and liked by dozens of guards, probably partly because I never caused a single issue. I was in three bands, and after I played a live show for the entire ~1,000 inmate population the gangs left me alone because they liked hearing me play guitar (pretty much the only thing I've stuck with for the last 15 years). I volunteered to give a ten minute graduation speech to a couple hundred inmates in a certain program. At this time, public speaking was at the top of my list of fears. I took every single opportunity presented to me an capitalized on it. Not just because I wanted to be released, but because I felt compelled to. No more being scared. No more fucking around. I am ready to lead a life I can be proud of, and it starts now, not when I'm released from behind bars.
Thankfully I was allowed to parole to my home state. I moved in with my girlfriend (and her mom), and we started looking for places to rent together, finding one in about a month. My parole office was amazing, and when I was eventually released from parole, after about a year and a half, we shared a good number of beers together. I can't tell you quite how good it feels to cut a heavy cigarette-pack sized ankle bracelet off after wearing it for 18 months straight. This was almost a year and a half ago now.
It was finally done. I was no longer a number in the Department of Corrections. I was free, free to build a beautiful life with my beautiful girlfriend. And I never watched porn again. Fairy tale ending.
9. P.S. - Nothing has really changed.
I started looking at porn probably two days after I got home. I tried REALLY fucking hard not to, but it just happened like I was on autopilot. It started with just me giving myself the excuse I could jerk off to some scantily clad anime girls, then moved to ecchi ("I mean, whatever, it's just nipples dude"), and then to hentai. In my head I'm screaming at myself, "DUDE STOP, GO HAVE SEX WITH YOUR ACTUAL HORNY GIRLFRIEND", while I'm loading up Pornhub in the bathroom. I was not allowed to look at porn while on parole, but they did not actually monitor anything or ever actually check my devices. I was allowed a smart phone and essentially unrestricted internet access. I passed all my drug tests, passed my polygraphs, and presented no actual problems to the parole office, so I pretty much totally fell off their radar. I had to take state-sponsored sex offender therapy, but if I had admitted to looking at porn they would've just sent me back to prison because it was a parole violation. So much for getting help with your biggest problem.
I tried to stop, dozens of times. At most I could go about two weeks without looking at porn, which is pretty much a world record for me. I felt fucking amazing during these periods. But whenever I abstain for a long period, something will inevitably stress me out, and I'll dive back into the sexual compulsion. Soon, I got right back on Omegle, and found a new thing to search for: phone sex. It's not hard to find a girl willing to have phone sex on there; much easier than finding someone to cam with. In the past eighteen months I've probably have phone sex with at least three dozen women. In my mind, and I'm sure in the mind of my girlfriend, this is cheating, plain and simple. Again, what the fuck dude.
But I'm not thinking of this when we're together. I'm just being me, and enjoying her. There's no present thought in my mind going "hey I feel really guilty about having phone sex with girls right before you get home from work". I love her, and I love spending time with her, and none of the shameful shit I am involved in even enters my mind when we are together. Though occasionally during sex I'll get hit with a wave of shame and I'll lose my erection and can't get it back up. "I'm just really tired", I say. Ugh.
Probably 6 months ago I started looking non-nude jailbait photography again. It always happens the same - I tell myself, "ok you're horny so just jerk off for ten minutes to some vanilla stuff so you can think clearly and after that you're gonna get a bunch of shit done". Two hours later I've still got my hand on my dick, I'm all flushed and sweaty, and I'm looking at jailbait pictures while I'm screaming at myself inside my own head...
"Stop. Please stop. Dude you know you don't want to be doing this. Is this going to be the last time? If you need to finish just do it but make this the last time. You can still stop. Go take a cold shower and just stop. Please. You know this isn't what you want. Please stop".
I just burst into fucking tears typing that because I've gone through that loop in my own head literally tens of thousands of times. I just cannot stop myself. There is nothing I want more in this world than to stop all of this.
It just keeps happening, no matter how many strategies I use to stop, I always find an excuse.
"Just do it this once but then never again."
"Ok you can look at porn but only 15 minutes worth."
"Ok fine, jerk off to some legal jailbait stuff, but make it quick, no endless scrolling."
"Well you're a fucking freak anyways, everyone think's you're a pedo, so fuck it, prove em right. You know you can't stop so just embrace it and enjoy it. Let's find the kinkiest shit possible."
And when I DO abstain for a long period, when I eventually relapse it's just 1000x worse. I'll end up doing like an eight hour binge and missing an entire day of work.
And it's getting worse. I'll talk to girls and guys over the phone via Omegle, and I've started asking guys to roleplay a dad/daughter or brothelittle sister fantasy with me. I ask if they want to roleplay that we're dads and have "hot" stories to tell about our young daughters. I get turned on thinking about talking about something this kinky, but I end up hanging up every time within like a minute. Like literally I've never even gotten close to "finishing" on one of these calls. Probably done this like 15 times in the past 6 months. The other guy starts going into his fantasy story and it hits me how fucked up this is and I hang up. I don't want to fuck kids...this is not a thing that is on my mind, ever. I do not go to the beach and think "hell yeah look at all this ripe young ass". Almost all of my friends have young children and I've never once thought of doing anything with them. In fact I pretty much avoid children, because I now project what I think other people think of me onto myself.
When I ask these guys on Omegle to roleplay occaisonally one will ask if I'm "active", aka actually molesting a child, and it makes me want to throw up thinking someone would want to hear about actual abuse. When I read a news story about someone actually raping a kid my face curls up in disgust, which I feel like is pretty much the "normal" reaction. Weigh that against the fact that a couple times in prison I got horny and started writing a few sex stories involving young teens. I never finished any of these stories, and shredded and threw them out halfway through writing all of them. Again, what the fuck.
I'm just waiting for the FBI to show up at my house. Isn't asking guys on Omegle, "would you be into a fantasy where we roleplay as two dads telling hot stories about our daughters?" a huge red flag? But I always tell them, "this is 100% fantasy, and I do not want to hear about anything real. I do not want to receive pictures or participate in anything actually illegal." If they say they have real stories I leave the chat / hang up immediately. Even though I'm not doing anything illegal, whenever I hear a car door shut from a neighbor, my heart races and I have to get up from my desk to check if it's the cops.
I also sometimes ask the phone sex girls on Omegle to ageplay as a young teens for me, and pretty much all of them have been happy to. Like 15, 14, 13 years old, whatever they're comfortable with. Why do I want this? Why is there such a disconnect between what I find disgusting in real life and what I "want" to fantasize about? If I could pay someone my entire life savings to remove the part of my brain that harbors this desire to fantasize about the idea of sex with young girls, I wouldn't hesitate for a second. I do not and have not talked with anyone on Omegle or on the phone who says that they are actually under 18; at least prison taught me the lesson to never talk to an actual young person ever again. Maybe in some peoples opinions the ageplay thing is acceptable and nothing to be ashamed about, but I do not want it as a kink of mine. It brings me serious, crushing shame for days after I participate in it.
Is anyone else like this? I just want to stop feeling like a freak - I just don't want to feel ashamed anymore.
Shame really seems to be a constant theme of my sexuality throughout the years. Even after normal sex I feel a bit of shame. I've always had serious shame amount my body, especially my genitals, but even with just taking off my shirt. My parents were always open to talk about sex, and to my memory never did anything to instill shame in me when it came to sex. But stepping back it almost looks like the things that I find the most shameful are the things I'm most likely to seek out.
Post too long, last two chapters have been posted in a comment.
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2020.07.19 17:58 Roses_for_me 21 f, lonely & wishing for a genuinely close [friendship]

A little bit about me - I'm an introvert & a little shy at first until I become comfortable with you! I'm an avid gamer (League of Legends and World of Warcraft being my go-to), but my favorite game of all time is The Sims 2/3/4. Love Animal Crossing as well. Other than games, I really enjoy anime, photography, video editing & web design. Love electronica & indie pop. I mostly watch true crime, horrothriller. I live in the United States (EST). I don't mind where you are from or what you look like, I would genuinely love to talk to you and connect with you. However, I do ask that you are 18 or above, no older than 28, and please at least have a few things in common with me. I would really love a friendship that we could be our honest selves in, get to know each other deeply, be there for each other whenever needbe. To truly listen to & understand each other. Compassion, y'know. :) No judgment. And absolutely no ghosting! I won't ghost you. If we don't click, just tell me straight up. Chances are I'll enjoy talking with you, unless you are a creep - and I won't ever send you nude photos, so don't bother if that's what you want. If you are interested in becoming friends, send me a chat or private message! Not expecting very many (if any) replies, but I will be responding to everyone who does ♡ Thank you for reading.
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2020.07.07 14:31 mermaiddreams99 Chat live nude web

About 3 years ago my boyfriend would drink alcohol heavily and one day he was staying with his friend and I had a gut instinct to tell me to look at his old phone. I found old videos of random women master bating and old screen shots from Snapchat of girls and him responding. This was 6 months before I found out, during that time his grandpa had passed and wasn’t in the best place mentally. After being confronted he said he didn’t consider it cheating since it was online and would never meet them in person and that he would change, etc.
About 6 months later, I found an app on his phone that you could send messages with strangers all of the world and he was flirting with this girl and calling her beautiful and asking if she had a Snapchat. It never went that far again but why? He said he would change. I also found him super drunk that day so that’s why I looked at his phone. He promised to not do this again and that he loves me and he doesn’t want to lose me. He just doesn’t see chatting and sexting with strangers as a form of cheating.
Then, yesterday I had another gut feeling after staying at my sisters to check our computer. I found a forum of nudes and getting people’s kik usernames and found out he had made another Snapchat. I was able to find the information to log in to Kiki and Snapchat. Kik had no conversations but showed his web history on there that were nude images of women. Snapchat showed he made this account in January! It had 7 conversations all deleted, but all these women make you pay for the photos, so kind of like only fans. I flipped out because again this is cheating to me. We’ve been together almost 4 years in a couple weeks, been talking about engagement. I’m 24, he’s 25. Live together. I’ve forgiven him 2 times already.
The second time he said he would go to therapy and he did for only a month and promised to stop drinking heavily and that slowly stopped. I’m the bread winner so he said that messes with his self esteem and this time he never sent photos of himself, just viewing. I personally don’t see what he was doing as looking at normal porn, I think it was more intimate. He said he will actually go to therapy and he knew his drinking was a problem but was to weak to admit it. This only happens when he drinks heavy and he’s alone. He’s so perfect outside of this, so loving and appreciates me and my family. Except for when he drinks past like 4 beers, I don’t like the way he acts when he’s drunk and I’ve told me that. Plus this happens.
I’m at a stand still. I don’t know what to do. He made an online therapy appointment for both of us today. Would y’all consider this cheating? Emotionally? I don’t know if I’m overreacting. Or if I should break up and end our 4 year relationship. We have two dogs together and an apartment. He said he didn’t take it seriously to change the last two times and this time he is committed to change.
I’m so lost.
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2020.07.07 07:23 NERP-Bettles Chat web live nude

June 5th 2033 Sioux Nation, NAN
It was a Tuesday night. The fireflies started their stuttered courting ritual sending dusk away in its pink warm glow and lighting the blueing sky with soft neon greens that are envied by the bright lights ov the city. The bravest stars lead the way poking white dots in an ever growing black canopy. Chad Holsting drove east on Old Interstate90 Road the blacktop one ov the last bastions ov civilization in an ever increasing rural area, a reminder that over time nature always wins its war ov attrition. The convertible’s canopy top is down letting the advancing woodline hear the love songs that prepare him for this roadtrip. The man’s days were long in which he was forced to wear a smile that wasn't his, his father was a natural salesman, the old man’s people skills yet another thing Chad deeply envied. Chad had witnessed him squeeze unneeded service packages into a deal that the old man would hand feed to customers. It truly was impressive watching the customer spend hundreds ov thousands ov script on a used drone that blue book value was placed just beyond the thousand NuYen mark.
Processing fees, convenience fees, delivery charge, advertising fee, vehicle identification number etching, SIN matching, fabric protection, paint protection, undercarriage spray, and the ever lucrative dealer preparation were just a few ov his fathers tools. Now due to Chad’s investment in a personality chip and artisan designed knowsoft the old man’s tools found a new younger much more deserving home. Gone where the awkward days ov remembering loadouts, selling points, customer assurances and the ever elusive people skills, it was the perfect time to be alive. A week earlier Chad had heated arguments with his father. Sales are down by 45% since the old man retired. The business fell from the green to the black and swiftly to the red, nosediving in a quarter that felt both long and short at the same time. His father gave him the work hard and learn the trade stop spending the family investment up his nose and in his veins speech, but the wiley Chad smiled to himself and made the investment. Pops always called technology a shortcut favoring hard work and dirty hands stubbornly refusing to update the lot beyond the standard test that kept the business open and legal. Still it took some old school quick talking with a band known for ties with a biker gang to get him a very nice deal on his wetwear. Chad snorts a fine powder off his knuckles smiling to himself remembering how he traded a rundown predragon van for a math processor, the skillsoft hardware needed to teach him his father’s lifelong lessons without the experience or guilt, and even worked a Simrig for use during off hours, the youths even knew a field surgeon that could install it and all it took was limited warranty on the van and the destruction ov the paper trail to convince them this was a worthy trade. A slightly illegal service the dronecar dealer was happy to do, for his clients ovcorse, the fact it benefited Chad was all the better. Horizon's DawnLiveJournal was the newest line ov semi-legal Simrig available on the market. The band had told him they had a few extras they were supposed to give to fans to record shows from, the Simsense feeds being sold along with the album for a multimedia promotion. Armstrong, the band’s front man, bragged how they installed just one on a groupie then gave her a cocktail ov different drugs mixed with personality chips and had her record several shows in different locations across the Native American Nations, thus giving the record company their twelve feeds to splice together and giving the band eleven very expensive hardware to trade for favores as they saw fit. The band gave interviews to four different ‘reporters’, another feed followed the day ov a rabid fan who ended the night hooking up with the lead singer, and various other aspects tailor made and sold to corporate types to experience the rock and roll lifestyle from the safety ov their armchairs.
Turning his cherry red remake ov a 1964 Cadillac Coop Deville from the old highway down into a service town offramp Chad deletes old files off the Simrig to clear up space for the evenings recordings. Dozens ov files clog up the first day’s entry where he accidentally turned on the rig while getting used to the hardware. Noone wants to remember burning their tongue on stale soykoff or smell the unwashed mouth ov the ork construction owner buying a new F150.
Simsense goes both ways Chad found out. It records the good and the bad unfiltered save only by the emotional responce ov the recorder. With one mental turn ov the switch all the recorder’s senses are held. The Simrig collects neurological impulses converting them to sight, sound, taste, smell, and feeling but goes beyond the commonly available senses ov a trideo recording. No these go much further, it turns boring melodramas to fascinating as the dialog and angst is not just heard and felt but the one reliving the Simrecording knows why they feel upset, remembers arguments from the past that the recorder had that now are a distant but real memory to the viewer, from the safety ov their home one feels the recorder’s discomfort in their silk shirt, hears and feels their own heartbeat race knows that the curry they ate is about to come back up due to years ov stress pushed down and bottled up in a vain attempt to climb the ladder. Then pop out the chip rub their hands till the feeling comes back into them and escape back into their own preordained reality, that is until they wish to become someone else for the night.
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Chad turns on the now empty Horizon’s DawnLiveJournal as the paved road turns to a gravel packed dirt service road. He slows to a crawl, knows the Simrig will record his freftting about the dust covering his freshly waxed droid and with a snuff refill flips the switch to raise the top back on, blocking out the natural and unfamiliar smells ov the Dakota hills while protecting the sythleather upholstery from Spring’s pollan. He checks the clock noting he made amazing time once past the border checkpoints, while cursing when a tire skips the gravel sending tiny rocks spinning to dent the underside or a unpatched rut that bottoms out his suspension. “Calm Chad” he tells himself snorting novacoke off his knuckles feeling his heart race and mind clear. He wonders if he will be stuck in a loop when he reviews this, as he remembers he will be watching this night on repeat. What is the memory one has while thinking about the future? There are urban legends about metas going insane stuck in a biofeedback loop where they remember they are remembering a recorded memory, a second bigger hit ov the fine sparkling powder brings him back to the task at hand.
The gravel gives up its attempt at civilization until the trail is little more than two bald lines ov packed earth with a green strip that reminds him ov the mohawk worn by most ov the people he will be visiting. Chad’s regular clothes, slacks, vest, buttoned up shirt rolled and top buttons undone with the attempt to make himself look like he is an every man who barely wears the regulation uniform, while making himself approachable in the city would make him unaccepted at the country bonfire party he was attending so he downgraded to jeans and a hoodie. Simple, timeless and forgettable. A tunnel ov trees gave way to a clearing, drones both self-driving and predragon in various states ov drivable sat in a field that served as the parking lot for larger gatherings. The main structure which sat beside a huge barn was a two story farmhouse with a wrap around porch containing dilapidated couches and chairs most held back together with duct tape and quick patch worked sew jobs to prolong life until they where simply too broken to be used. Chad remembers the instructions and flashes his lights thrice before turning them off and stepping out with his arms raised in a surrender greeting. As he does his heart recedes to normal, the group ov early arrivals all taking their hands off ov their sidearms and returning to chit chat and drinking content that a friend was entering, while a troll carries out a couch long past its usefulness towards a towering pile ov trash and timber that would soon be lit when the concert propper started. The Sioux nation’s citizens grew more heavily armed the closer they were to the borders with the towns around the Confederation of American States looking more like occupied war zones than residential areas, here less than a hundred miles from the free city ov Denver was no exception. A minimum ov two years military service was mandatory and such a part ov Sioux culture that even hardened outlaws took national pride to heart with leaders being former or sometimes active Wildcats. As such heavy weapons never designed to be in holsters sat on the hip ov male female younge and oulde alike, with sawn off shotguns ov various makes and models being heavily favored over a traditional magazine pistol. Chad was glad to be part ov the United American and Canadian States who has a standing army that swelled naturally with volunteers thus freeing him from arduous tasks like bootcamp or active service. A skinny elf rises from a chair letting his female troll complain as she falls from his lap into the couch at his side, he deftly dodges her demand to continue the cuddle sticking his studded tongue out to diffuse the drunk companion while handing her his side arm from a western styled gunbelt. He shoulders a heavy squatpack at his side and adjusts his sleeveless sideless shirt before hopping the railing making a Beeline across the lot towards Chad with that slick smile on his painted face. The troll’s long arms steal one last ass swat on the lithe elf which erupts the nearby partiers to a round ov laughter and cheers. “Oki! ...” the Elf starts raising his hand when he remembers that Chad doesn't speak the old tounge and correcting himself to CitySpeak. “Hoi! Chummer Chad. How is the rig working out for you?” the elf taps the side ov his own head where Chad had the hardware installed, the thick singsong accent coming from a tribe Chad could not place even if he cared enough to try. Chad recognizes him as the youngest and most vocal in the band, “Jerry… no last name! Hoi chum. Got ‘er turned on now. I want to remember this night forever!” Chad starts trying to extend a pale white hand that looks out ov place all ov a sudden, a reminder that he was as much an outsider here as the motley crew was in the city. Chad snorts a line to pull himself from the memory loop he feels growing. The younge man ignores the handshake and places an ice cold beer in Chad’s hand instead, the bottle the same dark amber as the elf’s hand. Before Chad can pop the top the elf has a rolled joint in Chad’s mouth and a blinding light hits the tip, with a puff and inhale the cherry turns red and the cannabis takes effect. The band must really enjoy the van if Chad was welcomed so warmly on his first visit.
The elf ignores Chad’s offer to share. “Yes Jerry only… no last name. Working security, so i have to stay sober, but we can discuss business till the fire is lit. Come friend if we are lucky some ov the girls will be skinny dipping in the river. If not maybe we can see some deer before they go to sleep.” The thin elf grips Chad’s elbow leading him past the garage where Chad notices the van has been painted a hasty black and given a new suspension system, tires, roll bars and a paramilitary cowcatcher styled grill. “She is going to be pretty when we are done with her. Thats why we invited you wanted to thank you and let you get a taste ov the Sim at a safe party before you went wild on your own.” Chad starts to ask about his arrangement but the elf is ahead ov him explaining that George has partied hard since the record deal, as such business was to be conducted through a sober party, one with a clean head, since every one else had joined Armstrong on a bender Chad had to talk to Jerry. The elf laughed that he didn't want to end up 40 working in dive bars and house shows, because their singer mismanaged things at the start ov their careers. For a goganger with a green mohawk and his face painted like an ork’s skull this Jerry seemed to have his head on straight. At the tree line Chad’s joint and beer where half finished when the elf began to roll another one, his metatype’s night vision being much more acute than Chad’s normal human eyes that the elf didn't slow his step, Chad could barely see the long pointed ears julting out like deer antlers aside the clean shaved sides ov the elf’s head and stark white face that seemed to float and glow in the moonlight. The elf’s ears twitched and he turned his head sharply to the side while lighting Chad’s new party favor, the action causing him to flick dry several blinding failed attempts with his lighter before finally catching a flame. “Hear that chummer?” hearing nothing Chad shook his head blowing a plume out to the side. “Down human, and quiet. We can get a sneak peek at the ladies. Don't think you came here to see deer anyway.” Jerry dropped into a crouch that seemed more natural than his walking stride, pulling Chad along by his elbow and adjusting him with soft words and strong controlled tugs. They came to the top ov a ravine. The ground a soft layer ov brown and black leaves that caused the human to sink at times up to his ankles, the elf seemed to walk on soft carpet. “Hush chummer.” the elf points toward a fixed point and straining Chad hears the squeals and splashes that Jerry hinted would be their prize for their trek in the woods. “Stay here chummer ill turn on the headlights let you peek at the catalog before you buy?” Before Chad can agree Jerry has another joint lit in his mouth, the bright light ov the small lighter blazing a dizzying orange in the ever victorious blackness ov the night. Setting his pack down with a glassy rattle the elf states that Chad should help himself to the contents before disappearing into the night silent once the blackness has wrapped around him. Unable to see and barely able to hear the women the elf states are there, the salesman busies himself with his intake finding the pack has been converted into a mobile cooler and holding a seemingly endless supply ov cans and bottled alcohol, both ov which are illegal substances in the Sioux Nation. Skipping the beer and moving to a bottle ov Wild Turkey Chad leans against a tree just in time to see the white lights ov a truck light up several naked women waist deep in a creek taking advantage ov the suddenly warm temperatures ov the season, their shock washed away with playful taunts in a language that Chad’s linguisticsoft refused to translate for him even if he was within earshot. Jerry stands on the banks gathering piles ov clothes and towels while the women in the creek splash at him while playfully trying to cover up their nude bodies. The screen is giddy with Jerry teasing he will toss the bundle into the creek or trample it under foot in the mud, the girls retaliate by shaking their bodies and tackling each other in mirthful squeals while one takes to pleading pitifully before she too is tugged into the deeper water. Their youthful forms glisten in the headlights, bronze and proud untaken by gravity or age. Chad noted a troll, her scales trimmed, her horns symmetrical and her face almost human made her a rare exception to her metatype. Her body was heavily tattooed with lines made to accentuate the subtle curves ov her muscular body.
The minutes swell on before Chad watches Jerry place a bottle on the hood ov the rundown truck, the girls cheer shaking their shoulders seductively, arms raised in victory in the waist high water as Jerry makes his way up the hill to join Chad. The elf tosses the undergarments he traded for the bottle at the backpack taking a tree as a backrest beside Chad who studies the panties with devotion, a large pair ov purple silk being his favorite while the elf finally spoke business.
“So ka… we all know why you are here so lets discuss the agreement. What you asked Armstrong for is expensive, some ov the crew didn't like what you suggested but,” he produces another rolled joint which Chad smirked as Jerry lit it for him, “don't worry i talked them into it. We are wanting to break into the beetle business. Here is the best part for you! Its free. All we want is the chip when you are done with the night. Got a buddy named Shade who does Sim editing. You are going to get to live every fantasy you suburban kids dream about with us wild Native types across the border.” The elf lets the proposal hang in the air, Chad, now fully stoned and edging towards drunk, watches the clouds part, moving like paper cutouts across the sky basking the heavily wooded area with streaks ov silver light offset by the electronic yellow lights ov the truck below. “Well… since i have the Simrig its the least i could do for you, but why make it a one time thing?” Better Than Life chips, BTLs, beetles on the street, the newest in a long line ov electronic drugs to become highly regulated and thus highly lucrative to those able to avoid a run in with a police force. The documentaries about how Scouts, the ROTC equivalent ov the Sioux military, often where ordered to undertake surreptitious activity and where allowed to keep the profits from such activities up till the point they where caught. Those who ran their side business long enough to ride out military service often becoming decorated and lifelong members ov the service. The whole thing reminded Chad ov the Spartains killing a Helots as part ov their right to manhood. Chad chased the thought away with a heavy swig ov whiskey, he came to party not think. The elf smiled wide. The painted tusk reaching up to his ears and his sunken golden-green eyes growing wide in excitement. “Thats a good white man! See, thats why i voted for you. I told everyone we could use your business savvy for our benefit.” he pauses shouldering the pack and helping a wobbly legged Chad to his feet. “Don't turn it off. I don't know drek about this sort ov thing but Shade says he needs hours ov data to compile an emotional network. Something about forplay making sex better.” the elf waves his arms in admittance to his own shortcomings, quickly catching Chad who stumbles in the soft leaves and supporting him again. The loud noise making the swimmers aware, the jiggle the dance and the make out session in the water definitely making one ov the emotional network connections that the elf spoke ov, the lovely troll whos breast while small on her would be more than a handful for Chad, danced by herself while the two others made their way to the bank. Perhaps noticing how Chad was lost in his fantasy Jerry breaks the daydreamer from his thoughts, “Hey i know you are ready,” the elf states at the bottom ov the hill as he leads Chad away up the creek before shooting off down a side trail. “But we are both business men so… we need to discuss it further out. What are your plans, what do you want the boys and girls to get for you? With your chip thingy, you can get proper wasted, record it, work through it and then slot yourself in to be drunk, high, or anything any time you want. If it gets too much for you just quick pop it back out. BAM no hangover.” the elf ducked and squeezed past tree branches just starting to bud fresh leaves, pulling Chad along on increasingly wobbly legs, Chad wished his guide was larger, the big man felt as if he would crush the shorter elf as they walked shoulder to shoulder, his supporter looked painfully thin, the elf’s ribs countable under the moonlight in his flap ov a shirt, yet the the grip was sure and the arm around Chad was like a bar ov bronze, never letting the man slip the ork skull only smiling at the cityboys stumbles in the unfamiliar terrain. “Hoi that sounds great. What type ov trids can we make? Ive heard ov murder Sims…” Chad tested, wondering if he should switch on dad’s negotiation skillsoft and deciding against it, his fathers’ voice winning over the quick fix this time. “Could… could. lets set that idea aside for now. Nobody here i'd let you kill and… even if we went out and grabbed someone for a To Kill A Hobo BTL.” he pauses lighting a new roll that hit Chad like a trainwreck on the first toke, the bright white taking longer to dissipate as the man had become accustomed to the darkness. “Any bum we take is going to have a minimum ov two years combat experience, no offence but i'm guessing it would be your first kill?” The elf pauses steps away from Chad’s embrace making him grab a tree to keep from stumbling. “Frag it. Im 17 in a few months and even i have been to bugtown.” Bugtown, the street name for a section ov the walled off section ov Chicago, infested with bug spirits and other abnormalities, both majik and technology seemed to refuse to work as predicted. Drones fell out ov the sky as their riggers lost physical control and the dogbrain ov the unopperated drone simply refused to kick over. It was possibly the one place so bad that trideos were never made about it, the reality ov such a bizarre zone being too much for veterans to talk about, leaving it a mystery and a warzone, the truth there being too strange for fiction. Whether this elf was lying or not it was a boast that carried the swagger ov certainty that Chad could not refute. “Short ov it is, you wont be able to kill anyone from the NAN,” the elf lifts his loincloth and unzips pissing with a contented sigh that invades the nostrils with a smell that Chad can't place, the steam rising from the nights growing chill, Chad hopes this section is cut from the finished product. The elf shakes himself turning around and helping Chad along the path. “Long ov it is… to get a bum for you ti kill would be alot more work than i am willing to put in right now. Not saying “No” just saying i became a drummer so i didn't have to work. Ya feel me?” Chad shrugged unable to argue with the logic but content that the question wasn't off the table in the future. “The troll at the creek…” Chad starts. “The one with the big tits?” Jerry mimes the size bouncing his pretend breast while continuing deeper into the woods. “She is younger than me but,” He ribs Chad before continuing “Well trolls age differently so she has to be like legal in human years right?” Jerry ribs Chad with his elbow again, “Not like it matters anyway? Trolls don't have the same rights as us better metatype’s right? Best thing about a troll is they aint human… so anything you do to em you don't feel bad right? I can arrange that for you. Nul sheen, chumz.”
Chad lets a chuckle escape as he drunkenly agrees. He feels how drunk and high he is becoming managing to lay a line on his knuckle and snorting it, the clarity ov the drug hopefully breaking the logic loop he potentially created on when he slots the chip again and often. The elf steps back a new beer placed in Chad’s hand and a new joint failing to light, its spark sending orange flakes across the silver tip and into the air. Chad is lost for a moment recalling the fireflies as Jerry mumbles something about how Chad is going to ruin his buzz mixing so many drug effects. The orange sparks continue as Jerry endlessly attempts to light the new joint, Chad grabs the lighter flicking it sending the tunnel ov white that comes when so close to a light source after adjusting to night vision. Triumphantly the man holds his arms out in a V cheering and celebrating blindly.
When the white tunnel leaves his vision Chad looks around, his companion is gone. The first minutes he nurses his beer relieving himself on a tree that seems to move, convincing himself the elf has taken another call ov nature as he has. This logic is quickly replaced as Chad stumbles much more than the three joints and shots should be making him. His heart races as confusion turns to fear, calling out has produced no effect. Only his voice echoing in the temperate woods. The man stumbles back down the path he thinks he came. Mentally keeping track ov every step and turn he thinks he made, if only he could make it to the creek and follow it south then he could find his car or the house. The first hour proved no further success. The commlink told his time but remained offline since he turned off Old I-90, so he knew it would provide him no aid. “Global coverage, my ass” he thinks. Chad remembers why he hated visiting the country. Not only was one without the comforts ov instant satisfaction, knowledge, music and other comforts, the natives often had a peculiar sense ov humor. “How we doing Chad?” Jerry’s voice calls out from nowhere. Chad calls out, explains it isn't funny, explains later that he gets the joke, pleads as he slides face first when he stumbles, all but sobs. Yet there is not a reply after the single inquiry. Or perhaps there never was a question, the mind does play tricks in the woods. Chad stumbles on drunk legs through the decaying leaves, kicking clumps into the air so as to create a trail for himself to double back on if he needs to for the next hour. He is sore, tired and almost sober when he finds the creek. His ecstasy is not hidden as he praises gods he never believed in while trying to discern north now that he has a location to work from. remembering that moss grows prominently on the northern side ov trees he swears to take a survival course, or at least buy a skillsoft when he gets home and makes his way south along the bank. Another hour bip chimes on his comlink and he falls to the ground finally admitting he is lost. In the darkness nothing looks familiar. He followed what he swore was the smell ov a bonfire for the next few bips. This final fifth bip was his defeat. He fell to the ground cold and alone. A heavy wave ov sleep falls over him as he realizes he was drugged and why the biker elf refused to take his own party favors. “Security my ass” Chad cursed before the deep darkness ov dream fell upon him.
His body goes limp as he dreams ov wistfully flying. The trees in his dreams brushing his face, decayed leaves are spat out as he burrows himself deep into the earth. Now he is a worm sliding through mud and muck, breathless he moves wiggling side to side as angry bird beaks peck around him, yet never find his soft pink skin. Now he is flying again. A lightning bug with a large red ass that burns as he signals his readiness to mate, the red glow bleeps sending embers out in a painful fire from his glowing end. Blips come and go as the other green lightning bugs ignore the alien red ones pleas for acceptance. Finally defeated Chad flies away only to be caught immediately by a spider’s web. His wings caught in a sticky silk become his own worst enemy quickly spinning him into other invisible threads till Chad is bound tightly. His desperate attempt to escape only ensuring his victimhood continues.
The spider never comes, yet exhausted the bug gives up, a moment ov lucidity reminds him he is caught… caught in a simsense loop and with a bright light ov revelation he awakes. It is morning or well past it. Chad tries to move only to find his dream held more truth than imagination. He is bound. Laying upon the carpet ov dead leaves, their tanic acidic scent invades his nostrils. His blurry vision comes to him first upon the purple straightlaced steeltoed boots then slowly upon the familiar loincloth, sleeveless and sideless black shirt, then up to the wide wicked grin ov an elf wearing an ork’s skull.
“Hoi! Chumz! Sleepwell?” Chad tries to speak but realizes he is gagged. The elf’s Native accent is gone, his singsong tone replaced with deep, calm, soft monotone. The gravity ov the situation slowly sets upon Chad, his stomach gurgles from fear and the worst hangover Chad has ever experienced blinds him and wracks his head. It is all Chad can do to remain continuous, the fear ov what could happen if he doesn't winning out to the body's reaction to escape into unconsciousness. A steel toe finds a spot that makes Chad regurgitate, the gag making the only exit point through his nostrils, the stomach acid burns as it is expelled in chunky streams, the pain sobering him up before numbing him to everything, forcing himself to swallow his contents back to his stomach in waves that threaten to make his efforts for naught. The elf smiles down knowingly while Chad shakes uncontrollably.
“Let me tell you something and you can let me know how mad i am at you.” the elf crouches resting his wrist on his knees letting his long brown fingers dangle before he points behind Chad. “There used to be three feet ov garden hose up your ass.” the Native pauses letting the sentence sink in. Chad’s eyes widen as nausea starts to take hold again, the tears from sorrow and fear stream down a puke covered face. “Don't worry,” the elf continues in a soft gentle tone, the smile plastered on his facepaint like a second mask. “Its not there now.” the elf scruffs Chad’s hair petting him like one does a lap dog.
“Again Chad, don't worry.” his tone changes to condescending before falling to nurturing “i used lube so it would go in easier. This sort ov,” he pauses patting Chad’s head before continuing and falling back to the pets. “Operation requires all the delicacy someone like me can muster. See, i used the hose so i could thread the barb wire up there then i removed the hose. I am a giver after all. So i gave you something to remember this by.” the elf locks eyes with Chad using the palm ov his thin hand to hold Chad’s forehead taunt to keep him from shutting his eyes, forcing him to face his demon. “Focus Chad. if i have repeat myself i'll hold your eyes open and pour petrol over them until you are willing to talk to me. You have to be calm. You have to understand.” Chad settles into a quiver shaking like a man freezing but stares death into the younge thin elf allowing his captur to continue. “Good boy.” the elf pets Chad behind the ear like a dog who returned the ball. “Now. there is much more than 3 feet ov barb wire. The rest is what's holding you to this tree here. Think ov it as a leash for a bad dog.”
The elf swats Chad on the nose with Chad’s shoe, Chad now recognizes the blurry bundle that the elf is sitting on as his clothes and everything from the car that could identify him. Comlink. Credsticks. All ov his life piled up and under a savage elf. “George doesn't represent the band anymore. Any deals you may have made with him are over. You deal with me now.” The elf goes back to petting him. “See good boy? I never lie. I find it much better to tell the truth no matter how hard it is. What you proposed was playing house with two trolls and a dwarf. All younger than me, that's not ok. Something likes you wants to hit the troll and call it BDSM… and well an underage dwarf looks alot like a very underage human am i right?” The elf stares daggers ov calmness into Chad who nods closing his eyes. “That's what i thought. I am glad you are honest. I didn't want to cover you in honey and leave you to the insects, but i would have if you lied. See how honesty works both ways? I will continue to be honest. Your creadsticks will be used to purchase very bad things. A gun here… sex toys there. Lots ov matrix stops at sites you probably know by name and hide your browser history for. Kiddy meals at restaurants, to go ovcorse. Shakes. Candies. Treats. The gun will be used to kill a few people known for trading in flesh, you will be a very good shot before you lose the gun and the trail goes cold again. I think you get the picture here. You made me very rich white man. Everyone said i couldn't do all this without unarmed. I always bet on myself especially when others bet against me. Its funner that way” The elf laughs before continuing. “We will be back for the BTL, that is if the coyote don't eat it. Give you a few days to reflect. Thanks for the van. It's perfect too bad we can't continue business but,” he sighs getting one last hearty scruffle in before walking away the smile somehow widening upon his face, it somehow reminds Chad ov the coyotes Jerry must mentioned “, i don't do house shows.”
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