Naked Online

If I embarrass myself, I'll never see her again.

This is a chapter from I Hear You Watching, my novel based on my experience with hearing voices and paranoia.

But you can jump in here! The “previously on” will get you up to speed.

Previously on I Hear You Watching…

While masturbating, Alex heard a voice mock him out his apartment window, which made him consider his loneliness and the “perversity” of his animal instincts. His friend Gavin suggested he try to socialize and meet someone, possibly online. So he joined an adult hookup site.

A message arrives from “VanessaBabeNY83.” It says, hey wanna fuck all night? And then, u can cum on my tits. im not shy :)

This message is only the fourth I’ve received on the site after a prostitute offering a discount if I paid cash, an older couple inviting me to break in their new sex swing, and a woman in Madagascar seeking a husband.

“VanessaBabe’s” profile says she lives in New York City, and her posted age indicates that 83 is her birth year. Three years older than me, if true.

Her profile pic shows a pretty twentysomething brunette with round eyes and a long jaw. She’s in a T-shirt, leggings, and chunky white sneakers, sitting on a folding chair at a backyard fire pit. In the second photo she’s in a dim bar, a cigarette near her mouth, a lowball glass sweating in her hand—something clear with a slice of lime. In the third she’s lying on a beach in a bikini, shading her eyes from the sun. She’s got sunglasses on, but I can tell it’s her because the left canine tooth slants inward a little, which is also visible near the cigarette in the bar photo. Her shaped brown eyebrows at the bar match those under the ridge of her beanie in the fire pit photo.

These are all the same woman.

Her eyes are sleepy and sultry, which is alluring, but I wonder how many shots it took to get “the right look.”

And those messages? No, she’s definitely not shy. She may be a veteran on the site.

A green dot appears next to her name with the words “ONLINE NOW.”

So I respond, Hey, thanks for the message. I’m available. Are you in LA?

An ellipsis appears as she types. The back of my neck tightens. Blood shifts in my groin.

She writes back, im in ny / but we can fuck rn if u want

Disappointment. But part of me is relieved that my first encounter from the site won’t be in person. If I embarrass myself, she’s all the way in New York and I’ll never see her again. I write, Sure, I’d love that.

we can fuck on skype / whats ur name?

Oh, my real name is Alex. Nice to meet you. Your name’s Vanessa?

no i mean ur skype name / yeah im vanessa / hi alex :)

Seeing her write my name, transcribed by her fingers with a lowercase “a,” I feel a familiar tingle. Like chatting with a middle school crush late at night on AOL Instant Messenger. That intoxicating squirt of dopamine when the response dings in the window.

I tell her, My Skype ID is noleafclover55. I know, it’s goofy. I basically used the first email address I ever had, which I got in middle school. I was really into Metallica then.

i <3 metallica

Yeah? I was obsessed with the S&M album when it came out.

She says, do u like s+m? / ;)

Is this put-on sexy talk, or am I about to learn something new? How might S&M work over video chat? Would she just shout orders, like a deranged Simon Says? I can’t say I’ve ever tried it, actually. / I’m on Skype. Are you?

I watch the cursor blink in our chat window. After a couple minutes her green dot turns orange and “ONLINE NOW” changes to “IDLE.”

I write, Vanessa, you there?

The video call notification appears, ringing, from “ivny713.” Maybe it stands for “I, Vanessa, New York”? I can’t figure out the 713. But 7 + 1 = 8, so 83. I answer the call.

“Hello?”

Silence. The video shows me sitting at my desk.

“Vanessa? Your camera’s not on. Or the sound.”

A chat line appears. hey babe / mic doesnt work / we can type on here :)

I write, Your video’s not working either. I just see myself.

one sec

It occurs to me that I’ve seen so many naked pictures of other people, and now it’s my turn. Live.

My image blinks out and she appears.

Her camera is set up as a wide shot of the room, so I can see the full length of her from the side, lying on her stomach on a bed with her feet up behind her, staring at an open laptop. She’s in a T-shirt and panties with her hair in a ponytail. There’s a nightstand next to the bed with a lamp, an ashtray, and an orange pill bottle on it. When I took antidepressants in college they came in the same orange bottle. And now when I buy weed from the dispensary it comes in the same orange bottle. She could have anything in there.

From the side I can’t see her face well enough to compare to the photos, but the hair color matches. She’s a real person. And the webcam setup shows she’s done this before.

Now I’m not sure what to say. You’re really beautiful.

She types.

thx / get naked for me

Of course. You too!

I remove my T-shirt and watch her watch me on her screen.

Eventually she leans on an elbow and pulls her shirt over her head. Small breasts spring out from under the T-shirt, which she tosses aside before lying back down and typing: come on babe lets see it / i wanna suck your cock

I’d like that, I write. It’s too bad you’re in New York.

I realize if I stay seated, her view of my paunch is less than ideal. It might be easier to ignore that stuff in person than on a computer screen.

show me

I stand, push my boxers to my knees and let them drop to the floor. I’m naked in front of a stranger on the internet for the first time. Seeing my half-erect penis in the thumbnail view of my room I feel the same chill as my first time being naked with someone. My nerves are hypersensitive to the sudden absence of concealment and security. I’m grateful the feeling doesn’t weaken my erection but encourages it. My hand goes to it like a master reassuring a dog in strange company.

I think of the bat-handed, hairy-hog-legged “P. erectus,” and can’t imagine what anyone thinks when they see me naked.

My body doesn’t seem to deter Vanessa.

stroke it for me

I follow instructions, watching for her to do something, but she just stares at her screen. Her feet kick slowly in the air. She might as well be scrolling through her Twitter feed.

She writes, stroke it hard

I stop and type, Are you going to join me?

Her legs lower, and she types. Then the video cuts out. The call stays connected but shows a camera icon with a slash through it.

I type, Your video cut out.

I wait. My penis bobs with my heartbeat, now eager for this stranger’s stare.

Vanessa?

The icon disappears, the screen goes black, and then the video comes back on. The image isn’t of her on the bed—it’s of me standing in my room.

I’m now leaning on the desk with both hands, but the me on my screen is still stroking himself.

I think of Number Eight watching himself vomit on TV.

I start writing that something’s wrong, when a message appears.

i hacked ur facebook account if you dont give me ur credit card info ill post this video on ur page so everyone sees what a sick pervert u r

I sit. The dog in my lap backs into its house. The air that tingled with excitement feels cold again.

I write, What is this?

give me ur credit card or i will ruin u

I don’t know whether “Vanessa” can make good on her threat, and it’s unclear how much time I have before she will. But I think I’ve kept some agency by not reaching for my wallet. I write, Why are you doing this?

dont fuck around!!! / do u want everyone u know to see u jerk off??

My pubic hairs feel like they’re retracting into my skin. I wonder if she’s hacked other accounts too, like my bank or PayPal. But if she had, she wouldn’t be pulling this weird stunt.

Unless she gets off on catching her victims literally with their pants down.

My parents. My aunts and uncles and cousins. Coworkers. Friends. I might be able to laugh about this with Gavin and Eli, but what about everyone else? My naked body touching itself on screens everywhere. I’d feel turned inside-out. It’s one thing for a stranger to glimpse a private moment through the blinds; it’s another for hundreds—thousands—to see it in their feed. With boxes to comment and buttons to share.

Another cold tremor and waft of sweat smell. I poke at the keys: please don’t

She says, fuck u pervert / posting now

I quit Skype and open my Facebook account. Nothing new on my page. I change my password. I check the account’s email address and phone number. Still mine. I wonder who else might be looking at this information right now.

I log out and log back in with the new password.

Check everything again. Everything’s the same.

I sit naked and chilly in the dim room, hearing the foil on the window crackle, and I refresh the page again and again and again, waiting to see myself appear.

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The grain of sand in my shell takes on another layer of nacre. It’s smooth and round now, doesn’t scrape anymore. But it’s bigger. I’ve shifted myself to accommodate it.

I don’t realize how much space it takes.

Next on I Hear You Watching…

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