E-mail Says a Mouthful
Shelly Maldanado dropped me an e-mail the other day – just to let me know that she loves a mouthful of cum. It was a nice note, really, with a couple of snapshots to underscore the point. I don't know Shelly Maldanado. Or Eunice Presley. Or Pablo Hewitt. Or anyone I can think of that would go by the nicknames "Asian Pounder" or "Anal Action." But apparently, they all know me. And they all seem very comfortable with sending me e-mail messages with their sexual preferences outlined in the subject lines. I get about 30 of these a day, and I try to be flattered. After all, they are slightly more nuanced than the heaps of messages I get imploring me to refinance my debt, add inches to my penis, or purchase some "Generic V!agra Cheaper ilejzzh."
Most of these messages I delete upon arrival, but a select few pique my curiosity, like Shelly's, or the one I received recently from Jasmine Acevedo (Subject: Tittie Fucked!). Other times, I am half deceived into opening them: A message from Melanie Walters arrives with a discreet "Hi" in the subject line. Melanie. Melanie. Do I know a Melanie? Could it be that girl from [fill in your own blank]? Naturally, I click it open to find not a demure, self-conscious suggestion that we get together sometime outside of work/school/the bar/whatever, but rather a cavalcade of buxom young women presenting their breasts to me and inviting me to check out their webcams. (I say I am "half deceived" because I know deep down that any note to me from a strange woman would have to begin "Dear Mike, I saw you inside of your apartment the other day...")
I think by now the gentlemen understand where I'm coming from. Every guy knows that the only place any of these messages can possibly lead is to your credit card number. Yet the initial lure that an unknown woman may be seeking you out is substantial, and, truth be told, ladies, an electronic parade of women baring their breasts is hardly a disincentive to play along for a moment or two.
For quite some time I was content to let the stream of smut flow freely through my system. After all, kicking off the day with "Fisting Chicks" and "Cum Fiestas" sprinkled in among the various "Urgents" and "I need this todays" provided more laughs and more perspective than any Zany Morning Zoo Crew can dredge up. Fetishes that I thought lent themselves to any particular friend of mine would be forwarded directly with the self-indulgent notion that there was some cleverness involved. Ha-ha. It was all good fun.
That is, until I found the following at the bottom of a message from Yvette Bacon entitled "chubby girls work harder in bed":
Hey mtkooi, we put this message together based on our records of your surfing patterns. So you get everything you want right at your fingertips without having to search. To edit your preferences, just click here.
My preferences? My surfing patterns? Suddenly, none of this was quite as funny. I scrolled back up to the top to examine just what exactly those preferences are: OK. This one time about two years ago I saw a promo for Tim Burton's Planet of the Apes on TV and decided to log on to see if I could scrounge up a racy shot or two of Estella Warren (something tasteful, of course – preferably perfume or Victoria's Secret related). But that is it!!!! Barnyard sluts? Chicks with dicks? Perhaps someone from Ms. Warren's organization should drop Yvette a line to clear up these apparent misunderstandings (sure, she's a tall girl, and the shoulders are a little boxy, but really!).
After the initial wave of indignation rolled through, however, that old familiar friend, nausea, ambled up and settled in. They were right – order and all. Not about my true sexual preferences, mind you, but about the e-mails that I had either opened or forwarded on to friends. The messages actually had worked as hyperlinks, and the senders had been scarfing down my browser's cookies all this time. So now, thanks to my sick sense of humor and insatiable appetite for disgusting my friends, every purveyor of cyber smut on the Internet has me programmed into their databases as a fan of randy grandmas and horny he-shes. (By the way, I've always felt that the Grannies get the shaft in the Granny/Tranny pairing – all because of the unfortunate rhyme. If there can be an affront to whatever values a "cock gobbling, cum guzzling" grandmother has left, you'd have to think it would be a man with bigger and firmer breasts than hers. It makes me feel even worse for them – if that is possible.)
The irony is that from the beginning I had come to view the parade of prurient e-mails as providing some depressing insights into the state of cyberspace, when what I was really getting was an unvarnished insight into what cyberspace thought of me. The resulting feeling is a distant cousin to the one I get on sick days, when one too many commercials for cat food or Vagisil tells me it's time to turn off Days of Our Lives and take a shower. The difference, of course, is that the Vagisil people don't know I'm watching.
Which brings me back to Estella, and that discreet little bookmark I have tucked into "My Favorites." If the good folks at Barnyard Sluts know about every message I open from them, then surely the people at the Estella Warren Gallery know when I come around. I can see it all too plainly: two sweaty programmers in jogging pants (the old school kind) sitting in the server room, monitoring the hits. One gnawing on a microwaved burrito, perhaps.
"Hey," grunts the other. "Mtkooi just logged on. Wonder how long he'll last this time."
"Ten bucks says ten minutes."
"You're on."
Not that I even would (Christ, that's what Cinemax is for), but the very thought of the play by play is enough to drain the joy right out of trying to forward "Shari rides her pony fhgxncdjf" through a friend's corporate firewall. That is, until some enterprising twelve year-old invents a tinted version of Windows, or a way to put my cookies in plain brown wrappers.
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Posted - 09/15/05