I close my eyes and life becomes a fantasy. Millions of microscopic particles appear. I close them tighter, to make them brighter and see more clear. They form a celestial object that draws me near. Then suddenly, they dissolve and go away. And I sigh…and I open my eyes…and I live another day.

Seldom do I post poetry to my account, but on those peerless nights when I am unable to pull away from the brilliance of the liquid crystal display and retire to bed, I find myself boiling with rapture over my gratifying escapades and thus, lamenting the rise of another sun. On such a night, the topics on Grayscale are at their most hysterical. Perhaps the uploads on Pixhots are fresher as far as content is concerned. Or simply, I am in pursuit of an addictive series of chess games that will either grant my online rating with a boost or bury me once again. Most of the time, all it ever takes is a good night on lively.com. Hosting twenty or thirty private sessions before bedtime is quite normal, but on some nights, I will get one request after another and before my eyelids can weigh me down, five hours will have already passed. It’s a bustle to wash my face either way. The makeup, the eyeliner, or eye shadow or whatever hairstyle I have is already in place. I might as well continue until they quit.

After posting the poem to my feed, I return to lively.com.

In fact, I almost forgot I was still live, the viewer count in the corner of the screen showing 6,470 people in my public channel.

A pair of lace hipsters and a cropped white fashion top is all I have on. It’s something quick and easy to take back off because out of 6,470 active watchers, one is certain to ask for a private session sooner than later.

Most of the comments consist of recycled dirty talk and various requests. Perhaps I’ll be asked to spread my legs, show more skin (if I am not already naked), or stand up and give a quick turn of my body. If I happen to catch such a request, I am happy to oblige. Otherwise, I’ll remain curled up in my chair with the window minimized while occasionally giving the webcam a wink and a grin to let my captivated fan base know I’m still here.

It’s 4:00am and I’m just about to log off and lie down when a pop-up window appears: “Skylark53 wants a private session. Accept or decline?”

Clicking “accept” automatically takes me out of my public channel and into a private one where only Skylark53 can watch me. He must be a shy or unsightly fellow because despite his webcam capabilities, he declines the option for a two-way video chat. Nevertheless, he’s still able to fill the chat box with punches of his keyboard, which is what I greatly prefer.

“U r absolutely beautiful,” he types.

I mouth a quick “thanks,” then stand and give him a slow turn of my body while pulling the lace from the bones of my hips. Indeed, the alluring shroud—this woven whisper that conceals my divinity—falls away to reveal a sacred geometry of flesh hewn from a celestial quarry. Before the intimates can touch my ankles, I’m already on my bed, assuming a position that I assume will please us both. This is where I arch myself against the mattress, throw my hair back, and proceed to run my hands along and throughout myself. My eyes are closed (as they always are during these moments) and I begin breathing heavily. For several minutes, I huff and puff in euphoria as my body sifts through the sheets and my fingertips sift through my body. I am thinking about myself.

“Hey!” a hot and bothered male voice rings from my computer speakers.

I am already beginning to taste my own sweat. Naturally, I decide to ignore the voice and pretend I have my volume down.

“Please, could you stop for just a second?” I hear in a tone that insists his life depends on my attention to the matter at hand. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and squint at the screen. Skylark53 has been trying to get my attention for quite some time.

“Can I just see your feet?” Skylark53 typed two minutes earlier.

The meager request was followed by a barrage of messages, begging me to stop what I was doing and sit back in my chair. But after realizing that his only option was to make himself seen and heard, Skylark53 hooked up his webcam and microphone in a final attempt to capture my attention. Knowing I am at a loss, I give a soft sigh of surrender and direct my sights to a somewhat portly fellow within forty years of age.

“Please, I just want to see your feet, baby,” he says. “Now, could you just take your socks off and show me those sexy feet?”

Despite my perspiration begging me to stay persistent in myself until an agreeable climax, I assemble the discipline to shrug it off and hurry back to my computer chair. After all, the situation is quite amusing. It is Skylark53’s turn to heave and sweat, and I am happy to oblige.

I find it difficult to decline any online request, whether it be on lively.com, pixhots.com or any URL for that matter. When people seek out awesum_v0m1t, they do so with a satiable delight of which only I can exceed. And when I captivate them, I am captivated tenfold. They have no idea how much they turn me on by just being turned on by me.

Needless to say, I rarely log out of every page of every window until I open every unread message and lose interest in every thread on the forums. There are many obstacles in my endless journey toward slumber, but as my followers might assume from my ad-libbed soliloquy, a good night of sleep can be just as romantic, if not more so, than any all-nighter. Of course, it all depends on the type of dream or nightmare, but the fact remains that I can barely remember any of them. Only bits and split pieces come to mind. Strangely enough, I can always remember what I felt like during my visions. I know whether my heart was light or heavy, or frightened or furious at the time of the dream. In the end, perhaps the retention of such emotions is all that matters, but truthfully, I would gladly commit unspeakable crimes and evils to remember one dream in full, just so I can blog about it. Oh, the correspondence I would get!

Almost all online feedback is enjoyable in some way. A few hours after posting my poem, I receive a series of quick compliments, which is typical of most comment sections.

Untitled_Anthem posted, “Wow, nice poem!”

“I love it!!!” typed maceMe2044. “I love ur blog!”

“Ur so amazing it kills me,” typed MoodyPenguin.

Upon reading MoodyPenguin’s beloved comment, my hands are well beyond eager to run their fingers along and throughout me once again. But alas, I am bound by such indomitable fatigue that I can barely click my mouse. Instead, I massage my midsection with one hand while scrolling further down the page with the other. Suddenly, my stomach clenches.

“Here’s your explanation, bitch,” typed Miscreant435.

Miscreant435, whose sole purpose in following me is to troll me in any way, responded to my short poem by posting a lengthy instructional video on entoptic phenomena. Immediately after clicking “play,” I know what I’m in for when an obnoxious, nasally voice begins narrating over an equally crude slideshow:

“Do you ever close your eyes, only to be bombarded by random dots and flashing shapes? Well, you’re not hallucinating. That’s just something we like to call ‘entoptic phenomenon’! Entoptic phenomenon is a temporary interruption of blood flow to the eyes. You see, a drop in blood pressure leads to reduced perfusion and inappropriate retinal activity, producing strange light patterns. This may also occur when rubbing your eyes, jumping out of bed too fast, or looking away from your computer screen after hours of use. And that is your daily dose of useless Internet wisdom!”

After such a burn, there is very little room for a comeback. Accordingly, I reach for the keyboard and type, “lol, thanks asshole!”

Without the need to glance at the corner of my screen to know my night is nearing an end, I sign out of everything with a bit of regret over lost sleep. But alas, I have time to spare and use it to check a most favorite site.

www.ss.biz is an ever-giving wellspring of laughter and shock value where the funniest, most disgusting and deeply offensive images are gathered from the depths of the internet and dumped onto one page. I enter the “Animated GIFs” section where several new images have been added for the day. The first is real-life footage of a midget matador fighting a bull. On the first “toro,” he fails miserably. The bull trips him up, tramples him a bit, then gets down on its stomach and begins molesting the poor dwarf. I click on the next gif, which reveals footage of a father playing peek-a-boo with his infant. Suddenly and abruptly, the baby lays its tiny foot directly into his genitals. I’m certain my amusement has reached its climax for the night, but my gushing eyes and gaping mouth decide to hold out for the final gif that shows a group of friends taking a sauna bath. Suddenly, the woman in the middle sneezes and defecates all at once, sending me out of my chair in a fit of laughter. With one final snicker, I decide to retire from all of it for the time being and spend my precious last minutes in bed with my smooth arms wrapped warmly around my pillowy chest.

It is sixteen kilometers to the gymnasium, but I avoid the bus for several reasons. The first and most important is my infinite fondness of smoking. My cigarettes are an imperative relief from any dawning, whether it be the dawn of school or simply the sun itself. If I were submitted to any public transportation, I would risk the loss of a precious window of smoke time. Sure, I could fight to squeeze one or two sticks into my blood stream between bus stops, but such a limit is unacceptable in the morning. I fear I might lose my mind if that were the case. Luckily, the absolute freedom of traveling by foot allows me to consume at least four cigarettes during my trip.

The second reason, which may seem contradictory to the first, is so that I may preserve myself. I discovered that a ninety-minute hike was more than enough to maintain not only a slender pair of legs, but a perfectly flat and adorable stomach. No one is more captivated by my upper body than I myself, marveling with a relentless, lunatic passion over such perky, even hips and a wonderfully submerged waistline that runs upward to the most inconspicuously delicate ribcage in human history. Of course, my upper limbs are not forgotten. Despite my hiking pace, they are habitually occupied with upright rows, overhead presses, tricep reaches, and many other aerobics to nurture an alluring tone that ensures my divinity as above and so below. And though I am quite content with my proficiency in the art of pugilism, my 16-kilometer trek will often find me shadowboxing or even stopping by a large mound of moss to practice my strikes, for I never preferred a sparring partner. It is not simply boxing, but my proficiency in Krav Maga compels me to perpetually hone my speed, strength, and reflexes to ensure my impregnable beauty, and that no earthly creature may be my undoing.

If anything, my delicate, heavenly face is the main point of concern regarding the wilderness, as I sometimes worry over the dryness and irritation I might bear under a wind chill commonly below freezing temperature. Fortunately, my choice of moisturizer never lets me down, despite the insult of tainting my perfect skin with its foreign elements simply for protection. And if the conditions ever prove too treacherous, I certainly carry a fucking scarf.

My last reason is precautionary. Skipping class is an option I contemplate every day, especially after those peerless nights. During my trip, I might suddenly determine that I cannot possibly sustain eight straight hours of upper-secondary education. By traveling on foot, I empower myself with the option to turn around at any point and withdraw. Thanks to my cigarettes, though, I am usually able to keep my wits about me and stay the course. The secret is to pretend that each smoke is a reward for distance traveled, and if I can successfully play the part of lap dog and see this sadistic charade through, I will more than likely reach the finish line of a morning that hasn’t even begun.

I know that I am only thirty minutes into my trek, but not because I just lit my second cigarette. The mud pools are highly active, and the harsh sound of boiling viscosity is all I need to realize I’ve wound up in the middle of the slurry fields. It’s either sleep deprivation that brought me here, or my frequent clumsiness in forgetting to stay near the road. Regardless, I would have been safe to wander between the volcanic vents during daylight or even a decent moon, but the mid-autumn sun does not rise until further along the dial. It is nearly pitch black, and with no moon in sight, a surround-sound presentation of piercing blurble-gurgles and heavy splishes is all I can use to gauge my very distance from incineration. As the wild vapors envelop my sacred body, I can hear the crackling liquid calling the name I was given. A name I had neither asked for, nor one that I ever willingly turned my head to answer to. Alas, it seems only fitting for Earth, in all its relentless obligation, to dominate me at every turn.

Perhaps it is my lack of sleep along with an unprecedented desire to turn around and withdraw, if I can even make it back to my bedroom at this point. Nevertheless, a sudden gush of weariness brings me to my knees, sending my cigarette in a downward spiral from my mouth. With a heavy throat and heavier eyes, I collapse onto my side and let out a weak exhale that merely delays the inevitable onslaught of thick steam coming from the pools surrounding my precious frame. My eardrums are now shaking under the crackling mud and in my dwindling vision, I bear witness to a massive shroud of vapors that swallows me whole. With a last bit of strength, I throw my arms around my midsection and shut my eyes tight. As my hands and fingers fight their way through the surface of my pea coat and the layers underneath, my heart begins to soar. I am thinking about myself.

If only life were something of a video game or fantasy that could compete with my dreams, my current predicament would be exhilarating. Yet I am merely aggravated when I awake to practically the same surrounding sounds and shade of dark above. In a sleep-deprived daze, I stagger to my feet, take a last puff from my cigarette, and toss it into one of the gooby pools nearby. Then I dismount my black-framed spectacles and dispel the fog with my gloves as best I can. I have only seconds before the steam once again shrouds my lenses, but it’s enough time to pull out my cell phone and shine it forward to discover that fortunately, my exit is mostly a straight shot. In hopscotch-like fashion, I execute my steps with precise balance and concentration. At last, the steam has begun to disperse, and I settle with the likelihood that I will not suffer the excruciating yet amusing demise of being boiled alive in scalding hot mud.

With the mud pools behind me, a celebratory smoke is in order. I quickly return to staring down at my wondrous lower body and softly mumbling a fond American tune to the best of my recollection. Surely my harsh English accent and rustic grammar isn’t helping with the accuracy. Nevertheless, the sound of my voice caresses the enslaved rhythms of my perfect legs and throbbing heart while I continue in utter captivity.

Soon, lonely nights will all be ended. Soon, our true love will be suspended. I’ve found the happiness I waited for. The only girl that I was fated for…

I descend the hill into a desolate chasm where I decide to pick up the pace. For the rest of my smoke, I stroll down the trough of a massive, two hundred meter-wide cleft in the earth. The only other moving object is a narrow stream running slowly beside my shoes and in the opposite direction. Nevertheless, the waterfall that gives it life is quite the colossus. Under moonlight, it can be frightening.

Soon, little cabin they will find us. Safe, all our cares so far behind us. When you are mine this world will be in tune. Let’s make that day come soon.

After rounding the mountainside, a wide downward valley is all that stands before the road into town. Under sunlight, the steppes are a sprawling sea of green and brown with various slopes, hills and winding streams. It is one of the few moments that I look up from my shoes, because no matter how far I have come to mastering my route, my attention span can work wonders against me at any time. One incident was during a heavy snowfall, which always transforms the valley into a chilled wasteland of neon blue under the moonlight. Through the flurries, I glanced at what I believed was my usual reference point of a pair of telephone lines. I continued further and further, expecting to see my sneakers hit the blacktop at any moment. Eventually, I became fed up and lifted my head to see a lonely bunch of trees that had lost all their leaves and most of their branches. To make matters worse, I had been followed for a little ways by a pair of fucking ponies. I suppose I should have thanked the pesky steeds for letting me know that I had wound up on a pasture far off from any sign of telecommunication.

This time I pay full attention, and when my shoes finally touch the pavement, I light what is usually my final smoke of the morning. I am pleased to find that it is also the last of the pack, giving me an excuse to prolong the school day with a visit to the petrol station. After leaving with my new pack of lights and a fresh supply of matches, I determine I deserve one more smoke, despite the truancy I have already established. With eyes closed, I lean against the building and light up as an hourly bell resounds throughout the street.

Aside from various short answers and yeses and noes, I cannot quite remember the last time I spoke Icelandic. I rarely talk at all unless I am obligated. That is to say, I never speak unless I am spoken to. And even when I am spoken to, I try not to say much; just enough to pacify those around me. If a schoolmate relays a bit of gossip or tells me about the day, my natural instinct is to feign interest with the appropriate facial expression and muster a sentence or two. If it is an actual conversation they pursue, I find it fairly easy to retaliate with a remark that inspires the person to talk for the rest of the exchange while I toggle between various chuckles and processing noises. It may seem like a hassle to put on such meticulous façades, but the attention I would draw for being mute is far more taxing.

If any phrase finds its way from my mouth in an academic environment, it is either “fyrirgefðu,” which means “sorry,” or “allt í lagi,” which means “okay.” Accordingly, the only time I am forced to speak for myself is when I am late to class or given direct instruction. One particular grammar instructor, however, goes above and beyond by taking it upon himself to extract more than just these words. Most every day, he relishes the opportunity to call on me during a lecture or pull me aside for not completing my assignments. It is no revelation that every teacher’s dream student is one with both a natural proficiency and an aura of apathy toward the class subject. The middle-aged prick, in his own pathetic way, fancies himself the star of a coming-of-age drama about a passionate but down-on-his-luck grammar instructor who takes an unmotivated teenager under his wing and extorts her hidden talents to ultimately win the poetry slam. It only fuels his perverted fire that his esteemed apprentice happens to be an attractive yet unassuming member of the opposite sex.

For the majority of the class, my eyes are locked upon a blank white page in my notebook. I am thinking about myself and all the sorts of comments and messages I might be coming home to. Naturally, the woolgathering gets me brainstorming new ideas for my Pixhots page, which leads me to consider the possibility of ever adding a new photo album to the hundreds of pictures that are already floating around the Interwebs. Since awesum_v0m1t is already a well-known and well-wacked-off to handle among the Internet community, there is really no need. Nay, if I were to ever make another album, it would have to be spectacular and far unlike its predecessors. I can’t just snap a few awkward shots of my twat and post them up. Still, pondering the different ideas is always an exhilarating way to pass the class time.

The bell rings for the change of class and I grab my notebook and make for the exit. I’m almost free when the audacious cunt steps in front, blocking the doorway, feigning a patient downward stare while waiting impatiently for me to look up from my canvas sneakers. I oblige. Finally, he gets to his point, accusing me of not paying attention for the entire class period, since he didn’t see me writing in my notebook.

Fyrirgefðu.

He then reveals that I have already exceeded my allotted absences for the semester. As a result, I am officially failing the class.

Fyrirgefðu.

His shining moment has now arrived, and it is painfully obvious from the migration of a harsh tone to one of pretentious assertiveness. He gives what he believes is a suspenseful, cinematic pause just before revealing that there is still hope. I’m starting to get douche chills.

Allt í lagi.

Finally, he delivers his ultimatum, proposing that if I stay after hours to do make-up work, he will let me pass. I am unsure if he means passing the class or passing through the doorway.

Allt í lagi.

Before releasing me, he explains that the chess club sometimes uses his classroom after school, and if this is ever the case, I can finish my make-up work at his desk to avoid any distraction.

Allt í lagi.

I make my way to the cafeteria to join my usual table of schoolmates. While the conversation carries on with recycled rumors and gossip, I stare at my goofy tray of stupid meat and fucking vegetables. If interacting with those around me wasn’t taxing enough, food was the ultimate “fuck you” courtesy of my maker. I cannot begin to describe my hatred of food. The very concept of shoving various foreign shapes and textures into my mouth, then chewing, swallowing and ultimately shitting them out, infuriates me to no end. Such mockery and bullshit! Never mind the potential enjoyment of taste and texture, which makes it all the more sadistic. The idea that I am slated to repeat this degrading process for the rest of my life is enough to make me puke my bowels.

To make matters worse, I am obligated to manage my intake with extra caution. In order to maintain a prime and lustful midsection, it is imperative that I avoid overeating or consuming unhealthily. It is equally imperative that I force-feed myself with extreme discipline in order to avoid anorexia. One of my greatest fears is that an already perfect pair of hipbones will exude any further, or that my midsection might begin to show signs of a skeleton underneath. There are certain guidelines that lessen the hassle, such as not drinking my calories or bothering with condiments and the spread of stupid, slippery butter upon a fucking bran muffin. Otherwise, it is an arduous dedication of mine to stay fit. Common sense is the key, for I find that if I focus on lean meat and vegetables but avoid eating an entire helping of bread, I will preserve myself. Though I must admit, a rich chocolate pastry or cream pudding is an undeniable quirk of mine.

The session of lunchtime is no more desirable than others, but it is a bit of a relief. Since there are seven people at the table, I can ignore everything while still looking as engaged as the rest. Such is the beauty of group conversation, but meanwhile, my stomach is whaling. In fact, whenever I approach mealtime, it always begins with a sharp twisting and I grow deeply nauseous. During actual consumption, the excruciation is magnified. I can feel my stomach juices shredding the fish I’ve already shredded incessantly with my teeth, but in a vicious sort of way as to punish me for assaulting it so suddenly without any preamble of breakfast. A vile toxicity runs the entire length of my gullet as I swallow another mishmash of mashed potatoes and spinach. I try to burp, but the lump in my throat grows harder with every swallow. As more and more of the foreign shapes and textures rape my insides, the act of weeping and hurling all at once seems the only suitable reaction. But alas, there’s no point, for by the time the mush settles peacefully, dinner will be ready, and my stomach will twist and I will grow nauseous once again.

I am on my last bite of spinach when I catch the middle of the table talk. A house party is the main topic of discussion. I don’t catch the details of when or where who is hosting what, nor do I care. The next item, however, becomes the controversial topic of alcohol provision, and if so, who will be able to purchase it without getting caught. A clear decision is never quite made, but nonetheless, it proceeds with everyone counting their money and throwing whatever they have into the alcohol fund in the center of the table. At the cusp of relaxing my eyes, a girl who considers me her closest friend nudges me and asks if I have any preference. With my stomach now humiliated to the brim from the relentless penetration of food and forced ejaculation of my gastric juices, I can barely breathe, much less speak. Thankfully, I am rescued by a sudden stroke of genius, and in a rush to pacify the table, I pull out five thousand krónur and toss it into the pile. Not only is it a generous donation, but enough to shut her up as well.

I can only assume that the girl’s talkative nature is an underlying factor for her desired friendship with me. While others show irritation toward her incessant gossip and blabbery, I neither approve nor protest. Add this to my looks, and I couldn’t be a more perfect counterpart for a self-conscious bimbo to play off of. For her, it is a godsend that I never gussy up for school. In fact, I always make an effort to hide my allure. My usual outfit consists of no more than a fitted sweater for the top, then jeans over a variety of casual footwear below, but only if I remember to switch out my sneakers upon my arrival at school. Yet even while I manage to undermine myself with a pair of black-framed spectacles, it is still not enough to conceal my bedroom eyes. One schoolmate, in fact, had once mentioned to me that all supermodels should start wearing nerdy glasses so they can look even more “super.” A sufficient compliment, I suppose.

Unfortunately, my “nerdy” getup wasn’t even enough to avoid the annual superlatives for “Most Attractive” and “Most Intelligent.” I vaguely remember the girl being consumed with jealousy that day and found it utterly bizarre that she would harbor such petty feelings toward a girl two years her junior. There were so many levels of frivolousness between her envy and those coveted superlatives that I was unable to acknowledge the bitterness in her eyes or take offense to any of the rumors she had crafted in hopes of demonizing me. I suppose the one about my tobacco-charred lungs and the permanence of a hideous-smelling breath they gave way to elicited a bit of a chuckle. It certainly did its job of inspiring gossip throughout the halls of an establishment I was merely bound by obligation to attend, and of course, I was expected to rebuke the rumor with a shaky voice accompanied by a red face. But her low blow paled in comparison to the barrage of scathing comments I had received from em0b0y94 the night before.

“Show us your scars and tell us where you cut yourself,” em0b0y94 typed in the public chat box for a thousand other members on lively.com to see. “Come on, we know you’re ugly underneath.”

With brutal, unrelenting phrases like “cunt lips” and “sharp-kneed slut,” it was this fiery sort of feedback that I relished in responding to. em0b0y94 deserved a superlative of his own for unloading all his venom and holding nothing back. Of course, the thousand other members on my public channel took immediate offense on my behalf, telling him to get lost and kill himself. I, however, embraced the challenge of softening his hardened heart.

“Why couldn’t you have told me to show you BEFORE I had the plastic surgery!?” I typed jokingly. Later that night, I sent him a private message with an intimate self-shot as I lied along my bed sheets under soft lighting. “See? No more scars. But I must confess one flaw…my breath smells like cat piss! To prove it, I’d be happy to burp in a jar and send it to you :).”

A couple of days later, I left the gossip-infested classroom and arrived home to a heartfelt response.

“Lol…Okay, I’m in love with you,” read em0b0y’s reply. “I can’t stop staring at you, and I’ve been waiting for you to reply to me just once. Don’t worry about burping in a jar for me. One whiff of your breath and I’m afraid I might just have to break up with my girlfriend.”

Alas, I would eventually return to the halls of the gymnasium and my body would grow cold once again. But since I never submit to the interest of any one of my admirers within this frivolous spectrum, the girl’s envy never lasts long. All those admirers end up going to her on a silver platter. If only she would tone it down on the smoky eye shadow and lip gloss, she might get somewhere without the expense of my irritation. Regardless, she seems like a decent girl, and if I have to oblige the little fool, then so be it.

There is one schoolmate, however, who refuses to dock the silver platter. As always, he is at the table and I can sense his stare. I can’t help but feel a bit of sympathy for this. He seems like a nice, sincere character, and though he’s tried a variety of bothersome approaches to inspire my interest, they are always executed in a gentle and passive sort of way. He has a tendency to perform favors that are both absurd and unbidden. Oftentimes, he will insist on throwing away my lunch tray, offering me a ride home or helping me with a homework assignment that I have no intention of completing in the first place. His trademark weapon is that fucking denim jacket of his. Never mind that it’s always a standing offer when I forget my pea coat, for whenever I have the urge to take a catnap, I’ll bury my head in the lunch table and it won’t be ten seconds before I’m molested by the stench of goofy cologne. The fragrance carries a milky sweet, honeysuckle smell so pungent that upon its initial invasion of my nostrils, I envision a poor skunk being raped by a hive of bumblebees. Then I’ll open my eyes to the blasted fabric, offered for me to ball up and use as a pillow.

The offer is once again lying before me in English class. Leave it to the most effortless part of the school day for me to be seated next to the little bugger. It is a course that I pride myself on dozing through, as I know the English language intimately. My accent would say otherwise, but I rely far more on English than Icelandic. The best blogs, the funniest websites, and the most shocking videos are not found in Chinese or Spanish or Portuguese. In order to embark on my most gratifying escapades, it is imperative that I read and type the English language. Speaking it, however, is less of a concern, for I much prefer the use of my keyboard over the mic on my webcam. Nevertheless, I’m always sure to keep my English prowess exclusively between me and the online world. Fuck my life if my fluency were evident to a boy who smells of goofy cologne, as I would eventually be obligated to return his stupid favors with a one-on-one English lesson. Then, he would eventually come up with the “genius” idea of asking me to translate “Þú ert sexý skrímsli” to “you’re a sexy beast.”

In the meantime, I will once again refuse the offer for his jacket and bury my head in the sleeves of my own. For the rest of the class, I’m sure that all he can think about is me, but alas, all I can think about are cigarettes and sleep.

The last bell rings me awake, but before I can wipe the drool off my desk and fish out my smokes, my nostrils are invaded once again and I am confronted with an invitation. Damn if I know what the invitation is in reference to, but to escape the smell, I respond with the appropriate facial expression and a positive affirmation to boot. At last, the goofy cologne begins to disperse as I stroll toward the classroom exit and into my final obstacle.

It is really no obstacle at all, but more of a light-hearted quip. Every school day before the weekend, I take heed to the custodial staff’s grab at an early start. One janitor, who by no fault of his own is afflicted by a severe slowness of some sort, begins mopping the hallway floor in a sluggish, uncoordinated manner. The back and forth motion is quite a dreary scene, and in an effort to absolve him of any interference, I am compelled to avoid the wet area that he has already claimed. I prefer to view this as merely a gesture of mindfulness and acknowledgement, but I am actually afraid. While others trample the area like sheep to the slaughterhouse, I cannot bring myself to set foot on the wet territory. On some days, an entire section will be mopped before the ringing of the bell and I will be forced to either walk atop the benches along the far side of the hallway, or simply take another route altogether.

There’s something celestial about a whore who doesn’t charge. If not, her online handle would fail to echo throughout the infinite halls of the Interwebs at such sickening speeds. The page below her gifts would be a simple comments section rather than a book of psalms. And while there is nothing fiendish about a website such as Kimberly’s Secret or slutbucket.com, I cannot imagine my photos being locked and divided amongst a trifling audience of premium and platinum members. Despite the monthly subscription fee one might easily get away with charging, she or he is missing out on so much more.

In all my years as a camwhore, I have posted a total of five sets. There is a perfect reason for this number along with my reluctance to add another, but it is not simply the same reason that movies space apart their sequels, or why the world stage embraces the kicking of a stupid ball every fourth year. Milking the anticipation of others is only a morsel compared to the challenge of exceeding what the online community refers to as “epic.” If I had oversaturated the online world with tired poses and monotonous money shots, awesum_v0m1t would have been contained within the pages they originally appeared, succumbing to the disinfectant of obligatory clicks for the remainder of eternity. All five of my albums began on my Pixhots profile and over the years, they’ve infected thousands of websites, blogs, and message boards. Millions of users have pleasured themselves to the teamwork of my handy digital camera and me.

My first album was a series of mirror shots from a shitty twenty-megapixel I had saved up for--one of those plastic point-and-shoots that turned every shadow into a blizzard of digital noise. They were meant to be non-nudes, but of course, my safe-for-work intentions didn’t last long. After the first fifteen captures, I went from flaunting a plaid miniskirt and fitted tank to just a leather bracelet around my wrist. From there, I experimented with an endless array of positions and angles, and when my lust for the perfect shot had expired, I loaded the pictures onto my computer and picked the twenty-five best.

My all-time favorite is a shot as daring as war photography. The bathroom sink is a prime location for amateurs, not only because the mirror is at arm’s length, but the close lighting needs no adjustment past the flick of the bathroom switch. After a few standing mirror shots and artsy fashion captures through the glass shower door, I decided to climb the counter and squat above the sink. With my knees pointing opposite directions and one side of my hair covering my left boob, I had achieved the perfect position for a full-frontal shot, but at the cost of holding my pose with excruciating discomfort. Just as my finger began to clench the capture button, both my ankles gave with a fierce inward bend. My heart dropped as I lost all balance and slipped hard. With the camera still in one hand, I flailed my free arm with thoughtless, desperate speed. My open palm suddenly connected with the corner of the sink, halting all of my motion in an instant. By some miracle, the soft skin of my hand against the slippery marble was enough to prevent me from cracking my skull against the ceramic floor.

From the moment I regained my balance, I burst into uncontrollable laughter. The fit of giggles was so sudden and violent that I shoved my forearm into my mouth to keep from cackling. I had imagined someone opening the bathroom door to find me lying face-down, naked in a pool of my own blood with the camera still in hand.

“Teenage Girl Dies While Trying to Take a Selfie,” the headlines would read.

It was the most hilarious death I could imagine; one that I’m sure would have topped the front page of ss.biz if captured in some way. But despite my hysterics, I was hell-bent on resurrecting that perfect, daring pose. My only impediment now was that I couldn’t stop laughing. As I regained my squatted position, I was face-to-face with my reflection, fighting to substitute a stifled smirk with a more come-hither look. But alas, my laughter would not cease until I left the counter, and I was better off snapping whatever I had.

It turned out to be something of unspeakable brilliance. The still shot of my face during mid-laughter was a look of priceless, genuine amusement, undoubtedly leaving the viewer to gaze with endless wonder over what could have possibly been so funny. In fact, prIckAssO had commented with speculation that at the time of the photo, my sacred parts were being tickled by some invisible feather. All the while, my free hand was subconsciously and seductively placed on my hip. I was looking a little downward and my hair fell perfectly with just a little bit covering the eyes. But even so, only a special handful would be able to recognize brilliance on an aesthetic level. In this particular photo, I had unintentionally captured the paradox of my camera’s self-timer: a genuine moment of spontaneity that was also completely staged. My expression was mid-laughter and despite my premeditated pose, I was in a state of absolute spontaneity, looking as though I were oblivious to the presence of any camera pointed at me. Anyone would assume this was a candid moment, but since I was holding the camera, how was any candidness possible? In essence, the captured, passionately and ingenuously lost in an unfathomable rapture of her very own, was also the capturer.

I would stare at the photo for hours. At times, I would pleasure myself to it. Tens of thousands of others shared my fervor and in a matter of days, the photo was shared, re-shared, and recycled through countless amateur sites and online galleries. On candybunker.net, it made the top five most popular with over 450,000 views—nearly half a million looks at just one picture, on just one website.

By the second album, I had already worn out all the self-shot poses I could think of. In fact, my various outfits and intimates had become the only saving grace from redundancy. But after gathering the money for a real DSLR and my first fast prime lens, I knew I could finally offer something more. With my new camera’s self-timer feature, my hands were finally free from holding the device, as it found its new home on a tripod. This would initially involve a bathtub, candles, a pack of cigarettes, and the perfect aperture. At last, the word “amateur” was beginning to drop from the list of tags when scouring the search engines for awesum_v0m1t. Naturally, my last two albums would exhibit the most concentrated lighting techniques to accentuate the smallest detail in everything from my makeup and hairstyle to the sheerness of my chosen garments. With every capture that followed, my goal was to encompass the idea that I belonged to a fantasy of my own—a fantasy free of charge and open to the fulfillment of anyone at any time.

Not every picture of mine rounding the Internet belongs exclusively to a photo album. When I return from school, my first action is logging onto Pixhots, where I continue a correspondence I had left the night before. It is with Sophielerrina67, a ballet dancer from the city of New York. Of course, at the age of forty-four, her days in The New York Theatre Ballet are well-past, and she has long-settled as a stay-at-home mother and housewife of a wealthy microchip developer. Nonetheless, her affinity for grace and elegance remains well intact, as she explores her same-sex urges by chatting and sharing herself with anyone willing. I am by far her favorite. This is not simply because she prefers the young and thin, but she cherishes the ultimate, undeniable truth that only through the Interwebs is someone of prime ballerina age willing to pay her any sort of attention. Sophielerrina67 made her introduction deep within the comments section of my third Pixhots album. It’s a pic that gathered far less hits than all the others, yet proved to be a most difficult capture, as my full body was suspended by one set of toes while my other leg flexed upward and far behind my back. To hold this position for merely a decent still shot was going a bit overboard, but for the infatuation of Sophielerrina67, it was well worth the strain.

“Sigh,” she began. “I remember when I used to have legs like those. God ur perfect.”

Like all online comments, Sophielerrina67’s was one love letter in a viral pile of millions that never ceased to make my heart spill in precious, endless ways. Yet her self-effacing sentiments bore a flood that demanded retraction. It was one thing to indulge the sonnets of my breast and legs while running my precious fingers along and throughout them, but I could never allow a lover to adore my frame by disavowing her or his own. With racing fingers, I pulled up Sophielerrina67’s profile, and after browsing through a few of her self-shots, returned her private message.

“You’re kidding, right?” I replied. “You still do! Now stop kicking urself with those sexy feet! ;)”

From that moment, a fierce back and forth of private messages took place, and with each bit of correspondence, her intensity grew.

“I would say the dirtiest things to you if I weren’t so paranoid about going to jail for it,” read another one of her private messages from long ago.

“lol, it’s okay,” I replied. “Where I’m from, the age of consent is quite lower than 18…so ur fine.”

I found it amusing that the woman was wary over such an issue after all we had already done together.

“In that case,” she replied, “I would swim all the way to Iceland for just one taste.”

Oftentimes, Sophielerrina67 would send me pictures of her younger self along with an anecdote. When she wasn’t reminiscing, she would comment on my photos, insisting that I would make an excellent dancer. For a period of time, she had begged me to take a photo wearing only ballet shoes. I graciously declined with an excuse she would quickly fire back on.

“lol, I don’t have any ballet shoes!” I typed. “Ummm…how about flats…or pumps?”

“I know, darling. That’s why I want to send you my old shoes that I kept from Le Corsaire. How about it?”

A bold wish! I could feel the same relentless intensity she felt for me, and though it was quite a silly request, I could not turn down the offer to fulfill her dreams.

“…deal.” I typed. “But this will be for your eyes only…k?”

Luckily, the shoe size was right enough, but if not for a video tutorial on BalletGurl143’s YouTube channel, I would have spent ages tying them onto my feet. After squeezing into the pair, I remembered an old photo Sophielerrina67 once sent me of her starring role in Giselle and suddenly recalled a white jasmine flower she wore in her hair for the performance. My blood turned a blinding neon tincture, adopting a thickness more furious than quicksilver as I replaced the shoes with my sneakers and rushed outdoors toward the nearest field.

The desires of those who sought ecstasy from tiny capsules to the wildest, most cacophonous of raves, rallies and protests never seemed so wretched and miserable. While they searched and settled, only to undergo a vapid change in their hearts and either remain settled in misery or abandon their old desires to wander aimlessly in search of new highs, my heart, its strings lined with crystals beyond the finest of methamphetamines, was pumping a substance more potent than liquid cocaine. And to imagine how there were actually some who obliged their snotty noses to snort and sniff such sadistic, deplorable foreign bodies! Computer or not, Internet or not, Sophielerrina67 or not, therein would always lie my heroic darling, more sweetheart than the buds of any earthly tongue could taste. In the presence of a true, self-reliant and endlessly capable love, Juliet would undoubtedly vomit on Romeo. Nosferatu, or his modern-day successor, would suck the blood of his so-called Bella, only to taste the insipid dross of a used ketchup packet.

A simple poppy was the closest resemblance I could find, but I knew Sophielerrina67 would catch the sentiment. Of course, I could have held out until returning home, but after joining the soft stem of the poppy with the clip of my hairpin, I decided to keep my camera waiting a little longer. It was not uncommon for me to feel my bed sheets along a mossy surface, beside the mud pools or in this case, a sprawling bed of flowers. Perhaps it was the snap of the cold against my arched back, but I would sometimes catch myself huffing and puffing a little more aggressively and shutting my eyes a little tighter whenever I arched my back against Earth’s mattress.

Aside from a set of glittery eye shadow, I shot myself with nothing on except the shoes and the white flower in my hair. When the camera snapped, I was never so eager to relieve my feet of their suffocation, but as I previewed the capture, I began to feel what Sophielerrina67 would undoubtedly feel when she saw my image, and the woman’s odd request was now utterly brilliant. As I stared at my legs and waist with a stolen breath, it seemed only appropriate to keep the shoes on until my feet could no longer stand me up.

“This is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done,” she replied to the first photo.

With six left in my arsenal, I decided to send one each following day. By the end of the week, her heart was flooded.

“I just want you to know,” she typed upon receiving my last photo, “that I marvel at your photos every night before I go to bed.”

My current correspondence with Sophielerrina67 is with regard to a photo she had recently gathered the courage to send to me in private. For all her public pictures, she would either blur her face or crop it out completely. This is a common practice for people who, for various reasons, do not wish to identify themselves. I can only assume that Sophielerrina67 doesn’t want her husband stumbling upon a picture of his beloved wife wearing nothing more than a leotard. But the private photo she sent me is a nude shot that finally reveals the visage she was once eager to show in a crowded theater.

“Ur eyes are so beautiful,” I typed.

Though I had sent the message a few nights before, I sign onto Pixhots to find that Sophielerrina67 had responded while I was at school.

“You know, on some nights, I’ll stare at pics of you and read over our old messages back and forth, and I get so emotional.” she replied. “Sometimes, I just want to leave everything…the kids and the annoying hubby…and just be with you.”

After replying with a winking smiley face, I minimize my Pixhots page and enter chessworld.com. Whenever I decide to dick around online, I sometimes dally simultaneously between online chess and grayscale.org. And there is no better place to dick around than grayscale.org.

Depending on the visitor, Grayscale can either be the asshole of society or a forum to discuss any topic. Upon entering the site, I have no intention of being the asshole, but all resistance is overcome when my mouse rolls over a picture of a broken heart and a subject heading that reads, “So my girlfriend dumped me at school today…”

After reading this much, I pull out a cigarette and leave my chair to crack open my bedroom window a bit. Then I light my cigarette and continue reading.

“She was the one…the love of my life for two years…and now she’s gone. I was so depressed that I came home and jerked off in the shower. Little did I know, a spider had occupied the bathroom the night before. Now my dick is covered in cobwebs. Can someone cheer me up?”

At the bottom of his invocation, the ex-boyfriend posted a link to his heartbreaker’s Facebook profile. He obviously did this in hopes that the readers who felt his pain will do his bidding by bombarding her with scathing insults. But I have a different idea, and after pulling up his ex-girlfriend’s Facebook page, it only takes a few seconds of scrolling through to find the status update I’m looking for: Amy is no longer in a relationship with Felix Jacobs.

While most websites require a username or valid e-mail address before one may contribute to the discussion, Grayscale’s user base is completely anonymous. In other words, anyone may enter the website unregistered and post anything. Hence, the ultimate havoc an anonymous user may wreak upon another is the exposure of one’s sacred identity. By posting his ex-girlfriend’s Facebook page, Felix is clearly asking for it, and I’m going to give it to him.

Clicking the name “Felix Jacobs” immediately brings me to the profile picture of a scrawny college student sporting a goofy, overenthusiastic grin and giving a thumbs up. I take a long drag from my cigarette while I study the photo and rack my brain for ideas. Suddenly, the portrait of perfect humiliation materializes, and I immediately open three new browser windows. In the first window, I Google “monkeys masturbating.” In the second, I Google “cartoon unicorn.” In the third, I Google “rock and roll concert stage.” All three searches pull up excellent results, and after saving one image from each category, I open Photoshop and begin copying and pasting them onto an empty canvas.

The Sistine Chapel may be revered for its sophistication, but when it comes to Internet art, crudeness and utter vulgarity are aesthetics the audience clamors for. Fortunately, it doesn’t take much time or effort to create such a piece. All it needs is some cropping, re-sizing and color normalization, and in just a few minutes, my masterpiece is complete. Felix’s head is now fused onto the body of a masturbating monkey, whose one hand is occupied with jerking itself off while the other is replaced by Felix’s “thumbs up” hand. With one final touch, his thumb is now up the ass of a cartoon unicorn that for no reason at all, is tilted upward and floating in midair. And it is all under the backdrop of a rock and roll concert stage.

I give my final product a once-over before returning to Grayscale and revisiting Felix’s broken-hearted post, which has already gathered some healthy attention.

“Yeesh…she looks more like your ex-boyfriend,” one user just typed.

“Let’s see those cobwebs that are epoxied to ur cock,” posted another.

Under dozens of other comments, I upload my edited photo of Felix along with a link to his Facebook page and a comment of my own. It’s really more of a suggestion than a comment.

“U should make this your new profile pic,” I type. “Amy will love it.”

I return to my chess game, indifferent that my opponent has just sacked my bishop. At any rate, I’m gravely pessimistic about my position along the board.

“Good game,” I type.

I click the “resign” button before returning to Pixhots.com and opening a private message that just came in from Nicaraguaxoxo.

“Want to trade pictures, my sexy bunny???” it reads.

There’s no telling what creepy segment of the Interwebs Nicaraguaxoxo adopted the phrase “sexy bunny,” but it always seems to make me laugh. At only twelve years old, he somehow managed to bypass the pornography filter in his school’s computer lab. Or perhaps the school system in Nicaragua didn’t bother blocking adult content. Either way, he’s a crafty, ambitious little sprout. Our quirky love affair began with a side-splitter, clearly butchered by the worst online language translator he could find.

“Hello Beautiful. My name is Emilio and I am rich and handsome man from Nicaragua. I also save many lives with my surgery powers at hospital I work. But notice that I am lonely and horny all the time and love to know you. Will you send me sexy private picture of you and I will send you sexy private picture of me? Say yes!”

Of course, there was no such thing as a rich and handsome surgeon who also happened to be lonely. Naturally, I decided to amuse myself.

“Now, if you don’t come clean and tell me your real job, I will have to advise you to go and fuck one of your nurses instead,” I replied.

After a few days, Nicaraguaxoxo responded with a lengthy confession in which he admitted that he was still Emilio, but merely a twelve-year-old boy posing as a forty-year-old doctor. He had sent the same message to hundreds of other Pixhots users and ironically, the only ones smitten by the rich and handsome surgeon were lonely women old enough to be his grandmother. After explaining that his school’s computer was the only access he knew, Nicaraguaxoxo ended his message by posting a casual photo of himself.

Never had I witnessed something so endearing and adorable. I immediately stripped down to my intimates, whipped out my camera and snapped some shots. For my final picture, I pulled a black Sharpie out from my desk and offered him a token that would shatter his adolescent mind. Above my right boob were a dozen little heart shapes surrounding his name. It was the first of many instances where I would write a person’s name or username across my skin. I sent him the pictures in a private message, along with some handy instructions translated into Spanish.

“Show these to your friends,” I typed. “Tell them your girlfriend lives at the very top of the world where it’s cold and dry. But someday, she would love to come down where it’s nice and warm.”

And from the dregs of poverty and weariness rose a deeply enchanted pre-teen. Nicaraguaxoxo would litter my inbox with lovesick poems and underdeveloped dirty talk. Some of the messages had me falling out of my chair in fits of giggles, but I would always gather myself and reciprocate by sending another picture or two, along with a lovey-dovey response of my own. Eventually though, I would have to break the news and explain to him that it was all in good fun.

Surprisingly, the boy was mature enough to recognize that our friendship was strictly platonic, but it didn’t stop him from masquerading as a little Romeo, which continued to provide me with more belly laughs than I could count. Sometimes he would send me stories and updates about how our “love affair” had skyrocketed his popularity at school. His most outstanding feat was a lengthy apology letter in which he admitted to cheating on me at one point during our relationship. Apparently, while he had been wooing me with prepubescent literature, his newfound popularity had scored him a real-life girlfriend, Gabriella, whom he initially decided to keep secret from me. The boy was deeply guilt-ridden and begged for forgiveness.

“You played me!” I replied. “Just kidding. Of course I forgive you, dummy! Treat her like a princess, okay?”

Occasionally, Nicaraguaxoxo will update me with pictures of both him and his girlfriend. Otherwise, he will simply type, “Want to trade pictures, my sexy bunny?” What he’s really asking for is another self-shot for old time’s sake.

In even my most sleep-deprived moments, I can summon the energy to humor us both. In this case, I also have a good idea for a picture, and after re-reading his message, I quickly put on some eyeliner and strip down to just my jeans and a pair of striped arm warmers. With the black sharpie in hand, I scribble a heart around my navel. On one side of the heart I write “Emilio,” and on the other, “awesum_v0m1t.” Then I draw an “x” over “awesum_v0m1t” and write “Gabriella” directly above. With my camera in place, I set the self-timer to ten seconds and quickly get into position, covering my chest with one arm while letting the other hang down. Meanwhile, I hold a playful “pouty face” for the boy’s amusement. Only a few seconds remain when suddenly, my leg begins to vibrate, obliterating my pose all at once. My pouty eyes and pursed lips immediately turn to frustration as I clench my teeth, abandon the frame and pull my wretched cell phone out from my pocket. Damn if it isn’t a text message from an unfamiliar number whose name I never bothered to save.

“I’ll be there around 9 to pick u up,” it reads.

As much as I loathe eating, I am eager to bite my phone and swallow it whole. Having not the slightest idea of what my obtruder is referring to, I muster the tolerance to press “Reply” followed by a singular question mark and the Send button. I drop the phone, light another cigarette and lie on my bed. After several seconds of peace and quiet, another vibration follows.

“The party! I heard you were coming.”

My tendency to make the appropriate facial expression and give a positive affirmation without paying the proper attention always had its own tendency of biting me in the ass. With a long reluctant stare, I blow smoke into my cell phone screen, realizing that my particular screw up had more than likely occurred during the end of class, when high levels of rectal honeysuckle had intoxicated me to the point of saying yes to practically anything. Alas, there is no use in pissing around the situation.

“Will there b alcohol?” I text.

“Thanks to your generous donation, lots!” she replies.

Though I rarely touch the stuff, I cannot dispute the gratifying effects of inebriation. It isn’t the sense of carelessness or loss of inhibition I delight in. What alcohol provides is a situation, or perhaps the illusion of a situation, where I am dreaming while still awake. And there’s no better supplement to this illusion than an enhanced pleasure from smoking.

Thanks to my blasted cell phone, Nicaraguaxoxo has slipped my mind and the effects of the sleepless night before are beginning to take their toll on my heavy eyes. After unleashing the top button of my size zeroes, I have just enough energy to flick my smoke out the window before crashing onto the bed sheets. For the most part, the dream I have is short, inaudible, and unintelligible. Nonetheless, forty winks fills a league of emotion. Predominantly, it is a feeling of great restlessness. Over what, I have no clue. I remember being somewhere bizarre and in a hurry to get somewhere else. Perhaps I am restless because I have to be there by a certain time, or else, something bad will happen—something dark or violent or evil or all of them combined. But this excites me. The restlessness I feel is not troubling—it is euphoric. I feel like the heroine of a video game with multiple lives, so that if I make some mistake or miscalculation, I can start over and try again. The concern is over whether I will make it to my destination, and if I do, who or what I might encounter.

With a heightened sense of lust and impatience, I open my eyes to the darkness outside and the quietness of everything. The only illumination in my bedroom is from a blinking blue button on my computer, indicating that it too had fallen asleep. Still in my jeans, arm warmers, and the writing across my waist, I decide to go ahead and snap my picture for Nicaraguaxoxo. As my camera uploads the shot to my computer, I revisit Grayscale to check on my post from earlier. What began as an innocent pouring of the heart has now progressed into a violent shit-storm. Dozens of users have followed my example by pulling pictures off of Felix’s Facebook page and posting them to Grayscale. One user posted an image of the boy affixed to a giant spider web with tiny baby spiders biting his crotch. The ball-busting transcends Grayscale’s domain and officially enters code red when I revisit the ex-girlfriend’s Facebook page. In just a few hours, Grayscalers have bombarded her timeline with photoshopped pictures of her ex-boyfriend. Not only did she make a Facebook album of all the ones she received, but she has changed her profile picture to the one I originally posted.

With the aftertaste of tobacco and steamed vegetables from lunch, I barely have an appetite. Nevertheless, my stomach is beginning to eat itself while in any case, the humiliation I wrought upon Grayscale has reached its peak. After shutting down my computer, I descend the stairs to grab a bite, opening the fridge to a plate neatly wrapped in foil. Despite its wholesome smell and aura of well-preparedness, I open the trash bin, toss in the plate, and reach into the cupboard. A bag of crackers and jar of peanut butter will suffice. For several minutes, I rotate between little bites of the dipped crackers and scrubbing the sharpie ink off my stomach. For the last few aggravating swallows, I stare down at my ink-free waist and fiddle with the blue star of my navel piercing.

Only one person has ever penetrated my body, and it cost me eight thousand krónur and a taxi into Reykjavík. The default attachment was a surgical steel ball with a zirconium design, but before leaving the parlor, I was halted by the wondrous glimmer of one particular pendant. It was a shiny blue star linked to a black-coated crescent moon that hung underneath. I fell madly, instantly in love and for four thousand extra, became one with the design. On occasions, I would add the black moon to my piercing, yet for the very most part, it was the blue star that I would always keep inside.

A car horn blares from outside and as it persists, I detach the blue star from the ring and uninstall my body piercing with the expert-like precision I gained from an online instructional video. With a soft sigh of surrender, I drop the jewelry in my pocket, re-button my shirt, and proceed to embark.

I enter a dissonant amalgamation of trance/dance/rave/whatever music and normalized chatter-jabberings. A familiar, inevitable scent suddenly registers above the mix as I am greeted coolly from behind. I have to admit that the cologne is seeping through a smart-looking outfit, but even against my casual attire and unassuming lack of makeup, I can easily tell that a battle is brewing between the cologne and a growing nervous sweat. With no other choice, I play along in hopes that our one-on-one pleasantries will be joined by group conversation or perhaps a hard drink. Luckily, there’s enough chivalry in the cologne to fetch me one. Meanwhile, I lean against the wall among a circle of schoolmates and drift into thoughts about the powerful restlessness I felt from my most recent dream. I want to discover that feeling; to explore it once again. But it is impossible to harness any semblance within my current environment.

The smell returns to my side and enters the group circle while I hold my newfound, pre-opened bottle of dark beer to my chest. As I busy myself with successive sips and gulps, a lingering pair of eyes gradually accompanies the scent with hopes that I will engage and reciprocate. In a pathetic attempt to seem busy, I adjust my glasses and clench my star piercing beside the pack of cigarettes nestled in my jeans pocket. My fingers move along the pack to fish out a smoke when suddenly, I am whirled around by a feminine hand on my shoulder. Beside the talkative girl is an already-occupied silver platter. I make small talk to the best of my ability but mostly stand silent, pretending as though the platter won’t go empty this time. I am far less concerned over the chemical imbalance between a fickle heart and an assailable twat than the waiting time before my next smoke, but my nods and positive affirmations do not seem to be working. In a last chance effort to eject myself from the circle, I devour my half-empty beer to show for all to see that I have good reason to excuse myself for another.

I enter the kitchen where I single out a tall, fancy-looking bottle of what I assume will do the job quickest. Hurriedly, I unleash what is probably too much of the brown potion into a glass and fill the rest with tap water. After a quick sip, I turn to notice that the scent has followed me, and the nervous sweat has spread in response to the drink I have made. Despite water’s ability to enter the bloodstream quickest and put me in a tolerable mood, I should have known that I would be sending mixed signals to anyone who witnessed my creation of the zany concoction. In an effort to play it cool, I share a chuckle and excuse myself for a smoke. But alas, my dangerously alcoholic beverage has provided enough of an excuse for the cologne to continue following me outside. Perhaps I should have brought my pea coat along, as I have clearly invited the challenge of being kept warm. Of course, it is that damned denim jacket to the rescue.

If only life were something of a video game or fantasy that could compete with my dreams, my particular predicament would be exhilarating. The petty offering of trendy secondhand fabric would be an ethereal confrontation that I would gladly counteract with the training I received from FFLmage. With a heinousness beyond the extremes of my imagination, a pair of foreign hands would seize my throat from the side, but before the nerves of its cold fingers can perceive the endless silk of my nape, my outside hand would shoot up and across to either squeeze the meridian along his forearm, or simply pluck at the base of his thumb and rake his arm away from my throat. As I pin his hand against my chest, I would lower my body weight and instinctively strike his groin, followed by an immediate elbow through the tip of his nose and into the bridge. Meanwhile, if I detect any balling of his fist, I would use merely three knuckles to strike the small bones in the back of his hand. Otherwise, my legs would burst forward, powering my balled fist with more force than twice his weight, and if his xiphoid process did not shatter, my hands would occupy his head, and I would apply enough knees to prepare the gouging of his eyes. But alas, I have never inflicted my lethal passion upon another, and certainly never intend to.

As the harsh smell continues violating my nostrils, the weight of the jacket is never more imprisoning than now. The rough, uneven collar is a leash around my neck. Choking me. Reminding me there is truly no such thing as a permanent escape. It is even more humiliating to know that all I could ever do is play it cool. If the millions upon millions of captivated eyes could somehow bypass the brilliance of our liquid crystal displays and behold my current environment, how mortified would they be to find their goddess writhing silently in bondage? How clenched would FFLmage’s fists be if he could see me now? Or perhaps those captivated eyes would stare with perplexed minds, scratching their heads over why she does not smirk or grin or beam under the stars the way she always does before the light of her computer screen.

Though the mere act of striking a match might seem trivial, making fire dance with my fingertips is enough to make the other set of fingertips run wild with passion. But even with my cigarette pressed against my lips, I am not allowed to light it on my own. As I draw the matches from my pocket, my cigarette is suddenly confronted by a puny, loveless flame, burning weakly and sitting idle without even a flicker. Alas, I have no choice but to suck off the loveless tip of the flame and let it penetrate my insides. The tacky lighter held before my mouth was most likely purchased for such a moment in which man-odor never fought so hard against the wishful scent of goofy cologne. Still, there is no chance that I will ever carry the smell. In a way, it pains me that only I know the cologne’s efforts are futile, save a quick ride on the silver platter in due time. Yet what pains me the most is my inability to truthfully declare my disinterest in a way that would travel through the strong scent and emerge in a comprehendible form. Nay, if any boy were to ask me out, I would simply have to respond with the suggestion that we remain what they would all refer to as “friends.”

With the smoke dangling from my mouth and my arms dangling off the porch railing, I am unaware if this particular proposal is actually taking place. Considering our isolated section of the porch and the smell of body odor that has now begun to overpower the cologne, there was never a better moment to pop the question. Thankfully, my half-water, half-whisky concoction is starting to work its magic, as I can no longer decipher the Icelandic language. Even during moments of insobriety, English is much easier to keep up with. Simply, my prowess over Icelandic has gotten more and more lackadaisical. I see little use for the language and have grown to ignore and avoid it in most cases.

My last puff is followed by a massive hiccup, accompanied by a burp, then an instantaneous leap into utter drunkenness. I am eager to return to my computer to laugh at funny videos and find out what Nicaraguaxoxo thought of the pic I had sent, even though I am too sloshed to figure out if it is a school day where he lives. The mishmash of music and laughter and chatter has gotten far more incoherent now that I am in a stupor. I make my way inside and after plopping into an empty sofa, I give one last glaze over the celebratory scene before signing out of consciousness. There are two boys laughing in the corner and slapping hands over a conventional bit of amusement. On the other side, a drunken schoolmate is flirting hard with a boy. Further off, an awkward loner (which no party seems to be complete without) is wandering the house with a hopeful eye that he might find someone to engage with. Alas, he leans hopelessly against the wall and settles with pulling out his cell phone and pretending to text someone. And finally, there lies a circle of schoolmates who can tolerate the smell of goofy cologne. But even though the scent has settled with leaving my nostrils alone for a little while, I am quite certain that it will perk through the denim jacket and compel a pair of eyes to periodically glance at me.

It didn’t take a Wikipedia article to explain to me the human condition, much less the restless, invigorating one of a girl or boy my age. Spiritual, intellectual and sexual frustrations all made themselves known, especially in a house party bustling with fresh faces in search of relevance and never-ending thrill. I could see it in the plaid skirts, shoddy tattoos, fashionable T-shirt designs, multicolored hairs, and even a denim jacket reeking of goofy cologne that they too carried a sense that the world is simply not enough. That gender was not confined to duality and sexuality was more than what the senses of the body and notions of the soul seemed to establish. The only difference was that I had found myself. To me, it was no longer a sense, but a gaping, naked truth. My great search had ended on a lonely night when my struggle for acknowledgement and meaning was at its highest.

Why am I here? Why doesn’t anyone understand me? Won’t they even listen? If so much is expected of me, then why do all my actions seem to go unnoticed? What if my first relationship isn’t a perfect one like in the movies? Will I turn gay if it doesn’t work out? What’s with all the pain and suffering in the world and why am I just as concerned with my tits and waist size? Why do I do so many things I don’t like and like so many things I don’t do? If the #2 pencil is the most popular, why is it still #2?

I too was most likely consumed with jealousy, perhaps wearing my own brand of goofy-smelling perfume to entice whatever my heart’s desire happened to be at the time. A sleepless hour rolled by as tears rolled down my face and my body rolled along the bed sheets. My arms were wrapped tightly around my body, and in a violent fetal position, I was on the verge of squeezing myself to death.

Won’t someone please just hug me?

All of a sudden, my desperation was swept away by a mysterious wave of embarrassment. It began with a violent chill that made me shudder, like I had said something stupid and utterly laughable in the midst of a large crowd. My arms and legs squeezed tighter along my frame in a desperate attempt to shield me from this strange, uninvited shame, but in the deafening quietude and utter darkness of my room, the feeling was exacerbated to cosmic levels. The room was now a strobe-lit, technicolor coliseum filled with an audience of superior beings—gods and goddesses who claimed dominion over the souls of this realm. The travails and qualms of this mortal prison were trifling, and the tips of their fingers alone carried the power to annihilate any human body, no matter how sturdy or delicate.

I was lying naked in the center of the coliseum ring, presented before these gods and goddess like a miserable slave for their amusement and fascination over my pathetic plea to be held by another. My arms loosened around me as I struggled to comprehend my humiliating situation. I cast about for a source outside my own, but the shame and nakedness only grew. With no escape, I decided to repeat my thoughts aloud, as if giving them voice would give them form.

“Won’t someone please just hug me?” I whispered.

When the last word left my breath, I shuddered with more shame than I ever felt before, and would ever feel again. Alas, I was being held all along! How foolish was I to assume otherwise? Upon this realization, my knees slowly fell from their fetal occupation, straightening out my legs while my arms adopted the area along my chest. I began hearing my breaths in a volume never witnessed before. My body relaxed as I let out a long, shaky exhale. Then suddenly, I could hear my heartbeat. All but my right hand froze as its palm and fingers rode the surface above my throbbing ventricles in something more wondrous and synchronous than unison itself.

“What the fu—” I tried to say, but it was the very sound of my voice that melted my insides and compelled me to bite by lip.

I kept my right hand in place while venturing further down with my left, gliding softly past my inconspicuous ribs and stopping along my navel. Perhaps I should have moved more firmly along with my fingertips, as the soft grazing caused me to chuckle hard with unspeakable ticklishness. Nevertheless, my snickers made a seamless transition into soft hums as my fingertips surveyed the endless flat plains of my midsection. The giggles grew as my arms began hugging me in a rapid variety of ways, exploring hundreds of different grips and gropes. Each embrace was just as precious and perfect as the last, and with each stop of my limbs, I would let out a hum of approval before giggling again. A lifetime passed before I decided to incorporate the crossing and tangling of my legs in various fashions for yet another lifetime.

Upon my last giggle, I opened my eyes to the pitch-blackness of my bedroom. I was elated, yet even though I would have gladly proceeded under the bed sheets for the remainder of my existence, there was something beyond the intimate darkness, calling upon my weary eyes. Just as my exhausted limbs began to rest along my heaving torso, a violent wave of lustful impatience blew my eyelids apart, shooting my legs out from under the covers and springing me out of bed. I was too eager to tolerate the time and effort it took to travel the distance from my bedroom to the bathroom mirror, as several footsteps felt like a cross-country trek across all of Iceland. Nevertheless, I hurried as fast as I could.

I reached the bathroom in one piece, only to fall to millions when I turned on the lights and met the mirror. My breath was stolen as I stared into the eyes of a girl that towered above the cosmic audience she once lay naked and humiliated before. I was no longer uncertain as to whether love at first touch and sound had occurred only moments ago, for it was now love at first sight. With one look, the grievances and joys of all earthly things were drained of their dignity. Songs, poems, paintings and philosophies adopted a pettiness that beckoned the squabble of mere children. Those who debated the mysteries of life while wrestling the concepts of pain and pleasure throughout history were no longer present, for I could no longer fear pain, as my desire for piddling pleasure was obsolete. All struggles of the past were no longer worthy of acknowledgement. All precedents were lost in the only one who truly mattered.

Love at first taste followed promptly as tears of joy gathered an indescribable sweetness off the silk of my cheeks and a euphoric kick of flavor from the curve of my lips. But even as I wept, there was no movement or closing of my eyes while my tears found their way into my mouth. If only food carried a fraction of such a taste! Then I would gladly puke my weight just to eat some more, and the awesome smell of my vomit would be love at first scent!

Impatience swept my feet again as I rushed back into my bedroom and closed the door to continue where I left off. I gave myself one final hug before pulling the lace off my hip bones, and before the intimates could touch my ankles, I was already on my bed, assuming a position that I assumed would please us both. With a heavy inhale, I arched myself against the mattress, threw my hair back, and proceeded to run my hands along and throughout myself. My eyes were closed and I began to breathe heavily. For several hours, I huffed and puffed in euphoria as my body sifted through the sheets and my fingertips sifted through my body. I was thinking about myself, boiling with rapture and unable to pull away. But alas, sleep was calling my name, calling me to surrender myself. My limbs, my senses, my organs and all their nerves were lost in a wondrous bout of fatigue, and I collapsed upon my pillow at last. In my final seconds of consciousness, I could no longer speak or think, but it was no longer a feeling of stupidity or wave of embarrassment when I felt the words spoken from the bottom of my bottomless heart, bidding me goodnight for now.

Tell me we’ll always be together. No matter what. You’re everything.

I awaken with a burp, tasting the remnants of my peanut butter dinner along with the alcohol that flavors my own wondrous breath. Alas, it still isn’t enough to ignore the stench of cologne nearby. The crowd has settled down quite a bit, but the music is blaring at the same volume. My head is somehow resting on a denim jacket and not the armrest I had specifically placed it on. I am curled up in a ball and one foot is shoeless, though I suppose I brought this position upon myself with my excessive drinking. As I sit up, a feminine hand grabs my shoulder once again, and I look up to see an empty platter in the other. My shoe is only half on when the girl pulls me up by my wrists and proceeds to dance up against me in a playful manner. I clench the cigarettes in my pocket and shove my foot in forcefully while trying to keep up with the beat. Suddenly, the girl summons the smell of goofy cologne and blows it my way. She tries desperately to get me to dance amidst the scent, but as drunk as she is, her efforts end abruptly and she falls backward onto the sofa. Nevertheless, the cologne is invading my nostrils more strongly than ever before, encouraged by both its summoner and the ongoing music.

I’m stumbling more than dancing, playing helplessly along, and never so desperate to grasp the star piercing in my pocket. Suddenly, I kick my own shoe and fall forth. Instinctively, I press my head against the nearest article to save me from falling. Alas, my nose and glasses and mouth and teeth all slide across the denim jacket. As I feel the coarse twill and taste the foreign cotton, a pair of arms grows out from the harsh smell of cologne and dare to wrap themselves around my precious waist. Just as the rough, ignoble hands begin the squeezing of my hips, I decide that I’ve had enough, and excuse myself for a smoke.

I sift through a small crowd gathered around the back porch and make my way to the railing once again. It is past midnight and I am deeply aroused. I have to get home. For the moment though, I light another cigarette, lean over the railing and bury my head in my arms, letting out a lethargic moan while staring down my shirt. My woozy and wandering eyes sort of add to the fun, and as I attempt to maintain a mesmerized stare at a particular sector of my chest, I blow smoke down my bust and giggle a little before reverting to a doleful frown. With a sigh, I lift my head and look up toward the constellations. They were always clear and magnificent above, but during a drunken, dreamlike daze, they are more of a glorious and heartbreaking sight. I stare wide-eyed with wonder at the zillions of lights above until the blood rushing to my brain tells me to look back down and take a break. I have to get home.

Back inside, I am relieved to find that the drunken girl has refilled her silver platter with a designated driver. My day, or late night, is finally about to begin, but I am far too sleepy to carry on in front of my computer. Alas, when I arrive home to my bedroom, I decide not to bother with lively.com or gussying up, and go straight over to ss.biz. A genuine smirk makes its way across my face for the first time tonight as I watch footage of a man accidentally setting himself on fire in front of his friends. The next clip sends me into a fit of giggles. It is a homemade slingshot trap, holding a basket filled with chestnuts. A squirrel enters the frame, hops into the trap and begins devouring the nuts. Suddenly, the trap goes off, sending the squirrel flying into a flaming charcoal grill. I don’t suppose the next image was meant to be funny, but it makes me laugh anyways. It is a still shot of a baby falling down a set of stairs with a priceless look of horror on its innocent face. The caption underneath the photo reads, “Mental retardation...IT HAPUNZ.”

The last gif is footage of a woman waiting for the subway to arrive. As the train approaches, a man enters the frame and dropkicks her off the ledge. The subway collides and smashes her to bits. I cover my mouth, trying hard to compose myself, but it’s not enough to stifle the morbid, deviant curiosity holding my eyes from aversion. My drunkenness isn’t helping either, but it’s also telling me it is time for slumber. I replay all the hysterical imagery in my head as I snicker into a T-shirt.

The minty foam expands as I fight to scrub the remnants of tobacco and liquor and stupid food from my mouth. All the while, I’m staring down at my midsection, trying my best to avoid the mirror. I don’t quite understand, but staring at my own reflection is something I’m starting to prefer against. I have no problem ogling over the countless photos I posted on the web, neither do I take issue when applying my own makeup or taking mirror shots. It is only when I stand face-to-face with the coated glass that I begin to feel a bit uneasy.

When my great search had ended, so did the searches of all those who would find me. I was barely past the legal age of consent, but the hills, valleys, rivers and volcanoes of Iceland could not contain a love as vast as mine. Indeed, the Internet was a timeless, ever-growing channel on which I could broadcast my love, but the countless selfshots, private sessions and blog posts would not feed my bottomless desire on their own. There are many who inhabit the online world to feign a social life, clamor for attention, or merely satisfy their sexual frustrations. Issues of self-esteem are certainly evaded, if not quelled before the light of the liquid crystal display, but it wasn’t enough for my comments sections to make me feel intelligent, strong and beautiful. It was imperative that I devote my mind and body to transcend such keywords.

With the keyboard and mouse at my fingertips, all the training I needed was readily available at the speed of light. Tireless dedication brought me toward the most profound teachings in physical fitness, nutrition, photography, chess, logic, mathematics, humor, fashion design, graphic design, hairstyling, cosmetology, and of course, the English language. I saved all the documents and ebooks I came across while scouring the web for educational videos and downloading them illegally. Eventually, my computer’s hard drive would house enough academia to fill a university, and with enough research and practice, I would at least achieve the status of a consummate professional, if not a master, of all those fields and subfields therein. There was something celestial about a yogini who could not only teach gymnastics, but design fashion forward apparel for such activities, then singlehandedly photograph herself fashioning the apparel in the most alluring way, and prepare those photos for some silly online apparel shop. I could give the line a humorous name like “Plank Pants and Tumble Tops”, and I could do it all while playing competitive online chess.

Of course, it was not my intention to boast my skills in the least. It was not so much a passion for doing these things than simply knowing that I could do them. If anything, the proficiencies of my mind and body would manifest themselves in genuine accordance with my heart. Indeed, the only two hands that would ever shape my hair, embellish my face, or adorn a physique that tested the very limits of flexibility and beauty, would belong to the very fingers that ran themselves along and throughout me each peerless night. All the while, my finger would be on the camera, but even so, I grew wary. With all that I had earned before the light of the liquid crystal display, it distressed me to imagine my adeptness being perverted under the light of the sun. Perhaps I would grow ill or fall into harm’s way, or some outside force would penetrate my physique, batter my flesh and leave me incapacitated. I became frantic and uncontrollable in my anxieties, forcing myself to adopt a craft that would make me more dazzling and radiant than ever before.

With the fitness I already achieved, pugilism seemed like a fair place to breed my defense system. Of course, I could hone my reflexes and practice my throws on a mound of moss, but there was only so much training I could obtain with my own two fists. FFLmage was normally a reticent spectator, and our private sessions on lively.com were usually free of conversation and mutual toward the goal of captivating us both. He must have been a little drunker than usual one night, as he kept me online for an hour. I was happy to accommodate his stupor, performing seamlessly while reading intently as he typed away.

“It’s a place men go to forget,” he typed.

“To forget what???” I replied.

“Um…I can’t really remember.”

Though he truly could not quite remember, it was evident in his ramblings that he had joined the French Foreign Legion to forget what most would define as the harshest of circumstances in a place called Senegal. Much of his early years were spent waking up, eating, defecating and sleeping on a hill of garbage. It certainly crossed his mind to abandon the landfill and survive by taking from others through violence and excessive force, but despite the solution it provided to some, FFLmage was far more enamored by the idea of preventing the criminals and thieves from pestering the innocent. Even in the hopelessness of his poverty, it pleased him to leave others alone and unbothered, no matter how their wealth and fortune compared. Through years of unspeakable hardship, the French Foreign Legion would one day welcome his desire to descend a hill of trash with his own two feet.

With a bit of romance behind his typings, FFLmage explained that the Foreign Legion was an elite military force that accepted all walks of life from all around the world, to perform tasks that all other military forces deemed as far too perilous. Through years of service, he was assigned a brand new identity and a sacred set of guidelines to always be smart and physically fit, and to kill without feeling. His service left him with a seemingly prosperous life and countless horror stories from all over the world. Perhaps he resided in France, but wherever FFLmage had settled, he spent most of his time playing video games and watching me.

“Unless this gamepad works on you, then I must go for now,” he typed, then grabbed his video game controller to show me.

A playful, arrogant smile acquired my lips as I reapplied my intimates and walked over to the screen. FFLmage pressed a button and I immediately assumed an orthodox stance. He pressed a few more, and I began jabbing the air in front of my webcam before finishing with a heavy cross. FFLmage grabbed his nose as if I just broke it, then chuckled.

“Ouch,” he typed. “Where did you learn to fight like that?”

“I taught myself,” I typed back.

“What are you defending yourself against?”

“Whatever might keep me from being on here with you.”

“I will protect you, then.”

I shook my head with a smile. “No. That is for me to do, all alone.” I sat on my bed and hugged myself. FFLmage was now giving me a look of complete admiration and understanding.

“Then I will train you. I will teach you Krav Maga, and no one will touch you.”

A few minutes later, I received a private message from FFLmage, ordering me to change clothes and click the link he provided to a separate video chat site. Suddenly, I was standing on the other side of a private session, wearing a sports bra in place of lingerie, sweating profusely to a whole other activity. In this private session, FFLmage’s words were spoken, and despite his thick accent, I would remember everything.

“What I am going to teach you is not a sport,” he began. “Imagine that a man is trying to hurt you, or molest you, or simply steal from you. None of it matters, because you are only to believe that rather, he is trying to kill and rape you in the most heinous fashion, and with every move of your body, you are to end his life as quickly and violently as possible.”

Alas, a philosophy of combat that echoed my vigilance! Save the blue star piercing that filled my knotty depression and allowed me to glow in the agonizing realms away from the shine of the liquid crystal display, no earthly belonging mattered much to me. Nay, there was nothing of mine to steal or harm except the wondrous merchandise powered by my ethereal vital fluids, and to even graze the hairs on my arms with malintent was to threaten my life.

It was just as fitting that the world’s most dangerous martial art had originated in the most coveted land of all time. Developed for the military forces of a faraway land called Israel, Krav Maga focused on self-defense and brutal counter techniques that often left the enemy dead or mortally wounded. Judo throws, wrestling takedowns and Western Boxing punches would all arise from the sovereign instincts of the fighter, who must always do “whatever it takes”. Oftentimes, this motto could include gouging out the eyes, slicing the neck, ripping out the throat, or perhaps even stabbing a reproductive organ or two.

Of course, my narrow shoulders and soft feminine limbs seemed no match against a broad, masculine torso spread by hairy, heavy arms, but the demonstration videos I studied would reveal that even two Goliaths could fall by my hand. It was simply a matter of blocking the oncoming punch, then twisting that assailing limb to manipulate his footing, making it easier to throw him down. The other one would come at me with a grab, only to meet a low blow while I wiggled out of his grip. As he clutched his smarting crotch, I would attack his throat with cruel speed and gouge out his eyes until his friend reentered the fray. Pugilism would subdue his second attempt, then I would most likely find the nearest object lying around and hope that it was sharp enough to ram through his eye hole, neck, armpit, or most hopefully, his rectum or prick.

This particular scenario was shown in a demonstration video FFLmage had initially sent, and at first, I couldn’t help watching with dismissive laughter. The footage looked fake, ridiculous and worthy of choreography for musicals. Little did I know that with FFLmage’s rigorous training, even three castrated Goliaths might one day lie dead at my feet.

FFLmage would monitor every strike I made into my punching bag, yelling at me whenever I failed to connect with utter brutality behind my limbs. Every day he would send me a link to his chat room, and with each training session, my moves would grow in variety and violence. Meanwhile, my knowledge of pressure points compelled me to replace my punching bag with one that resembled a head and torso. Then, I would turn from my punching bag to face FFLmage, who would train me on blocking and countering. The delay between our webcams only helped, as he would throw out an attack, then watch as I reacted.

Of course, I would return the favor each night, offering my private sessions for free and for as long as he wished. Yet as the months passed, FFLmage would turn down more of my loving offers. In fact, he began to prefer watching me ball my fists and thrust my elbows over running my fingers along and throughout myself. When my hand-to-hand combat reached a prowess that he approved, he insisted on sending me a combat knife in the mail. The engagement would gradually destroy the contents of my punching bag, but it was alluring to find that the speed of my hands had inspired an uncanny swiftness of my stabs into the throat and slashes across the chest. I remember going wild with lust after he accomplished the seemingly impossible task of teaching me how to counter a knife attack with my bare hands, then either disarm my opponent or make him stab himself with his own blade.

At the peak of a covetous mountain lied a vulnerable fountain of unspeakable knowledge and beauty. Those at the base would stare upwards in awe while others would assume the perilous climb. With every footstep, their hearts would adopt the envy of the mountain, and it was only a matter of time before they might reach the top to drink with foreign, contaminated lips. Alas, there was no rest until the fountain flowed rife with a toxicity as unspeakable as the knowledge and beauty in and of itself. There was no rest until every strike, every reflex and every motion of my flawless frame was prepared to vanquish every onslaught imaginable, and with the utmost cruelty. Countless sessions and miles of hand wrap went by until one day, my inbox was missing a private message from FFLmage. So I decided to send him one instead.

“Where’d you go?” I typed. “Don’t make me come find you and kick your ass.”

After weeks without a private session between us, I received a package in the mail containing a hand-written letter and a brown belt to signify the end of my training.

“A goddess like you should never have to protect yourself,” it read. “But if anyone ever puts their hands on you and somehow doesn’t die by the magnitude of your wondrous feel, kill them for me.”