It really all started quite by mistake. I had my social network account and was playing some silly game, but no one in my group of friends really played. It was a fun game and kept my mind off my awful marriage and was a good way to kill time. What’s a girl to do? I decided to create a new account with a whole new name and picture. She would be everything I wasn’t. A young, hot Italian girl who dressed in lingerie and who wasn’t afraid to post pictures of herself. She would be bisexual and proud of it. She worked in a lousy accounting office job for some creep who hit on her any chance he could get. She posted provocative statuses waiting to see if anyone would reply. And so my Alter Ego was created. With a girl dressed in lingerie posing provocatively eating a piece of cake, the friend requests were almost instantaneous. All I wanted were new friends to support me in the game, get ahead in it, but what I turned out getting was by far, more than I had ever anticipated.
As I continued playing the game, the friends kept piling on. Whenever I had a question about the game I would post it. I usually just got the answer to my questions but a few times I got insinuating replies that really were looking for more than just to answer my questions. He would ask questions in reply to my questions, often times things that had nothing to do with the game. Like, how could I manage to play the game with so few clothes on? Or, if I was really true that I was Italian because he couldn’t see my mustache. After a few of these posts I decided to send him a private message. I really think that I started the flirting and where it went from there was unbelievable.
I asked about him and what he did for a living, knowing perfectly well that he was a chef from his profile picture. I asked him for a few recipes and if he knew of any that would make a young girl squirm. He had plenty. The private messages went back and forth for a while and then went to full time chatting. Forget the game, all I wanted was to talk to him. He made me feel like I was in high school again, being shy, but not really. Saying outrageous things was easy; after all, it was really just my Alter Ego making things up as the chats progressed. My age, my job, my sexual orientation, my problems, my family … everything was fake. Except for the way I felt when I talked with him. He made my heart race and my insides cringe. The one thing that he insisted on that in all things, we tell the TRUTH. That’s how he spelled it. This would be a fantasy chat game, but everything personal we talked about had to be true. He was tired of lies and really wanted to be truthful with someone for once in his life. Truth? Yeah right … the more reckless my Alter Ego became the more exciting it was for me.
Being in a fruitless marriage made things all the more exciting. I would chat away with him as my husband sat on the couch and watched TV, or played cards with the guys. Any chance I had to be online and look for him I took. Every moment I had free in the day I was online waiting for him to show up and while I waited I wrote stories of my Alter Ego’s adventures; most of them were sexual adventures. When he would get online I would tell him about my day at “work” with my stupid boss or about the problems I was having with my live-in lesbian lover. He listened to every word offering advice on how to deal with my boss and my girlfriend. He asked about what I ate for dinner and always, the first thing he would ask, “What color?” For some reason the color of my panties was always on his mind.
He had his own set of problems that he felt he could lay on me too. He was a very new reformed alcoholic and was trying to quit smoking too. He had been in jail for running guns in Canada. He was a former tough guy for some gang. He had been in a motorcycle accident and had some teeth knocked out. He also just found out he was diabetic and didn’t want to take his medication. He was unemployed and would soon be “visiting” his parents for a while. When he went to live with them the crisis worsened for him. His father had cancer and his mother was a nag. His sister was drinking too much and going back to his hometown wasn’t much fun anymore. He was a sexual fiend with a taste for college girls, but was older now and overweight and not willing to go through the crap it took to get a college girl to sleep with him. We decided that we would exchange erotic stories to pass the time and to fulfill a sick need that we both had.
It was a fantasy world we lived in. Sometimes he would ramble about how he felt so free to be able to share his fantasies with someone and not be judged and then go on to tell the best story about how a girl got laid by a horny priest, or getting it from a black guy with a huge member. I sent him my stories too about meeting a stranger in a grey suit on the bus and taking him home, or a girl tanning on the beach, suddenly seduced without knowing her lover, or tell him about me and my girlfriend’s antics. So many stories were exchanged. So many hot stories that most of the time sent me to my room to masturbate. Being married for almost twenty-seven years in a dull marriage, it felt good, real good.
The trouble really started though when he asked for pictures. Pictures of me in clothes I normally wore, me out with friends having a good time or just sitting at home. Since my Alter Ego didn’t really exist, I had to find these pictures elsewhere. I went to my real social network account and stole pictures from my niece. She kind of filled the description of my age and body type. I just made sure to crop the head off so all he would see was the body. I also sent him nude pictures from slutty magazines. He wanted the “real” me of those though. How could I send him that? I was a forty-seven year old posing as a twenty-nine year old? I really didn’t think he wanted to see that.
In one of the group of pictures that I sent him, without realizing it, in the last picture, I forgot to cut off the head. It was of my niece wearing a black dress holding a drink in her hand and she was smiling. He commented on it, asking if that was me in the picture. What! How could I have missed cropping that? I was upset because now I would have to base everything on that picture. He liked it and seemed pleased to know what I really looked like but still insisted on seeing the rest of me. “Buy some lingerie and take some pictures” he said. I dealt with the idea that he now knew what I looked like by BS-ing my way around his questions. A few days later, he asked which picture I liked the best. I told him that I like the one of me in the bikini. He liked that one too—all the right curves. Only problem is I told him it was the only one that really was me.