We started having cyber sex. I still can't get over how intense it was with my MacBook balanced on my stomach, typing erotica one-handed. We did it again two days later. On February 28 we spent the entire day on chat. Neither of us even showered. I got up to walk my dog and use the bathroom, and that was it. Most sex doesn't end with someone curled around a laptop. The more we talked, the lonelier we became. On March 1, he typed, "I wish you were here. #thedanceofhavingsaidsomethingathousandtimes."
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Stop Calling, Stop Calling, I Don't Want To Think Anymore
Over internet chat, it's easy to blow off things you don't want to see. He kept bringing up fear, nerves, the damage done to him by his previous relationship, how he withdraws before things with girls get too serious. In real life, it wouldn't have been so easy for me to ignore these things—but this wasn't real life.
On March 6 I called, wanting to hear his voice. We'd spoken before, but most of our phone calls happened while one of us was intoxicated; and while our daily chats would go on for hours and hours, our phone conversations lasted for less than five minutes. Patrick didn't answer, and responded via chat. I was growing to resent this. He wrote that he had started to worry about whether he could do a real relationship. He said he just wanted some time to think.
We didn't speak for a few days, until he replied to a tweet I wrote about being sad. We both felt heartbroken. We had been sprinting in a marathon and had run out of energy. We got into our first and only fight. I called a few times. He didn't answer.
The innocence and the intensity had left us, along with the lonely longing for one another. Cyber sex and projected fantasies would have never fixed that. All the wishing in the world would never allow me to climb through my computer screen and fall out the other side.
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A New Beginning
For a few weeks, we acted as friends, encouraging each other to date. We also encouraged each other not to tweet about it.