The scary thing about my own secrets is how easy it is for me to repress them until I don’t remember at all — or otherwise distort the facts until I truly believe the twisted version. I sat here all morning with a dumb grin on my face thinking, “Ha! I’m an open book. Can’t think of a single secret to share.” But slowly, the truth came creeping back. I have many secrets, and most of them bring me into a world of shame.
I will, for the first time, openly admit: I found a great deal of my confidence on Chat Roulette.
It is 2008.
I finally own a MacBook with a built-in camera and I have perfected the art of webcam to highlight my freckly face and hide the 60 pounds of excess chub that clung from elbow to knee. I often lay on my belly, patterned be-socked feet adorably crossed in the background, chin propped casually to the side. IRL my hair looks an unruly hot mess but on the video preview, it is thick and tousled and somewhat glorious.
I click through countless dicks of all sizes and colors. Next. Next. Next. A girl appears with much bigger boobs than me. I give her a second to decide, and then wave. She’s not interested in making friends tonight. I’m nexted. More dicks. A group of rowdy boys shout over one another into a shitty microphone. I type “oh hello,” and they repeatedly ask me to take my shirt off. I type, “nahhhhh.” I’m nexted.
Finally it is quiet and a normal-looking guy sits in a large room lit only by his laptop screen. I type out a message. I never use my voice, because I am 16 and live with my parents and cannot risk to be overheard. He types one back, and gives me a smile. Normal Guy is friendly. We make it 10 minutes chatting and sharing useless facts about our lives before he suggests we “play a game.” Next.
A mid-life businessman in a decorated room with expensive accessories on, and around him. What are you doing here? “Avoiding my wife.” Now I am a marriage counselor.
A skater boy with music posters in the background. Now I am a Bamboozler with deep roots in classic rock, only the second half being true. He is kinder than I expected, and asks for girl advice. I next him in the middle of a sappy, self-pitying, too-long account of one of his past relationships.
A platoon of soldiers goofing around overseas. I spend hours with them. I learn each of their names and what they miss most about the US. They make me laugh and tell me I’m the prettiest thing they’ve seen in 3 and a half months. They dissect my boring life and convince me that I’m born for greatness. I thank them for serving our country. They ask me to take my shirt off. For these lucky guys, I give a quick flash and a devilish smile and say, “that’s all you get.” I hit my bong and blow the smoke at the camera and it drives them crazy. It is 3 a.m. and I have school the next day. We blow kisses, I say farewell to my new friends, and I go to sleep still smiling.
It is the weekend and somehow I have the house to myself. I’m on Chat Roulette the entire day. Sometimes I leave my webcam on and just do stuff around my room until someone calls me back over. I use my cat to flirt. I dance and sing freely to Queen’s “Don’t Stop Me Now” and am nexted until one guy watches me until the very last “LAAAA” and he gives me a standing ovation, revealing his erect penis. I laugh, applaud him back, and next him.
I spend 20 minutes talking to the cutest guy who has ever given me the time of day. He is older than me, but not at all condescending. 20 minutes turns into an hour. Two hours. It’s the best conversation I’ve had with anyone on this website. We smoke with each other. We share secrets. We are coy. We banter and tease. We live close enough to meet sometime. We plan out a perfect day. I go to take a screenshot of how cute we are, and ACCIDENTALLY QUIT SAFARI. “NOOOO!” I scream. I frantically type in “c-h-ENTER” to get back to Chat Roulette. Of course it is futile and he’s not there. Just flopping dicks. Tears spring to my eyes and I try to remember everything he revealed to see if I could track down his full name or his Facebook. I Google his first name and his school. I Google his first name and his sport. I Google a program he talked about. I Google for too long. I close the laptop and mourn our beautiful life together.
Anyway, alter egos and missed opportunities aside, the point of it all is that I had so many conversations with so many strangers, that it completely changed the way I dealt with meeting new people. I felt so much more comfortable approaching new kids at school, strangers at family parties, and most especially, adults of all ages. It also changed the way I felt about myself. I took pride knowing that I could be an engaging individual despite my A-cups, Kohl’s attire, and unmanageable hair.
At that age, Chat Roulette can be somewhat addicting. You may be wondering how I stopped. The truth, and a secret that I repressed until today: One night I was feeling cheeky and decided to tilt the screen down from my face and show off my freshly shaven lady bits in a fruitless effort to balance out the army of dicks. This was truly the FIRST time anyone had seen this part of my body since I was a toddler and needed bathtub supervision. Not even a single minute passed before I was reported & my IP address was banned from the site for a year.
