Through A Cam: Darkly

This post originally appeared on another site in a slightly different format. 

Three years ago I discovered the video chatting rabbit hole known as ICU2.  Nowadays, sites that don’t offer video chat are archaic. If you are a paid member, NKP has a very fine one. ICU2’s home page touts it as being ‘the 24-hour party that never ends’. At times I’ve regarded it as ‘the 24-hour party that you can’t escape. 

Despite my flawed time management skills, I have enjoyed camaraderie, pun intended, with many of the hot men since day 1. I see ICU2 as a fraternity of super studly, generally friendly and highly intelligent men-if not lacking common sense with hobbies of pipes and darts.  One ‘good old boy’, who’s sexy yet funny slam vids I drooled over on the old Ning site, was a regular and he lived in this half of the West. He needed tutoring in basic and advanced Skype and Oovoo. I provided lessons pro-bono, hoping he might fly down to Hollywood and thank me, ‘bono’ in hand.  Alas he wasn’t a quick study with my subtext or subjects; and we repeated the lessons about 5 times. And he could never remember how he knew me.

Much like the old studio star system, our cam personas : dom, sub, verbal, silent,  dark, daffy, delirious, self-promoting or tragically self-destructive are often at extreme cross purposes with the face we present to or hide from the rest of the world. At times, and with so much chemical osmosis about, the lines between real and camera blur, combine or even trade places. It’s difficult to be in an altered state and question your judgment, eyesight and sanity.

Last January, on what would be our last video conference, I did just that. The screen name was his, but the easy going, lovable ‘good ol' boy’  appeared on the monitor. Something not quite human, but hyper-masculin creature was standing stout in the shadows. It ranted about thefts of personal property, betrayal by friends and  countless relationships destroyed.
I listened, but there could be never enough apologies or amends for him. A few days later, channeling my cyber-Nancy Drew, I compared his early videos to the latter day pictures and vids. I still don’t know what it was I saw on Oovoo that night.

It’s a small chem, cam and slam club and most of us are 3-4 degrees of separation from each other. Last week, I received a link that saddened but did not shock me.  My cyber-friend had been arrested--and this was not a jaywalking charge. He was accused of committing numerous, and truly heinous crimes.
His local paper broke the biased story and may as well have printed that a lynching would save the state money. As a journalist and an American, I am ashamed at such unfair reporting. I pray that healing and reconciliation can begin for my friend, whose real name, screen names and city I decline to reveal.  I cannot and will not denounce him, and although we never met face to face. I don’t expect we will.

You might find my support odd, and those who know him have contacted me, replacng ‘odd’ with adjectives that I’d prefer not to repeat. Given the accusations, if convicted and imprisoned, he will not survive.  Where did this party take such a nasty turn?

Once upon a time, in a chat room long ago, I saw a man: fun, festive and a lot like you and me.  In talking with him,he became real, not just a potential screenshot.  Some will say he is entirely innocent, blaming his crimes on the substances he used: bestowing mystical powers these concoctions do not possess- nor ever will.  

 

Humans make mistakes.  And we must never forget that we are human.

Who Am I? Why Am I? and what the f*** am i doing here?

Originally posted 9/17/2010  


...I was a precocious, inquisitive and intelligent only child of privilege until one humid afternoon when I became a 12 year old trust-fund orphan. I was sent to live with disinterested relatives mindlessly pushing me towards a future my parents had planned; a medical and/or legal career; marriage to a virgin who would stay home and produce 2-3 heirs. One boy must become a deacon in a Protestant church (my Catholic education ended with my mother's overdose.)  And finally: a two-story plantation-style or English Tudor home in the city's best neighborhood. A house with plenty of guest rooms for my freeloading, deadbeat, country-fried relatives.

...Exactly thirty years ago this summer, I stood outside the gates of a private university; tuition paid in advance, people who actually might have an interest in my future very eager to help. Beside me stood my best friend, who was also my boyfriend. No one knew the football quarterback and the tennis playing rich kid were deep in the throes of teenage angst and love.

He began to cry, all 6 foot-whatever he was, and said, "I'm afraid I'll never see you again."  Looking across the campus, I saw my future: dutiful, dignified, dedicated to honoring my parents. That future, for me would be a living death.

Now ferfucksakes, my father had worked for the mafia, and every night he slept with a pistol in his nightstand and a revolver under his pillow. My mother, his third wife, was a country girl who had married her childhood sweetheart, but that didn't work out and they divorced.  A few years later, she was introduced to my father. She became enamored with this mysterious man and his life. He was INTERESTING. He had LIVED. And he loved her deeply.
Ultimately, they would both wear out (versus rust out). I was 12 years old that sticky June afternoon Mama downed too many Seconals. Four years later, Daddy had a fatal heart attack as he was preparing to drive somewhere.
Being a blend of my parents'  best and worst traits, I never fit in with either family side. I had felt lost and alone for so long. And now I'd be leaving the only person I truly loved and felt safe with.

I raised my chin and looked up at Mark.  He returned my gaze and his eyes widened as they did when he knew I was about to reject authority. We turned away from the registration tables, ran to his burgundy Camaro and kissed passionately as only young lovers can. We headed back to Dallas at 75 mph. I enrolled at the local college as a Theater major.  Never once have I regretted following my heart. I did it my way then: and continue to do so now.

Which brings us to three years ago. From the outside. I was the Guy Who Had It All. And 'on paper',  it looked great. But inside, I felt constricted, caged and cold. A new journey was on the horizon, one taking me on the queerest, wildest ride since Mr. Toad revved up at Disneyland or brave Alice walked thru that looking glass.
My education began when I attended an afternoon orgy in Silver Lake. I sampled what I was the finest, most potent cocaine I’d snorted. Expressing my delight to my host, a rotund and fey fellow, his cheerful face changed as if I'd stamped out a cigarette in his lemon chiffon pie. "Didn't you read the ad? This isn't coke.  It's crystal meth."

 

I thought, This is crystal? I see why it's so popular. I'd read about it, had never seen it, and knew no one who used it. Until today.

Instead I  replied, "I read the ad. I saw the word 'party.'  "And this is one indeed! There are three blow jobs happening in three separate sections of your living room. And over there, a performance or a solo nude tai-chi session,..quite avant-garde and seasoned with Bob Fosse-style hand gestures."
Lowering my voice,  I addded."He's a screenwriter who offices at Paramount. His pet name for we peasants who married into the film industry is 'this is the spouse of'. I'm single now and no longer have a title. This is neither the time nor place to refresh his memory. He looks like a zombie."

My host gripped my forearm. "Promise me. Promise me you won't become like him." I looked down: my host's intense expression was one of genuine concern; but mixed with fear. A fear that made me shudder as if the temperature around me had plummeted from sexual inferno to Siberian igloo.
"I promise."

I studied everything I could on 'party and play, aka PNP.  I checked out every website and attended more impromptu 'parties'.  I’d seen the headlines about overdoses and drug busts.  I’d heard of lives ruined...aka 'train wrecks'.  I resolved not to be another Hollywood casualty.

To achieve that, I had to be strong, persistant or show any weakness. In my search, I often felt assisted by invisible, otherworldly guides. Websites, contacts, and solutions manifested easily. I would meet some of the brightest, hunkiest and most stubborn SOB’s, as well as liars, gamers, and the criminally insane.  I also learned a difficult lesson. Allowing one's jealousy, hatred and pompous arrogance to override natural kindness, forgiveness and common sense can potentially orchestrate our own destruction.

This blog is about the search for myself, and with fingers crossed: the insight to create, implement and commit to personal speed limits. I'll include the men and women I meet along my travels: chipped, tattered, mended and glued back together. And some who I can only describe as 'jes' plain crazy'. 

 

My passion for storytelling was influenced from an early age by my beloved babysitter: a 25" RCA color console television. Our 4, sometimes 6 local channels broadcasted either early morning mid-day, late night and on the weekends, all night movies. It was rumored they were obtained from mysterious midwestern salt mines used as film vaults far underground. These silver nitrate treasures were silent, talked, in black and white or color. Their images shaped my personality, dream world and writing style.  My characters are good looking, well-dressed and witty. It's sarcasm spritzed with a double-dry vodka martini.
 

Good stories need conflict. Who wants to read about happy people in happy places who are always happy?  Yawn. I'll share the obstacles thrown in my path by a most formidable and frightening opponent: I learned about him from a 1956 M-G-M sci-fi movie I love called 'Forbdden Planet.'  My enemy is known in that film as 'The Monster from the ID". Invisible, clever and ferocious, and hell-bent on destruction. He is my very own self.
 

This walk on the wilder side begins now:  and you are curious...aren't you?