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Later, I’d discover online dating, where messaging with anonymous men put words and sex — my two favorite things — together in one seamless electric unit. Soaring on the Norwegian Air jet on my way to Stockholm, I felt a little bit like Kik’s predatory adults in my lusting after verboten nubile flesh, despite the fact that Odin’s Thirst Trap was entirely street legal and despite the fact that he had contacted me first on Ok Cupid.
I was Red wearing a hood and cloak to walk into the woods, doing something that someone else’s mom would have warned her about.Before 21st-century parents got fussed over their kids getting electronic mail from sketchy men, 18th-century parents got in a lather over their daughters getting letters from “crimping fellows,” period slang for fuckboys.This anxiety ranges far and wide across 18th-century writing, but it finds its apex in Samuel Richardson’s epistolary novels , the story of a bourgeois young lady who is seduced — and then raped — by an aristocratic heir.Anonymity, to me, is trash; pseudonymity is treasure. Back then, I acted under a stage name, and I wrote under a pen name.More than mere pretense, the adoption of other names afforded me the chance to craft my own character.Before hearing about it from Odin’s Thirst Trap, a creamy éclair of a Swede with milk-fed skin and the kind of wide-eyed blondness that would make for the third-favorite member of a boy band, I’d no knowledge of Kik.
I downloaded the Kik app and created a profile because I wanted to communicate with Odin’s Thirst Trap — and, as it turned out, every Swedish guy I met through Ok Tinder. No, I’d written back to Odin’s Thirst Trap, I’ll get it. ” read the Ok Cupid message from Odin’s Thirst Trap, a 20-year-old blond living in Stockholm.“It’s what all the kids here use.” I was traveling to Sweden to write and to get laid, not necessarily in that order.Letters saved until night were, in Richardson’s time, one of the very few private spaces afforded to women, especially young women; these days, messaging that can’t be surveilled operates the same way, for only in unseen spaces can we fancy ourselves the most adult.“My sweet-eyed blackguard schoolgirl,” wrote James Joyce to Norah Barnacle, “my mistress, as much as you like (my little frigging mistress! ).” Sprinkle the line with dancing ladies in red and it could be a text message.Like a projection on a silver screen, you remake meaning, words flicker and fade, reborn in your own image.