After I quit the social networking site, I woke up with a pep in my step, as if I'd just retired after 70 years of service at a meat-packing plant, with a huge marijuana, cat, and vibrator pension in the Bahamas
Which brings me to the fakemance with Dope Dancer. It seemed so real at first — even an illiterate would have been blinded by the powerful vibes that scampered off the interface when we'd go at it — feverishly jousting and teasing one another in an unselfconscious flurry of authentic desire, which was the intimate prelude to ... a follow-up like. It was our unique way of saying "I got you, babe" without actually having to.
I'd met Dope Dancer nearly 20 years ago in a moment of semiconscious raving. Then — as now, according to his bustling wall — he was an international superstar rave DJ (who now peddles cartoon collectibles on Haight Street sidewalks every weekday from noon till six — help a brother out, and don't bring $20s), and we're both pretty sure we held hands once, while on E in 1993 at the Endup.
Staring at his outdated profile pic on Facebook all day long was a seductive flashback to the glory years, when I could party for three days and still look cute. When all I had to worry about was finding the next party, the shortest dress. Real life had changed, but the fantasies had stayed the same.
And as with my commenter BFFs, transitioning to person-to-person contact was an awkward conundrum neither of us was equipped to handle. After six months of Facebook foreplay, we decided to interface live — specifically, under one roof, in the same room, on the same couch, at the same time.
However, face-to-face we had little to say. Oh, that's not fair: we talked about Facebook. The sexual tension that climaxed onscreen fizzled into the needling desire to check my phone. There on his couch in plain daylight, we saw each other for what we were: two imperfect human beings. And that, of course, was a letdown. I actually didn't mind the missing teeth and the curious forehead dent, details that never surfaced in his enormous collection of attractive profile pix. Even now, I am still too embarrassed to admit the truth: the pretend magic we shared could only flourish within the corporate safety zone of Facebook.
"Wake up, Roberta!" I told myself, "None of this is real. These tweekers aren't your friends." Facebook is simply a place to collectively drown in a wash of nostalgia and endless jibber jabber — solving nothing and doing even less. It is a stadium full of cracked-out narcissists, each with a podium and a mic, none of whom have anything interesting to say anymore but me. Of course, nearly every post I crafted was a jewel, a living and breathing Mona Lisa, even toward the end when I couldn't stop because of the OCD.
Which begs the question: Was I sharing thoughts with a supportive, ever-expanding community, or squandering precious seminal fluid among strangers from the past?
After whipping out a particularly snappy status update one recent morning ("If eyes really could burn holes, how many assholes would I have by now?"), I thought, "Shouldn't I be transcribing this shit into some kind of book — maybe one made with raw silk and pressed papyrus — instead of creating free content all day long for some rich asshole's website?"
For certain, there would be no Mona Lisa if da Vinci had been a total Fakecracker. In Leonardo da Vinci and a Memory of His Childhood, the clearly bi-curious Sigmund Freud argues that the artist was able to achieve supreme genius status through the sublimation of his sexual urges, which he redirected into an obsession for making art. In other words, if da Vinci had been banging court jesters all day, there'd be no creamy side sauce for that The Last Supper. And let's be honest — Facebook is nothing if not a substitute for the sex, cigarettes, and crack. Therefore, if da Vinci would not fuck, Seawhore would not post.