It was midnight, and I was in Harlem, trying to buy drugs from a stranger I met on a secret-sharing app. But he wasn’t interested in my money.
When I started chatting with the drug dealers of Whisper, an anonymizing social platform that’s also host to tales of infidelity, live reports from police standoffs, and gossip among closeted gay frat bros, it was in the hopes of writing a story about what had led them to that life. The app allows users to initiate a private chat by clicking on any given confession and messaging the person who posted it—an opportunity for unvarnished honesty (or the precise opposite) between individuals who probably won’t ever meet.
It struck me that many people who admitted to dealing drugs felt it was their only means of survival, and that regular jobs left them financially struggling. One told me that he didn’t know what else to do with himself.
"I’m really white guying my way through the internet. People just let me do shit cause I have a weird name and am white. It’s great."
"Yeah. Game recognizes game.”
"I’d like to have a real conversation with you, but I can’t, that’s why I’m yelling and being annoying.”
"Whoop, that was close."
"Did you almost just drop the floss in the toilet."
"That’s exactly what happened."
"It’s weird that I could hear that."
"You have clever ears."
It was bad enough that I had, just weeks ago, consumed all manner of herbal virility teas in the hopes of bolstering my bedroom performance; the idea that I’d top this public humiliation by trying to assemble my own masturbatory aid would really test her opinion of me, no matter how comically oversized her vibrator is. (It sounds like a swarm of mutant wasps, for real.)
But marriages come and go—fucking inanimate objects is forever. And truth be told, I thought I could use a change from my usual moisturizer-wasting routine. What if I was missing out on something much better? What if those reclusive hikikomori knew something I didn’t? I had a journalistic responsibility to find out, as well as a moral obligation to my own dick.
The reality may be that the Internet facilitates these imbalanced relationships between alt lit men and teenage women—it’s a medium that somehow abolishes the distinctions of age, which assert themselves once more when two people come face to face, the younger then adapting to a submissive role. “It was very easy to continue to be friends with Stephen” following her rape, Wines said. “I worked hard to convince myself that what had happened was consensual, and so I started to believe it. He tried to coerce me into having sex with him again about a month later, and I stayed friends with him through that too.” Though she now feels impassioned to speak out, she’s “very disheartened and numb at the same time.”
"Sorry about the history of western civilization and that."
"Not your fault."
Anonymous said: Your brother is Miles Klee?
(thenotes get your groupies off my elite blog)
Sorry, all my groupies are free-range.