This woman could have been crafting bodice-rippers for Harlequin Books. “I thrive on every word that falls from your sensuous lips,” she wrote Lee. “I feel I am being too bold for a lady of my breeding, but what I feel has gone from my control before I was aware of my feelings.” More letters followed, more fire, more steam. And then, out of nowhere: “This is the very last time I will write to you. You have to leave me alone. Any future mail you send me will remain unanswered. We do not know each other. Words across a net aren’t a firm basis of a relationship and it takes time to form a friendship. We have neither and I cannot currently give either to you. I have strong personal commitments at the moment that leave me unable to commit to anyone, especially a man in a romantic way. Please understand. It may have been special and beautiful, but it has to be over. One day I may be in a position to explain further, but currently I cannot. I apologise once more and wish you well in your life.”
“Maybe,” Lee looked back, “it was just a game for her.” And, no dummy, he had learned from such experiences. Nowadays Lee was wary of anonymous addresses with low numbers that suggested their owners had been cruising alt.personal for a long time.
He had also learned of the usefulness of friendship as a prelude to love. “Of all those ladies who answered my original personal,” he said, “only one is still corresponding as a friend.” Another female friend was also in his life online, somebody he met in an unrelated newsgroup. She typed out an popular opinion and he wrote in to agree, and they found they shared interests. But neither saw romance immediately ahead. Nor was that true of the other friendships he had online. Although vague about them, he suggested that he was still on the periphery.
Reached some months later, Lee told me he had gone on to befriend “quite a few nice women around this campus.” In person and on the Net, however, he had yet to meet just the right one for those river walks, museum tours, and “giving and receiving pleasure.”
“Well, sorry, David,” Lee said, “but I didn’t have a happy ending. I‘m sure[I‘m sure] there are some people who actually find their true loves this way. Although I didn’t find true love, I’ve found many sincere friendships via the Net. So I’m glad that the Net has worked for me.” I was, too, and I wished him all kinds of wonderful surprises ahead. Chivalrous SMHGs like Lee Chen should be more than peripherals.
Net Adultery
Places like New York or Tokyo abound with museums, art galleries, movie houses, universities, and large pools of single people who hope to meet the same. Something else, however, awaits those looking for it—more opportunities for adultery than in small towns. And it is the same with the Internet. It isn’t just that straying wives and husbands can use those identity-stripping computers in Finland to make swap shopping easier. More importantly, the Internet teems with bright, funny, people who hate convention, including, in some cases, marriage.
For a stretch, a support-style mailing list came across as a Peyton Place in cyberspace. A man and a woman met there. He told her he would be leaving his wife and children. She spent that weekend with a third member of the list; after the original man publicly confessed, she popped up out of the blue to give her side. If anyone doubted that computers could bring people together in person, this was proof positive in the worst way. Most members of the list were horrified. They pleaded for Peyton Placers to go offline. Clearly the Internet does not turn people into saints—it just makes it easier to do what comes naturally, good or bad.
But some context, please. The same Net could bring together old-fashioned romantics. As shown by the Smith-Olson pairing, the Net could actually strengthen traditional values among those who so inclined.
Besides, much of the illicit action on the Net was by the mutual consent of husbands and wives. When I ventured into a seamy area called alt.personals.poly, I saw an ad posted by a swinging couple from Florida. “I am 6′3″ brown haired, considered attractive,” said Hank*, the husband. “She is 5ʹ0″ busty, blonde, blue eyes, very pretty. We’re not weird or disturbed or wanting to beat people, hahaha. We are very sensual, passionate, and are good at ya know the fun stuff.” Was this the ’Bahn that Bill and Al had in mind for us? Not quite. But it wasn’t as if some pervert was cheating on his wife and hiding behind an anonymous server while lusting for a nineteen-year-old coed who was new to both life and the Net. Although I did not condone Hank’s swinging, I actually felt a little sorry for him after he wrote me a short but touching letter: He told how a woman had stood him up and the Missus. Better luck next time, Hank.