Situation:

Woman posts a message to a webforum, looking for cybersex with young men. Here's part of my response to Susan. Assuming that was her real name.

Is "Susan" actually female? It's no big secret that a fair number of these ads, when tracked down, turn out to be from men. If someone was thinking of replying, he might want to consider this image.

Some middle aged guy on the other side of the screen.

Flies are buzzing around him, because the garbage has piled up in the kitchen and never been removed. By now, the mountain of refuse has reached halfway through the living room. Were you brave enough to look, you could find used (and yet unread) newspapers detailing the history of our country, all of the way back into the 1950s. You could probably reconstruct this man's dining history back to the last time his mother was willing to visit, and clean, just by excavating the strata, much like an archaeologist.

The dishes have gone unwashed for weeks, and the food that used to lie on them has dripped down, from plate to plate, until joining the puddle of slime at the bottom of the sink that has formed from the remains of meals long since forgotten. The stench of unchanged kitty litter fills the room, fighting the odor of decay for control of the air. You are not sure which will win. You notice a half starved kitten staring blindly toward you, almost as if he sensed your presence, and was pleading to be fed. You realise that the outcome of the contest has been decided.

And then a new player enters the arena. As you look at the man more closely, you see him smile. He has just read one of your most reluctantly yielded personal secrets. You see two lines of unbrushed teeth, turned the beautiful golden brown color of a well roasted chicken. A substance resembling yellowish cottage cheese fills his mouth, and comes dribbling down his chin, as he opens his mouth wide, and rolls his eyes in ecstacy. He has begun to masturbate. Globs of shimmering, gelatinous semen strike the screen, and slowly roll off, the letters becoming blurry, and then sharp again as the ooze passes in front of them. He wipes his hand across the screen to wipe it clean.

A futile effort. Years of caked on dirt, mixed with the oils from his skin to form a pitch like coating, leave a dark, greasy smear on his screen. You see, he does not believe in bathing. It would wash away his natural pheromones, and deny the sexual pleasure of his presence to every boy or girl that he passed on the street. And that just wouldn't be right! His scowl of frustration turns to a smile as he realises that his momentary difficulties are all justified by this greater good.

So, he towels off the screen, and begins to jerk off again, picturing himself entering your body anew with each climax. For, unlike most men, he is multiorgasmic.

Exploding droplets of dew from his member spray off the screen with each stroke. "Harder, Faster!", he screams, briefly choking. The cheeselike filling explodes from his mouth in large chunks, splatting against the wall, sounding like a shower of shit hitting the bottom of an outhouse. They lose their shapes and begin to slide down the wall. Your guess that this substance is a mixture of half digested, unswallowed food mixed with vomit is verified by the enthusiasm with which the flies, who had been feeding off of the filth covering his naked body, depart, and pursue each pasty, bubbling chunk as it heads toward the floor, sinking into the carpet behind his desk as it hits.

A few foolhardy insects decide to try to get the last remaining globs of food out of his mouth, and he quickly snaps them up. For some reason, this sends him into a sexual rapture. Within minutes, he has covered his screen with a blanket of his own seed. So, tragically, he can't see as you work up the courage to write the words that you dreamt of saying to the right woman, and they appear before him.

"Susan, I love you. Will you marry me?"

One hour after I put this up, Susan cancelled her post and was never heard from again. I guess she didn't feel that she could measure up to our expectations of her. Shall we return to the previous page?