My best friend Katie and I used to love going into chatrooms back when those were all the rage. It was our third favorite winter pastime, right after hanging out in the hot tub drinking hot chocolate and playing the Nintendo 64.
We weren’t interested in the least in actually chatting about anything. Our sole intent was to see how quickly we could get one of the guys in any given room to ask us to cyber with them.
Granted, most of the time it wasn’t exactly the pinnacle of challenges. Sometimes all it took was answering “Female” to the “S” in “A/S/L?” and they were already tripping into a private room with their pants around their ankles.
Not to mention our screen name of choice, “Icegirl”, would inevitably provoke at least one instance of, “Hey Icegirl, I bet I can warm you up!” per session without fail.
But the more gentlemanly types, the ones who at least pretended not to have virtual booty on the brain – though we all of us knew better – provided much better sport. We would choose our mark carefully and then go to work batting him around like a cat playing with a stunned mouse. Flirt. Demur. Lead on. Rebuff. Pout. Forgive. Laugh.
Eventually either our prey’s temper or libido would win out. We were pleased with either outcome. Angry accusations that we were a “cold bitch” were met with the scornful response, “Well, what did you expect from someone called Icegirl?” Invitations to cyber resulted in our untimely “accidental” disappearance offline followed by peals of laughter, because clearly we were terrible people.
That was twenty years ago. It’s been a long time since I’ve thought any kind of “games” of that sort were fun. Truthfully, I can’t for the life of me understand why we thought being such little dipshits was so entertaining. And yet, for some reason, I still think back on those chilly winter evenings and chuckle at my time as half an Icegirl.
Memory is a strange thing.