From ats5@internet01.comp.pge.com Thu Aug  4 15:07:30 1994
Date: Wed, 3 Aug 94 22:25:52 PDT
From: Andy Smith <ats5@internet01.comp.pge.com>
Subject: A DVirtual Love by Jess Weiss

Virtual Love

Jess Weiss

emote wants to know what you look like 
:HungLong wants to know what you look like 
:Salvefire blushes and bats her eyes 
emote shuffles his feet around bashfully 
:HungLong shuffles his feet around bashfully 
:Salvefire asks you 'Do I seem like I'm playing hard to get?' 
Tell Salvefire 'I'd be the last person to try and interpret you--are you hard to get?' 
:'I'd be the last person to try and interpret you--are you hard to get?' 
:Sampson shouts 'Levelllllllll!!!!' 
:ASCII shouts 'Stop shouting!' 

Brock nervously rubs his middle fingers across the nubs on the D and K of his
keyboard. He tries to tune out the clattering of keys in the Piedmont Hall
Computation Lab. He blinks his eyes repeatedly and wonders if daylight is visible
outside. Watching the incessant and endless shouts of "Level!" scroll up his monitor,
he wonders if she's left the MUD.

:Salvefire asks you 'Are you still here, my endowed companion?' 
:'I am, my beloved. I would never leave you.' 
:Salvefire asks you 'Why do you want to know what I look like?' 

Brock is tense for a moment. This has to be handled well.

:'In the weeks of our correspondence, I've formed a mental image of you. I'd like to
know how close I came.' 
:Salvefire asks you 'How close to what? Where exactly were you coming, and why
wasn't I invited? Are you being unfaithful to your Queen?' 
:'Don't tease.' 

Seconds tick by. Brock rubs the sweat from his palms on his dirty Levi's. Nothing
from her. He looks at her, for what must be the hundredth time in several days.

look Salvefire 
:Piercing ice-blue eyes look back at you, through you. You realize you are facing a
God. 
:Salvefire tells you 'I don't like it when you stare.' 
:'I'm sorry my Queen, I was just waiting for an answer.' 
:Salvefire tells you 'I can't give you that type of information here. My brethren are
listening. Gods can be demoted, you know. 
:'Tell me where you want to go and I'm there.' 

Brock's face is inches from the screen. He takes a quick sip of Jolt and returns his
hands to their perch.

:Salvefire thinks for a moment 
:Salvefire tells you 'Jump to 128.263.44.9 port 2001' 
:'On my way.' 
logoff 
DO YOU WISH TO LEAVE THE HELLISH LAND OF ENDLESSMUD? 
yes 
GOODBYE AND GOOD LUCK! 
pooky.selectric.mit.edu> 

Brock typed quickly.

telnet 128.263.44.9 2001 
YOU ARE AT THE GATES OF THE PORT OF ULTIMATE DARKNESS 
GIVE YOUR NAME 
HungLong 
YOU ARE PERMITTED 
list 
YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO WIELD THAT POWER 
THE QUEEN HAS ARRIVED. ALL KNEEL. 
Q: Sorry for the delay, I had to chat with another God. Seems some are a bit peeved
at the attention I'm giving you. 
H: They can't really do anything to you can they? I mean, doesn't there have to be an
E-conference before action can be taken? 
Q: No God has ever been taken down at EndlessMud. I told him to go blow himself. 
H: That's the spirit! 
Q: 
H: Where are we now? 
Q: At my castle. 
H: Seriously. 
Q: At my house. 
H: You're on a dial-up? 
Q: Does that surprise you? 
H: Not at all, I just figured you had a direct link. 
Q: I wouldn't be caught dead in a lab. All that pasty flesh and gum smacking sickens
me. 

Brock shoots a side glance at the mousy guy beside him breathing loudly through his
mouth.

H: Yeah, me neither. Bunch of freaks. 
Q: No lives whatsoever. 

Brock shifts in his seat and clears his throat. The mouth-breather next to him hocks
up what seems an amazing amount of phlegm, pauses and swallows it, never looking
away from his VGA.

H: So where is your house? If you don't mind me asking. 
Q: Seattle. Land of rain and coffee. Where do you live? 

Brock scratches his cheek and considers responding, "Piedmont Hall Lab," but
quickly reconsiders.

H: Dallas. Land of pomp and circumstance. 
Q: HA! I like a man with a sense of humor. 
H: I like a woman with an eye for sarcasm. 
Q: Yeah, that's me. An eye for sarcasm and a body for sin. 
H: Sin, eh? 
Q: Did you think I was a prude? I ought to boot you right now for insolence. 
H: But then you'll never solve the riddle. 
Q: What riddle is that? 
H: What has eyes, but never blinks. A mouth, but never feeds. And skin, but never
touches? 
Q: Got me, sexy. 
H: So tell me about yourself already. 
Q: Isn't that a bit forward? 
H: I don't think so. After all, you invited me into your house. 
Q: Good point, I just didn't want you to think I was easy. 
H: So far, I just think you're wonderful. 
Q: Cute. Sappy, but cute. 
H: That's me. 
Q: Cute's you? Hmmm...describe your own self. 

Brock strained to remember what looked back at him when he last stood before a
mirror. His mind was blank.

H: I'll give you the DMV rundown: 6' 2", 190 lb, brown hair, brown eyes. 
Q: I didn't ask for vital stats, I asked for a description. It's a bit late to play games. 

What the hell did she mean by late? Brock flexed his atrophied calf muscles
nervously.

H: I'm a reality-based dreamer. I like pondering the impossible in confinement. I like
grasping the abstract from the straight and narrow. I like daydreaming. I enjoy Haiku
and open prose. I like very loud music, preferably three chords and drenched in
distortion. I like writing top-down designs after programs are finished. 
Q: And sex? 
H: And I like sex. 
Q: What kind of sex? 
H: Aren't you forgetting to tell me about yourself? Tit for tat, right? 
Q: Tit? You sure are presumptuous. Do you usually interrogate dates before telling
them about yourself? I figured you had more experience with women than that. 

Brock was uneasy. What kind of a game was this? John had already gotten three
phone numbers off of the Net. He even scored once, or so he said. Dates, dates,
dates... His brother had had dates. What the hell did he use to say about them?

H: I'm sorry. I guess I'm not used to dealing with a woman of your caliber. Most of
the girls around here don't really care what your name is. 
Q: I thought you said you were attractive. 
H: I am. 
H: That is, I've been told that I am. What I meant was that the girls around here are
sort of easy. 
Q: Do you like that? Do you like it when girls are easy? 
H: I guess it's nice sometimes. 
Q: Sometimes I'm easy. 
H: Me too. 
Q: Are you feeling easy now? 
H: I'm feeling somewhat simplistic. 
Q: Then can I ask you a personal question? 
H: Shoot. 
Q: How well are you hung? 

Brock tried in vain to imagine being asked this in a normal setting. He could lie, but
John said honesty had gotten him laid.

H: About average. 
Q: And what's average? 
H: I never really measured. I'm not that concerned. 
Q: Don't you think it's a good thing to be concerned with? 
H: Well, it's not like I can make it bigger or anything. 
Q: So it's small. 
H: No, I don't think so. It's just been a long time since high school gym class. 
Q: Good point. You've been pretty honest with me, despite the login name you gave.
Are you alone? 

Brock looked to his left at the person passed out at his terminal. The mouth-breather
on his opposite side had his nose pressed to the monitor.

H: Pretty much. What's up? 
Q: I'm going to tell you a little about myself and then give you my data line number.
Then I'll have to go; classes start early here. 
H: Yeah, mine too. 

A student, thought Brock. He wondered when exactly his own classes were, or for
that matter, what exactly they were.

Q: So here's the concise me: I'm about five foot eight, 130 pounds. I have dark red
hair and light blue eyes. I'm majoring in English and write bad poetry. My friends
know nothing about computers, and I don't make any attempt to explain. I lost my
virginity at 14 to a liar and had my first orgasm five years later. I drive a blue
late-80s BMW and rent a townhouse close to the university. My parents pay for my
rent and my school, and I earn spending money as a part-time aerobics instructor. I'm
not actively seeking companionship but usually end up in bed with someone when my
girlfriends drag me away from my keyboard to a bar. I respect honesty, good looks,
and good typing speeds. And that's who I am. And no, this is not a macro. 

Brock wiped his palms on his jeans. He tried to calculate the cost of a plane ticket
after selling his midi.

H: That's quite a life. You sound pretty wonderful, if you don't mind me sounding
sappy. 
Q: I never mind sappy. I'm an English major. And I'm sorry about the harshness
before, I just like to know who I'm dealing with. You sound pretty wonderful
yourself. Here's my number: 

Brock wrote down her number on his forearm. His scalp itched like a thousand
mosquito bites.

Q: Call me tomorrow. I can't always get this port so I'll have Hermes running. I'm
home around 7, your time. Good-bye. 
H: Good-bye. 

Brock typed the logoff command just as another message came onscreen. He scrolled
up to read it.

Q: Oh, what was the riddle answer? 

Me, thought Brock. He leaned back in his chair. What the hell time was it? What the
hell day was it? Where could he sell blood for long-distance bills?

* * 
* 

Jason turned off his modem and powered down his computer. He headed into the
bathroom to wash his face, quietly, so as not to wake up his baby sister. In the back of
his mind, he knew he had a test coming up soon. Hell, with his luck it was probably
the SAT.





