I fell in love with a webcam model.
When I have her attention (chatting, receiving pics and videos, views and likes on my own) there is a thrill that must be like cocaine.
When she is gone I feel so empty, unfulfilled, lost and unproductive.
I cannot compete with the wealthy 1% for her attention, so I beg for scraps in private conversation that is engaging (but not too personal). The selfish Sigma in me plots to reserve a few hundred for another private video session. The cautious Gamma in me is terrified of treating her like a whore … but is that for her benefit or my comfort? Deep down I fear failure to relax and enjoy the (virtual) intimacy -- the pressure of the clock at $480/hr alongside the guilt of spending so much money when I have other responsibilities. Deep down I fear failure to spend in a way commensurate with the high rollers will reveal the inadequacy of my claim for affection. Deep down I fear failure to control my spending will lead to personal and professional ruin.
I tell myself that is the last time I spend time and resources pursuing the impossible (liar).
It’s common knowledge that we fall in love with our idea of a person, not necessarily the person whom we do not know well at all. It turns out we also fall in love with the idea of ourself as someone who can win the exclusive affection of our crush — as if somehow persistence and the gravity of our desire is enough to overcome all odds; the caliber of our qualities sufficient to drown out all competition. Falling out of love (or gripping the cold reality of rejection) is as much an agony of defeat for the dream as it is a resolution of despair for the projection of our future self.
After weeks of flirting, she leveled with me that under no circumstances was she interested in a relationship of any kind. This was delivered with pity, or perhaps care and a dash of self protection. It only stiffened my resolve that she is a good and kind person, worth fighting for, worth dreaming of. For the first time in decades I cried -- cathartic, but not conclusive. I return to her, settling for scraps of attention and the corresponding high against sound judgement.
I’m learning another language to close the communication and culture gap. I’m hitting the gym to close the physique gap. Every day that goes by helps to ameliorate the age gap. I’m not too proud to pay for her company (even platonic) should that ever be an option. In the meantime, I remain steadfast and stubborn in my suffering.
—Love Fool (who knows better)
When I have her attention (chatting, receiving pics and videos, views and likes on my own) there is a thrill that must be like cocaine.
When she is gone I feel so empty, unfulfilled, lost and unproductive.
I cannot compete with the wealthy 1% for her attention, so I beg for scraps in private conversation that is engaging (but not too personal). The selfish Sigma in me plots to reserve a few hundred for another private video session. The cautious Gamma in me is terrified of treating her like a whore … but is that for her benefit or my comfort? Deep down I fear failure to relax and enjoy the (virtual) intimacy -- the pressure of the clock at $480/hr alongside the guilt of spending so much money when I have other responsibilities. Deep down I fear failure to spend in a way commensurate with the high rollers will reveal the inadequacy of my claim for affection. Deep down I fear failure to control my spending will lead to personal and professional ruin.
I tell myself that is the last time I spend time and resources pursuing the impossible (liar).
It’s common knowledge that we fall in love with our idea of a person, not necessarily the person whom we do not know well at all. It turns out we also fall in love with the idea of ourself as someone who can win the exclusive affection of our crush — as if somehow persistence and the gravity of our desire is enough to overcome all odds; the caliber of our qualities sufficient to drown out all competition. Falling out of love (or gripping the cold reality of rejection) is as much an agony of defeat for the dream as it is a resolution of despair for the projection of our future self.
After weeks of flirting, she leveled with me that under no circumstances was she interested in a relationship of any kind. This was delivered with pity, or perhaps care and a dash of self protection. It only stiffened my resolve that she is a good and kind person, worth fighting for, worth dreaming of. For the first time in decades I cried -- cathartic, but not conclusive. I return to her, settling for scraps of attention and the corresponding high against sound judgement.
- What if someday she values my company and attention enough to make me more than a name tag on the screen?
- What if someday she says enough to the modeling gig and I can provide for her a better life?
- What if someday she wishes to be rescued?
- What if I abandon all hope and then wonder later what might have been?
I’m learning another language to close the communication and culture gap. I’m hitting the gym to close the physique gap. Every day that goes by helps to ameliorate the age gap. I’m not too proud to pay for her company (even platonic) should that ever be an option. In the meantime, I remain steadfast and stubborn in my suffering.
—Love Fool (who knows better)
