Lost

Hello there. Thing one: around the 2:03-2:06 mark on the video, Phil Collins suddenly seemed really sexy. Thing two: this little piece was inspired by the prompt and Chatroulette.

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I press play.
I press next.
I see a large penis vigorously stroked by a faceless man, and I look.
I press next.
I am told that I look 37 by a Brazilian boy, who then tells me I am a pervert.
I press next.
I am told that I am ugly by two teenage girls.
I press next.
A man from Montreal asks me what the meaning of life is. I write ‘meaning of life=living it,’ he smiles and shrugs.
I press next.
I am told to take my sweater off by a naked man lying in bed, and I do.
I am encouraged to show nipple, and, after considering it for a moment, I do.

What? I do? I take my shirt off and I let a stranger, who may or may not be French, masturbate to my cleavage? This can’t be. What would my parents say? What if this is being recorded? What if it is reposted all over the Internet? I will suddenly become that idiot who showed her tits to a stranger. This wasn’t what I came for. I couldn’t tell you what I expected, but tweaking my own nipples and using my elbows as a makeshift miracle bra wasn’t it. And yet I push up the ladies, make sure my face is hidden, and consider taking my actual bra off altogether. The man has a blue tattoo on his left pectoral muscle. The sun is shining through a window out of the camera’s scope. He has sheets with little cherries on them. Oh god. Please. Please. Take me home! I don’t remember where, exactly, home is, but it has got to be around here somewhere, along with my commonsense and dignity. Take me home, and I’ll wear cardigans and start a garden and volunteer at a senior citizens’ center. I will do rigorous exercise five times a week! I will eat more kale! Just take me home. Take me home, away from this flasher I have suddenly, inexplicably, become. Take me home and put me to bed. I will wear flannel nightgowns! I will make myself cups of chamomile tea! I will be good. I promise. I promise, just take me home. Wherever that may be; I can’t quite remember. If you do this for me, I will make you a sandwich. If you do this for me, I will show you my breasts. Wait, no. I will not do any such thing. Once I’m home, my breasts will be tucked inside loose fitting tunics and bulky hand-knit sweaters. I will keep them secret. They will only come out for mammograms and other special occasions. But, if you want a peek before we get there, well, what’s the harm? Some man in Belarus found them quite to his liking. I pressed next, but maybe I should have stuck around. You never know when you’re going to need a friend in Belarus, and what were we, if not bosom buddies?

Next.
A couple in South Dakota.
Next.
The smallest penis I have ever seen. Poor guy.
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A man with a sock on his head.
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Can I ever get back to where I started?
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Please. Please. Just take me home.
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Because I can’t remember.
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