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Adultfriendfinder moorechat

I was Dana, a name I had lifted from a character on my favorite Purple Moon CD-ROM.

“My cousins and I would huddle together in front of one of their slim-for-the-time Dell monitors ‘playing’ online checkers (or something) and engaging with people who were probably (but maybe not?

) a lot older than us,” recalled Jenny Kutner, an assistant editor who writes about sex and dating for Salon.

There wasn’t anything particularly special about Frank Zappy, who would later become one of a string of anonymous strangers I would cyber with online.

He was just the first man online who gave me the most attention, and as a knotty-haired, awkward 10-year-old who desperately craved male attention, that was good enough reason to be excited whenever the AIM chime symbol sounded, signaling that he’d signed on.

“I think I probably was truthful about my species, but beyond that I just fed everyone lies.” More often than not, these lies would backfire in absurd, hilarious ways: One of my best friends, for instance, once sent an image of Mandy Moore from her desktop when she was asked for a photo by a chatroom paramour, at which point he “politely informed me there was a copyright notice at the bottom of the photo.” Without Skype, Facebook, or any identity verification system to speak of, the adult AOL chatrooms made up a universe that was almost completely void of accountability.

Even if someone didn’t believe that you were, say, Stone Cold Steve Austin or Mandy Moore, it almost didn’t matter; you might have been lying, and your partner likely knew you were lying, but because he or she was probably lying too, no one seemed to care.

Then one day, he started telling me what he wanted to do to me if he met me, and I, picking up on his cues, told him what I (or “Dana”) wanted to do to him.