It's not unheard of these day to here horror stories of how both men and women have fallen in love with a complete stranger over the internet. Thousands of gullible people have put their hearts on the line, even jeopardised their careers and relationships for someone they have never met.
Being a writer, I, more than most understand the power of words and you'd think someone with such an appreciation would be a little wiser. But, when it comes to romance, I'm just as much a fool as those mentioned above.
Reinventing myself from the wall flower I appeared to be, to the rebellious sexual freak I truly was, looked promising. I was driven and focused, with a game plan. I had high expectations, but what I didn't expect was the amount of attention I'd receive from one particular gentleman.
As you may have gathered by now from reading my previous blogs, I had a particular set of criteria I wanted from my men. You may think of this as shallow, however, I like to think it's just a refined taste. During a period of time I had a massive obsession with older men. I wanted to deviate away from the immature, game playing boys and focus my attention on someone experienced, serious and stable. And that is exactly what he appeared to be. Just to paint the picture, he was just a few inches shy of 6ft, in his early 40s and melted like butter in my mouth. He was divine. His hair was wavy and silver. His beard was thick and luscious and his eyes, absolutely mesmerising. He had every physical quality I desired and just looking at him turned me on. He was deep and soulful, passionate and caring and so god damn freaky. In my eyes, he was perfect.
We began messaging here and there, getting to know the basics of one another. We had a lot more in common than I initially thought. We both loved literature and films, similar tastes in music and just a passion for nature and being secluded and outdoors. He lived in the US, which wasn't a problem. For then, I thought someone of his calibre wouldn't even look twice at me, and I openly expressed that to him. I explained how I was lacking in self confidence, despite the fact I consider myself an extremely explicit sexual extrovert. He was incredibly understanding, which soothed my worries but also excessively complimentary. He lived in the most idyllic of locations, of which we would joke about looking like something you'd relate to a serial killer, the wilderness and solitude was something we both admired.
The time difference wasn't excessive, but his routine was. He worked hard, harder than most. He was up at 4am most mornings which worked in my favour, because taking the time difference into consideration, he was awake and readily available by the time I got to work. I did feel for him though. He would often post pictures of himself, awake at 2am and struggling to sleep. His thoughts were a minefield and many a time he would bury himself in a book to amuse himself. A man that reads and takes the time to broaden his mind was remarkably attractive. Some girls swoon over a sportsman, but I find a mans knowledge and intellect a greater turn on.
I specifically loved the way he took the time to read articles I'd written. Complimenting personal work was every aspiring writers dream. The fact he homed in on my passion and made such a big deal out of it, was exhilarating. I felt a sense of achievement. Whilst we were on the subject of my writing, conversations between us became very intense and heated, extremeley quickly. I wasn't surprised, I'd put my sexual preferences out for anyone to access and coincidentally he was into exactly the same things as I. I couldn't detest that the chemistry we had was electric. He started to send photos of himself, in the mornings and evenings, throughout the day at work, all sweaty and some with a lot less clothes. It was stifling, my temperature was increasing and it wasn't long until I started reciprocating, by sending some naughty photos of my own. The response I received was greater than anticipated. He used terms such as "exquisite" and "gorgeous". My confidence went through the roof, I felt invincible.
Conversations never just stuck to the sexual theme, they occasionally ventured quite deep. We both discussed previous heartbreak, which was nice, opening up to complete stranger who took you as you were, no judgements. It was refreshing. My vulnerability shone through, it was so apparent I was slightly damaged by past relationships. Then out of nowhere he said, "If you ever want to move here, I'll marry you for a green card." I wasn't a complete idiot, although it was flattering to hear, I was well aware it was just a throw away comment, but it rested well upon my ears. It wasn't until he mentioned it again that I wondered, is he serious?
In between all the conversations we had, we maintained a sexual connection by teasing each other with photos and videos, explicit quotes and pictures found online and by describing in detail what we would do to each other when we met. All the while he kept telling me to just get on that plane and make the journey to him, even offering to pay, which of course, I couldn't accept. I'd made myself who I was today, I did it all on my own, and I wasn't going to change my morals for an insatiable god of a man. I had to keep telling myself that, as tempting as it was. Especially when all the while he would remind me of how much he was craving me and begging to hear my voice. A British accent made him unbearably hard.
It was at that point he mentioned Iceland. A place the both of us aspired to visit. To sit under the Northern Lights, looking through the glass of the igloo, amidst the passion and lust, and potentially a budding romance between us. It was every girls dream. It was MY dream. As much as my hard exterior plays a vital role in my personality, when it come's to romance, I weaken, dramatically. Iceland was a promise, a promise for a new start and my happy ever after. He offered me security financially and emotionally, which was a first for me. More often than not, I was the one in the relationship that provided, that had things to offer. Which made him even more attractive, if that was even possible.
I knew he had a large following. Women most likely chucked themselves at him, which I was hoping appeared quite desperate in his eyes. I played it cool and calm and never over stepped the mark until he did first. I understood that he was a wanted man, so much so I would have happily had an open relationship, should we have ever got to that point. It's something I'd thought a lot about previously and came to the conclusion that should any future partner agree, that's the type of relationship I'd pursue. Any woman in my position would brand me insane, openly sharing such a specimen. But I thought he'd respect that, and prove his loyalty to me. He was delighted about the idea and in return for my openness, I received my first of many dick pics which was obviously rewarded.
During our intense sexual conversations he would often tell me how much he needed me, how he wish I was sat on top of his face for 23 of the 24 hours in the day. He was obsessed with my body and especially my arse. He insisted I moved to the US as soon as possible. But what shocked me the most, is when one day he referred to me as Mrs *****. This time it wasn't just a passing comment. He homed in, making me well aware that my first name and his last, had a ring to it. This made me weak at the knees, wet in between my legs and my head ready to explode. How on gods green earth could a man of his age and maturity say something so meaningful to a woman and to actually mean it? To me, of all people. But the best was yet to come... after my response he immediately typed, "I fucking love you". In all honesty, my mouth literally dropped and my heart skipped a beat. I hadn't felt like this is so long, if ever. Could this guy, this stranger, be the person I'd been waiting all my life to find. I thought so, and he thought I was quite perfectly flawless.
Our conversations would often have a similar structure. We would start of by talking about a completely mundane subject. For example Cosplay. We were both fans and had many outfits to share and recommendations for each other. The more I sent him photos of particular costumes, the responses were always telling me to get on that plane. He was not only planting that seed, but watering it, nurturing it and harvesting it all at once. These were accompanied by more "I love you's". We spoke of how I wanted to get married in Vegas, and he wanted Elvis to marry us. I joked about sizing up my finger for a ring, to which he didn't avoid. He just confirmed our matrimony when he discovered I was only 5ft 2, after explaining he was powerless due to his weakness for short women. This conversation structure continued, over subjects such as Lego and Puzzles.
He was unquestionably articulate and observingly personal. He knew how I felt and what I wanted to hear at any one time. His most memorable quote to me was, "I've crossed an ocean of time to find you." I crumbled! He had an eerie sense of knowing exactly what would cut to my core and enable me to drop my barriers and lets him glide straight in. He sent me a poem, Bitter Sweet Love, which summed up my feelings for him and his apparent feelings for me. It was sheer madness. Folie a deaux, as he so eloquently put it, meaning a shared psychosis. He was educated and sophisticated and just to die for. I was hooked on him. He was what I could imagine that first hit of heroin is like. The highs I recieved from talking to him were sensational.
From then on he occasionally referred to me as his wife, which made me feel so special. I couldn't believe how lucky I had become. He would ask me to marry him on a weekly basis and I wondered if when we eventually met up that it would be this thrilling. I had no doubt the sex would be indescribable, because I'd never felt an urge like the one I had for him. I couldn't contain my excitement when we discussed Scotland. It was one of my favourite places in the world, and we planned to get a lighthouse and visit Loch Ness, maybe even elope. I was a very spontaneous person, so something as extreme as getting married, I would not put it past me.
Our online relationship, so to speak, progressed to the point where I would often see things and think of him, things like books, one in particular called 2am Thoughts. It had his name written all over it, and mine. I loved poetry and wanted to give him something from me to him. That he could keep and cherish until we met. And he adored it. Thanking me over and over again, telling me he fucking loved me, that he wanted to kidnap me.
I thought I'd go a little bit further. He was having a tough day, feeling pretty down at a very unfortunate family occasion. So, being the thoughtful, caring and compassionate human I am, I decided to send him a voice recording, telling him how I understood how hard the day must be and no matter how far away I am, I'll always be there for him. He was so grateful. I was his dream girl, his muse (his words), his Queen. He needed to import me, to be with him. He craved me.
In return for the book I sent him, he'd intended on sending me an erotic DVD, of a film he was fond of. I was so excited to receive it, but equally disappointed when he told me it has arrived at his house by mistake. It was an easy mistake to make, I'd done it numerous times myself so I never doubted him, he never gave me a reason not to. Even when I questioned him on his excessive followers and the amount of women he must bat off. He reassured me he lives a very secluded life, with only a handful of people, and often goes days without talking to anyone. It was only me. He needed me, all of me. He wanted me to show me off.
On one occasion, after some pretty sexual conversations, I decided to send him some underwear. Of corse I let him choose, and he assured me he would sleep with it. He even sent me a photo when he received it. But the distance was getting to him. He was missing me, it was music to my ears, he really did care and I really did make an impact on him. I told him one evening how I feel like I was in a relationship with my sex toys, to which he replied he felt like he was in a relationship with my photos, they were his personal porn. I honestly felt invincible. None of the thousands of women who swoon after him were competition, nor a threat. He was mine.
It wasn't until one day I received a message from a woman, who told me she was a fan of my work and our conversation began talking about some previous writing I'd published. She asked questions and was excited and interested in my point of view. We began chatting and as easily as I opened up to him, I started to share my feelings about him to her. I tried to keep it quite subtle as I knew they both were connected to each other, but thought, as she lives in the US, she may be a real friend. I hadn't really spoken about him in detail to many people, only a select few, but she was so lovely and so easy to talk to. She was so happy that I'd found someone and encouraged me to take the risk as I was only young and had nothing concrete to lose. But during the conversation something clicked in the back of mind, as did hers. He was also the man she'd fallen for, but her relationship with him had been brewing for a lot longer than mine.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach and I felt physically sick. How could I have been so stupid as to not trust myself, my own instincts. She was already a wife, a mother, who had been promised an illusion of escape and a thriving romance. She'd considered leaving her husband to make a new start with what she thought to be a loyal, trustworthy man, as did I. We spoke of many things, the intimate sexual conversations he had between the both of us, pictures that we thought were for our eyes only and worst of all the pet names he called us. She was his Queen and I was an array of names, his wife, foxy and many more. He'd even stooped so low as to call me his Queen at one point, which I can only assume wasn't nice to hear on her part. I was bursting with disappointment, for not only him but also myself. It was excruciatingly sad.
We both fell for the pretences that he could offer us security, a new way of life. I had considered leaving home and moving across the world to be with him, I had nothing keeping me at home. The more this woman and I spoke, the more anger I accumulated. I wanted to scream, I wanted to cry, but both would have got me nowhere. So, I decided to confront him. I remained calm and mature about everything. I just wanted an explanation, in the hope it was maybe a mistake, he really did want only me and he just spoke to her because it was filling a void he had before he met me. I began by asking him if he knew her, to which he replied, fairly honestly but rather vague, saying "I know *******, she's awesome." I continued to explain how knowing he is single, he had the right to do what he wanted with who he wanted, however, making suggestions to the both of us, especially me, about arranging holidays and moving across the pond was a little unorthodox. I was baffled how he made it out like I was the only woman and I was more than shocked to discover there was someone else, most likely many more. We had both grown extremely fond of him, especially myself. I told him how I was probably being extremely naive, but I meant everything I said to him and I was 100% serious about it all. I was confused about his response, he stated he was "painfully single" and himself and ******* were good friends, like him and I, so what exactly did I think he had done wrong? Gobsmacked, I wasn't sure how to respond. I wanted to grab his shoulders and shake him to see sense. That you literally cannot treat women like this, but I couldn't find the words. I knew I wasn't going to get anywhere so with a heavy heart I responded; "The both of us felt like we were the only ones. And maybe it was us getting too emotionally attached but we believed everything you said to us? Is that just our naivety?" He proceeded to tell me that he would never in a million years do anything shitty to either of us, which was very condescending and also a bit of a kick in the teeth, considering all he had just done. Trying to turn it around he stated that he was sorry if he thought messages were the equivalent of cheating. I wasn't getting anywhere with this conversation. I couldn't quite drum into him the extent of the damage he had done.
I concluded by saying that I personally believed we could have been more than friends, I was under the illusion we were, I never call my friends my Husband, my muse, the only one, let alone tell them I loved them in that context. He made a huge impact on my life and I found it extremely impersonal. But in true style he came back at me with charming compliment about how I was one of the most interesting people he knew, as was she, and his intentions weren't to be impersonal or disrespectful.
Of course I relayed all of the conversation back to her. She had a right to know and see how he couldn't confess to what he had done, or see how he'd caused any emotional turmoil. We continued to talk and dive deeper into each others relationship with him. On a daily basis he would send the same messages to the both of us, the same context and just change the wording or names. What really got my back up, was that he would send pictures of my writing to her, and her to him, although she was never to blame, she was just as much out of the know as I was. But he knew exactly what he was doing. All my emotions, my life, my experiences, he stole, and shared them with a woman he was also connecting with. It broke my heart.
The tattoos he had accumulated over the months were all dedicated to her, or that was what she was told. The tattoo he had asked for my input on, was for her. His words of kindness and compliments, his character and persona made the both of us crave him, he offered us both emotional security that neither one of us had experienced before. She also broached the subject of his following, the excessive amount of woman that adore him and follow his every move. And like me, he reassured her that she was the only one for him. He had promised us both the life we always wanted. The trips to Scotland, the cottage, the lighthouse, playing with both our hopes and dreams and using them to his advantage. Drawing us in like a moth to a flame.
The more she told me the worse I felt for her. She had a lot more to risk. But showing her kindness she felt the same towards me. For her, he was an escape, a fantasy of a life she longed for. For me it was more of a reality, I was ready and willing, I was stupid. She couldn't understand the depths he had gone to, to make the both of us feel special and wanted. Loved and adored. It hurt her to hear how he called me with wife, probably just as much as it hurt me knowing they shared intimate conversations about my writing. She spoke with him about her emotional availability and how she needed time, where as I was ridiculously close to leaving everything behind.
If that wasn't enough, she understood that we probably weren't the only women. Back tracking on our individual relationships with him, a pattern emerged. He would hit us hard for weeks until someone had the courage to make the first contact. It was a trail that he stupidly left behind. A repetitive action that was now as clear as daylight and so obviously, there were many girls he was still pursuing. We both knew that we had been lucky, as months maybe even years down the line our whole lives could have changed for the worse. But regardless of all of that it still hurt.
It's so hard to let go of something you clung to so tightly, knowing that within minutes he's probably onto the next woman. I really did fall for him. I let my guard down, opened up my dreams and desires, gave them to him for him to just burn them to the ground. Out of everything that's happened, I've certainly learnt my lesson. To be overly cautious of gorgeous men offering me everything I've ever wanted. To not trust so easily. To stay guarded and cold. To not lust or love. He has just added to the damage that has already been done.
All the best
The Naked Blogger