#TBT

I watched the Cannibal Cop documentary recently (damn you, HBO!) and was reminded of something that happened to me almost 20 years ago that I hadn't thought of in ages.  Long before social networking was a thing, and before catfishing had a name, there were chat rooms and instant messaging.  This was the late 90s. I was a regular on some type of writer's forum.  I would sit in my then boyfriend's apartment and write and "chat"--make friends, get connected, sit on the edge of a still new space between human contact and endless intangible stimulation.
I started getting messages from a guy who wanted my opinion-on lots of things actually, but mostly his stories.  He would send them to me to share and critique.  Though he never said or hinted at anything that could be construed as inappropriate directly to me, his tastes were obviously on the darker end of the spectrum. I read about women cooked on spits.  I read about women being dismembered.  I read about them bleeding out. And being eaten alive. Raw.  I never flinched, maybe because I never fathomed people actually thought about or would act on these things. I wouldn't have thought anything like this even existed.  I "knew" these were just stories and I was the kind of 20 year old girl who wore combat boots and brown lipstick, so I probably reveled in the artistry of it all. But something did tell me it would be best if I didn't mention it to anyone.  It was just...off somehow.
The whole thing didn't last very long, a few weeks maybe.  It ended when a friend brought it up to me one night.  I was shocked and nauseous and a little embarrassed.  I thought maybe the boyfriend had somehow found out and was telling all of our friends. That wasn't the case.  It turns out this refined story teller was someone I knew-someone we all knew-and he'd confided in one of the gang about what he'd been up to. But I guess the reason why never came up, and I'm not sure if the friend who told me was aware of the extent of his creativity.  The guy threw big parties, he bought all the liquor, had a garage band, worked a shitty job.  He was ordinary-his most prized possession was an electric drum kit.  I'd skinny dipped with him--he'd seen me naked.  He'd COOKED for me-for all of us.  He was married, he owned his house. He drove a Honda!  I just couldn't wrap my head around it.
I never mentioned it to anyone else. I never confronted him.  I was mortified, maybe a little afraid, but definitely freaked. the fuck. out.  I stopped responding to anything he sent me and eventually lost interest in the world wide web altogether.  I stopped showing up to the parties and places he would be, and he ceased to exist to me. The whole group did.  I just kind of faded to black.
Until a few months later when I worked my way back into the circle long enough to start fucking his wife hard enough for her to leave him.
I wonder how many stories he wrote about that.