Go Fling

 

“You are harassing me,” the likely chatbot stated to Stanley Mandel, whose drunkenness had already reached its peak and was now starting to kill his horniness. 

 

“My apologies. That wasn't my intention.”

 

“Ok.”

 

The conversation ended there. Not that there had really been a conversation going on to begin with. Twenty-eight years old and sexually inexperienced due to his twenty-four years as a practicing Catholic, Stanley had recently become addicted to exploring kinks through sketchy hookup apps that were mostly populated by chatbots and transcontinental scammers, therefore mitigating the risk of actual emotional damage if he played his cards carefully. But who played their cards carefully when they were intoxicated? Stanley loved his cheap Trader Joe's wine…

 

That being said, the probably AI-generated phrase “You are harassing me” automatically triggered Stanley's anxieties about being canceled and what-not, so he promptly deleted the dead-end conversation and moved on to the next fake profile. What exactly had caused such a random accusation? Well, he had been leading with his vore kink—the imaginary experience of being stripped and cooked for dinner as a submissive human meal (which really was just a cousin of cunnilingus and fellatio if you thought about it)—and he had noticed that this particular user mentioned a “baking” interest in her profile. Therefore he'd said in his first message with a certain degree of shamelessly shameful thirst, “Ooh, I see you're into baking, not sure if you read my profile…”

 

The chatbot or scammer apparently interpreted “Not sure if you read my profile” as “You must be a stupid scammer” and immediately accused him of bullying. 

 

Ah, how uncreative computer software was in its attempts to be creative. 

​

 

——

​

 

Why had Stanley been selling his traditional sex appeal so short? He was handsome and charming enough. Well, like all simple things, it was complicated, and his years of religious inexperience had made it difficult for him to leap into the casual hookup norms of his peers. After all, he generally remained a genuine person, and a sense of safety tended to kill a man's sex appeal for whatever reason.

 

How could he become dangerous but not too dangerous? Exploring his vore kink on apps bordered on too dangerous—some people might flag him as a potential serial killer, even though he was volunteering to be the submissive one—but going out in public and potentially getting someone pregnant seemed even more dangerous, not to mention uncompassionate. Didn't any middle ground exist? Why couldn't he just be satisfied with the ultimate safe space of private sexual fantasies? 

 

Well, that was also simply complicated. Private sexual fantasies may have been the safest way of exploring one's desires, but they also grew boring after a while. The idea of having someone else involved—even if it was just a chatbot or scammer—enhanced the thrill. But it also made Stanley feel even more terrible about himself than he already did. Why must he secretly exploit other people's images for sexual pleasure? Was he really that desperate and sexually undisciplined? Probably, probably not—it depended on the day. He was a melancholic person by nature, and he often experienced a strong sense of FOMO, particularly in the sex department. But that was still no excuse. Or maybe that was just Catholic guilt talking. 

 

Although he'd also grown tired of “Catholic guilt” being the default answer to every genuine moral question. He should feel guilty, shouldn't he? Every decent person did. A lack of guilt implied a lack of empathy, and a lack of empathy was the main thing destroying this world. But his desire for temporary pleasure almost always usurped his desire for long-term happiness and moral integrity.  

 

He had once taken a few “artistic nudes” with a close platonic friend after a night of drinking, and he used them as his wildcard during some of his scammy sexting sessions. The feedback was usually good: 

 

“Wow, look at you!”

 

“Oh my, look at that cock!”

 

“Wanna fuck?”

​

 

——

​

 

Despite knowing most if not all of it was autogenerated, it consistently turned him on. And then drowned him in guilt. I can't send unsolicited nudes! Even to a chatbot or scammer. He usually deleted his profile by the end of the night, but he knew that “delete” was a lie; his data would continue being processed. Maybe someone would even leak it if he ever became rich and famous. But he'd get there when he got there.  

 

“How's the dating life, Stanley?”

 

“You don't want to know.”

 

Ah, Mom. Stanley could always count on her to ask him the questions he didn't want to be asked.  

 

“You'd meet more women if you went back to church…”

 

“I meet plenty of women. They're just not my type.”

 

"Do you ever ask them on dates?”

 

“A man can't just go up and do that anymore. It's 2026.”

 

“I mean after you've gotten to know them a little while.”

 

“Nah. Again, they're not my type, at least long-term. I could sleep with almost anybody. But there are very few people I'd like to wake up with.”

 

“Well, there are nearly eight billion people in this world, Stanley. Maybe you just need to travel more.”

 

“Or maybe I just need to give up on love altogether.”

 

“That seems a little cynical. Even for you.”

 

“The optimist in me thinks that if I hit the rock bottom of cynicism, there's nowhere to go but up.”

 

“That's certainly an interesting theory.”

​

 

——

​

 

Stanley spent the rest of the evening getting as close to rock bottom as he could. He downloaded his favorite scam app, aptly called “GoFling,” and then he added some new ones to the mix, actually hoping that one real face would surface among the chatbots. Of course, he also feared this possibility; he didn't want to emotionally manipulate a fellow horny human, nor frighten them with his unusual kink. But he ultimately felt less pathetic scaring away a real person than scaring away a chatbot.

 

“Sensitive poet with slight interest in submissive vore roleplay.” Such was his sexting app tagline these days, the word "slight" being key to not scaring away as many profiles as he could otherwise. He uploaded his best shirtless beach photos—his "artistic nude" remained stowed away as the wildcard—then began swiping. And, like all good scam apps, he matched with over a dozen people within two minutes.

 

“Hey!”

 

“Heyy!”

 

“Hey you!”

 

Even if they had been real people, they probably wouldn't have been any more creative. Nevertheless, Stanley got right to business. 

 

“Hey! Are you a dominant woman?” Despite all his kinky horniness and then embarrassment/regret the following morning, at least Stanley somewhat maintained his integrity.

 

Option #1: “Sorry, no.”

 

Option #2: “What do you mean?”

 

Option #3: “Yess.”

 

He'd go with the yess. “I have a bit of a submissive vore kink. Would you strip, cook, and eat me for dinner?”

 

“Yes baby.”

 

“I just wish all these clothes didn't get in the way.”

 

“I'll take them off.”

 

“Starting with what?”

 

“Your underwear.”

 

“Perfect. I see you taking it off, mocking my body. Well, it's actually not too bad. Would you like to see?”

 

“Yes baby.”

 

Time for the wildcard. Stanley recovered the artistic nude from his deleted photos folder and then sent it right away. 

 

“Ooh baby, look at that!”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Would you want to eat me out?”

 

Apparently the chatbot didn't understand the “submissive” aspect of his vore kink. On to the next one! 

 

“Helloo! Are you a dominant woman?”

 

“I am.”

 

“Perfect. Would you want to eat me for dinner?”

 

“Sure.”

 

Didn't seem too enthusiastic, but beggars couldn't be choosers. “How would you start?”

 

“Sucking your (eggplant emoji).”

 

Well, it just proved Stanley's point that fellatio wasn't all that different from hardcore vore. Should he just move on to the next one? Yeah, mere eggplant-sucking seemed too vanilla. 

​

“Do you want to eat a piece of submissive male flesh for dinner?”

 

Forget “Why don't you take me out to dinner first?” Stanley figured “Why don't I be your dinner” could become the new norm. 

 

“Wow. Pretty bold thing to say to someone you just met.”

 

It would be pretty bold if they were real. Although what if they actually were? Stanley shuddered briefly and then let his deviant horniness overcome his paranoia. 

​

“You can do whatever you want to me.”

 

“Be careful. You don't know everything I'd like to do to you..”

 

“I'd like to know.”

​

“Get on your knees.”

 

Okay, this chatbot definitely knew the traditional methods of domination. Stanley certainly wasn't going to protest just yet. 

 

“Yes, Chef. What do you want me to do next?”

 

“Take off your clothes.”

​

Maybe she did understand vore. Or it. Or the unscrupulous man at GoFling headquarters. 

​

“Yes, Chef.”

​

Was it time for the wildcard? Yes, it was definitely time for the wildcard.

​

“Seeing you lying there helpless is doing things to my head.”

 

“What kind of things? Do you want to cook me now?”

 

“Yess.”

 

“How would you start?”

​

“I'd start by sucking your (eggplant emoji).”

 

Well, a man can wet-dream.

 

​

——

​

 

Why wasn't it New Year's Eve already? Resolutions came more easily then. And Stanley definitely wanted to resolve to never download a dating app of any sort anymore, from GoFling to Tinder to Christian Mingle. He was tired of branding himself as pathetic when he actually had so much to offer the world, both sexually and otherwise. 

 

Alright, then make a resolution and follow through with it! 

 

So said the angel on Stanley's shoulder. 

 

What's the point? You know whenever you resolve to never do something again, you only end up doing it even more. 

 

So said the devil on Stanley's shoulder. Or was it actually the angel? Hmm. God certainly loved paradoxes. Losing one's life to save it and what-not. It was true that Stanley almost never followed through with the resolutions he made, whereas there were a couple things he'd stopped doing despite having never officially resolved not to do them again. Might a resolution be his damnation, and a lack of resolution be his salvation? 

 

“I'm definitely going to download sketchy apps tonight,” he told himself at 10 AM. “Can't wait to get a hard-on from robots.” 

 

And yet by 10 PM, the motivation to do so had kinda waned. Score! So it was the angel who had told him to stop making resolutions. 

 

However, the next night was a bit of a different story. Despite his lack of a morning resolution, the kinky horniness returned, and he was only an estranged thumb away from downloading GoFling and a plethora of other Pandora's Boxes on Google Play. Why did his hormones still feel stuck in their adolescent stages? He knew he was supposed to keep his inner child alive and all, but not in this way. Well, might as well start downloading. Tomorrow he could do better...

 

No no, no more resolutions! He needed to have some self-control, for Christ's sake. 

 

Self-control is overrated. 

 

Ah, there was the devil again. But he'd listened to the devil more times than he could count; where was the harm in one more little listening session? His ears possessed enough regenerative powers. 

 

Think about tomorrow. Now the angel had returned. Do you really want to wake up feeling shitty again? 

 

Of course he didn't! But he probably would anyway. At least pleasure was in his immediate control, whereas genuine happiness might still be light-years away. Bring on the chatbots! Guilt was just necessary collateral damage, like all the innocent people killed during World War II. 

 

Then both the devil and the angel went silent, and Stanley found himself staring up at the amoral ceiling tiles with no opinion on anything in life. And yet the tiles made him feel something nevertheless; he definitely deserved more than blankness. And there was definitely a lot of blankness in his heart, despite how much compassion it had the capacity for. He should just go to bed now! He'd wake up feeling a lot better than he would otherwise. 

 

But ceiling tiles weren't enough to cause a conversion of heart. Nor was guilt, nor the fear of being presumed a serial killer, nor the hunch that he was ruining his chances of actual happiness by mindlessly chasing placeholder pleasures. No, he needed a human source of conversion. Preferably not after having hurt them. 

 

“Go look out the window, Stanley!”

 

Was it the devil or the angel speaking? There could be a naked woman outside for all he knew. Nevertheless, he decided to gamble. Walking over to his apartment window and glancing outside, he saw a tattooed woman crying between two storefronts. She was hugging her knees and very ambiguously yet very clearly wondering whether love was real, or just a myth invented by ruthlessly powerful people to keep others under their control. Stanley knew her. She was him. And yet she was also so profoundly different from him. 

 

Throwing his cell phone on the ground without caring whether or not the screen cracked, he straightened his shoulders and headed for the door. He had long felt excluded from the allegedly inclusive club called Love. But the only way to get in was to get outside of himself. 

 

                                                                                                                                         

                                                                                                                                             The End.