This post was submitted by Zack Rosen

Like a good gay Luddite, I am only just warming up to a trend that the rest of our lightning-paced nation embraced and got over months ago. I am, of course, speaking of ChatRoulette. For the blessedly uninitiated (i.e., me three days ago) ChatRoulette is a video chatting website that connects you to another person at random. When that person grows tired of speaking with you, or vice -versa, they hit a button and a new chat partner is found. It’s like speed dating, except for 80% of the people you meet will “next” you within minutes, and most of them will be jerking off. And this is the supposedly mixed company chat service.

There is also a gay specific one called ManRoulette. Though it would be much more accurate to call it “DickRoulette,” “DisembodiedGapingAsshole Roulette,” or”WideEyed16YearOldBoyBeingRobbedOfHisInnocence Roulette,” I assume those names were taken. Misnomered as it was, that was the place I decided to see what the whole phenomenon was all about. And I pray to god that this whole post doesn’t make me sound like some sex-deprived Mickey Rooney, ranting about Lady GooGoo and kids these days, but goddamn did this site make me feel like I was in a pornographically  Dystopian episode of The Outer Limits.

As anyone whose been on a date with a frequent texter would know, technology’s ability to bring people closer together usually comes at the expense of the already-existing means of communication. So the roulette experience becomes particularly ephemeral. Whether having a fifteen minute conversation or just watching someone beat off for ten seconds while wearing a penguin mask, you have a distinct one-on-one experience with someone that you will either never see again, or see every day without knowing that you watched them ejaculate four times because you couldn’t see their face.

And faces, it turns out, are prized currency on ManRoulette. The first guy I chatted with, the first one who didn’t “next” me, was a nice 20 year old Brit who was hanging out in his living room waiting for his electrician. We talked about our jobs, our cities, and other things that would’ve probably lead to a phone number exchange if we had met at a bar. It turns out this kind of experience was an anomaly. The boy nexted me abruptly, potentially because his electrician came, and I was on to the next one. And for the next forty minutes I found out that a face is the one thing people are reluctant to show.

This could be due to self-consciousness ( I would unapologetically next someone if I didn’t find them cute) or fear of being identified (I did recognize one or two real world acquaintances from their tattoos), but I assume that the biggest draw of ManRoulette is the chance to unabashedly trade in your workaday persona for a chance to be sex incarnate. All those dicks and asses, all the guys holding signs that say “ManRoulette Slave,” they were being more honest than anyone you would meet outside a bathhouse. They were gladly giving up an hour of personhood to provide a landing pad for sexual fantasy. And sex, in its purest form, does not have a face.

Sex on Manroulette was flat on its back with its legs in the air. Sex had three fingers jammed in its own asshole as it lay on the bathroom floor. Sex came all over its own hand, or did a striptease in a jockstrap. But sex never asks how you’re doing or what your name is. Why would it? It doesn’t need to know. Sex would frequently flash across the screen, only to disappear when it saw I  was just a face without a dick. Sex once said to me “I’ll do anything you want.” So I made it “slap its ass” and “stroke its cock.” Sex kept me company for five whole minutes until I asked it to show its face. At that point, the last thing I saw was his hand, reaching for keyboard, hitting next.

I tried to inhabit the role of sex on Chatroulette, but I wasn’t very good at it. I noticed first that people were more likely to linger on me if I had my shirt off. I think they took it as a sign of good faith. I even tried playing the role of disembodied erection but found it very difficult, logistically. I’ve never felt as awkward as I did standing up with my knees bent, trying to keep my penis in the chat window without showing my face or tattoos, praying that the neighbors couldn’t see me and think I was having a sex stroke. Or sitting lying on my bed with pillows behind my neck, wearing a t-shirt and no pants (again, tattoo obscural) wondering how the rest of the Internet svengalis made it look so easy.

Whoever invented this service is a genius. It’s like an all-you-can-stare locker room, right on your desk. And when the scenery is bad you just go on to the next one. The only problem is you are just as frequently the bad scenery. So you chase that gorgeous guy, and avoid all the trolls and scary-eyed loners chasing you, and before you know it three hours have gone by without you finding what you were looking for. And even though “what you’re looking for” probably doesn’t exist, that’s no reason not to just try for it one more time.

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