What I Never Told About My Nights in the Video Game

The first time I entered the virtual world, it was out of boredom. I had just turned nineteen, I lived with my parents in a small apartment on the third floor, and my social life was reduced to going to college, studying for exams, and coming home with the feeling that I was missing something I still didn’t know how to name.

The game was called something like Nexus Life, a kind of social simulator where you created an avatar and moved through virtual spaces: bars with ambient music, artificial parks, beaches with sunsets programmed for six in the evening. People used headsets with microphones and talked in real time, so the barrier between the virtual and the real became very thin very fast.

I didn’t go in looking for sex. I’m clarifying that because people always ask me when I tell this story. I went in looking for conversation. I was looking for someone to talk to about something other than exams and classes, someone to laugh with or debate with or just listen to music with, even if it was through a cheap pair of headphones and a shared screen.

What I didn’t factor in was that world being full of lonely men with exactly the same hunger I had. Guys with their cocks in hand in front of the screen, waiting for a woman’s voice to give them permission to come. It took me a while to understand it. Then I got used to it. Then I started taking advantage of it.

***

The first few months were almost innocent. I made friends, joined discussion groups, explored themed rooms. I learned to read the silences between the words, to tell who was looking for genuine friendship and who was using it as a springboard for something more. I also learned that I was looking for that something more myself, even if it was hard to admit out loud.

I didn’t want a relationship. I had more urgent things to deal with: finishing my technical degree, building something of my own before building something with someone else. But the body doesn’t care about schedules. And loneliness doesn’t wait either. There were nights when I got into bed and felt my cunt getting wet for no apparent reason, my thighs clamped together, my tits hard against my T-shirt, looking for a voice to talk dirty to me until it made me come.

That was where, in that ambiguous space between plans and desire, Mateo appeared.

He wasn’t the most attractive one in the group. His avatar was tall and thin, with hair that always looked only half-combed, and he took longer than usual to reply because, as he explained to me one night, he weighed everything heavily before he said it. He was a frustrated musician, worked in a relative’s hardware store, and read philosophy books I didn’t understand. But there was something in his voice that hooked me. A kind of quiet gravity that made his words really matter.

Our friendship lasted three weeks before it became something else.

It was in the virtual jazz room. We were both listening in silence when he asked:

—Can I ask you a weird question?

—Depends how weird —I answered.

—Have you ever thought about what you’d do if you didn’t have to answer to anyone?

I took a while to answer. Not because I didn’t know, but because I knew it all too well.

—All the time —I said at last.

That night we talked until four in the morning. When I went to sleep, my heart was racing, my feet were cold, and I had a hand between my legs before I even realized it.

Before things went any further, I put it on the table. I explained what I could offer him: something without exclusivity, without plans, without talking about the future as if we had one in common. He accepted it with more composure than I expected.

And then something started that I still don’t quite know how to call.

***

What followed with Mateo was intense and brief. We never met in person—he lived hundreds of kilometers away and I had no way to travel—but for three weeks we filled that distance with voice messages, conversations that lasted until dawn, and nights when each of us was alone in our room and yet we were not alone at all.

One night in particular stuck with me. I was in bed with my headphones on and the lamp off. Mateo was telling me about a song he was composing, note by note, and at some point the description of the music changed tone without either of us saying anything explicit. His voice got slower, lower.

—What are you doing right now? —he asked.

—Listening to you —I replied.

—That’s all?

There was a silence. And then:

—What if I told you I’ve spent the last hour thinking about what it would be like to have you close?

I didn’t answer right away. I just let it hang there in the dark air of my room, feeling it affect me more than I expected.

—Keep going —I said at last.

—I’ve got my hand on my dick, you know? —he said, and his voice trembled just a little—. Ever since we started talking. And I can’t stop imagining you with your legs open for me.

My breath caught. I slid my hand under the sheet and slipped two fingers into my shorts. I was already wet, soaked, my cunt throbbing with every word he said.

—Tell me how you imagine me —I whispered.

—On your back. With your T-shirt bunched up to your throat and your tits out. Hard nipples. One hand on your pussy, touching yourself for me while you listen to me.

—Like I am now? —I said.

Mateo let out a gasp on the other end that went straight through me.

—Are you touching yourself?

—For a while now.

—Show me. Tell me what you’re doing.

I described everything. That I had my middle finger buried all the way inside, moving slowly, pulling it out glistening and pushing it back in. That with my other hand I was squeezing my left nipple, tugging at it, twisting it until it hurt a little. That the sound of my wet cunt could be heard in the silence of the room and made me ashamed and turned on at the same time.

—Put two fingers in —he said, his voice getting rougher and rougher—. Deep. And use your thumb on your clit. Slowly. I don’t want you coming yet.

I obeyed. I put in two fingers, then three, feeling my cunt clamp around them, and started massaging my clit in slow circles, biting my lip so I wouldn’t moan too loud.

—I’d be licking you —he went on—. With my whole tongue, from bottom to top, sucking your lips and then your clit, until you asked me to fuck you.

—I’d ask you —I said, almost voiceless—. I’m already asking you. Put it in me, Mateo.

—How do you want it?

—All of it. In one go. No gentleness.

I heard the wet sound of his hand moving faster on the other end. He was jerking himself off hard, breathing in ragged bursts, groaning softly every two or three words.

—I’m inside you —he said—. I’m fucking you hard, biting your neck, grabbing your tits. Can you feel it?

—I feel it —I lied, and it wasn’t really a lie, because my three fingers going in and out were him, were his cock, were everything I needed.

—Turn over —he ordered—. Get on all fours. I want to fuck you from behind.

I turned over in bed, pressed my face into the pillow, and lifted my ass. I shoved my fingers in again from behind, at a different angle, and let out a long moan that was muffled by the pillow.

—That’s it —he said, panting—. That’s how I want you. Ass up, cunt soaked, waiting for me to shove it all the way in. I’m going to bury it so deep you won’t be able to close your legs tomorrow.

I was masturbating like I never had before. Every word he said was a thrust. Every gasp he gave me made my cunt tighten around my fingers. I felt the orgasm rising, starting in my legs, in my feet, dragging itself up into my belly.

—I’m going to come —I warned him.

—Come with me. Come for me. I want to hear you.

And I came. Mouth open against the pillow, body shaking, fingers drenched, moaning the name of a guy I had never seen in my life. On the other end I heard him come almost at the same time, with a low growl, and then the silence of two breathing bodies settling down.

—God —he said after a long while.

—Yeah —I answered, my voice wrecked.

That was the first time I understood that the virtual and the physical aren’t so different. Desire doesn’t need a present body to be real. A guy hundreds of kilometers away had just fucked me better than any of the few who had touched me in person.

By the fourth week Mateo started asking questions I didn’t want to answer. Whether I was seeing other people, what we were to each other, whether I might ever change my mind. I answered him honestly, which was what he deserved. And he took that honesty badly.

He faded out little by little, which is the most painful way to disappear.

***

After Mateo there were others. I’m not going to tell all of them because some don’t deserve more than a paragraph. But one in particular does.

Diego was the opposite in every way: he talked a lot, laughed loudly, and never thought twice about anything. He had tattoos all over his arms—I had him describe them to me in detail one night because I asked, and he did it so well I could almost see them—and he worked nights in a logistics warehouse. He logged into the game at eleven with a coffee in his hand and the energy of three people.

Diego understood the rules from the very first moment. He didn’t accept them out of resignation but because they were exactly what he wanted too. That made everything simpler and also, in a way that surprised me, more honest. There was nothing to hide and nothing to pretend.

With him, sex was different. With Mateo it was slow, dense, loaded with silences and delays. With Diego it was direct, filthy, no poetry. The second night we talked privately he was already telling me how he wanted to fuck me, bluntly, with no buildup.

—I want you to take everything off —he said as soon as I put the headphones on—. Everything. I don’t want you wearing anything while we talk.

I laughed, but I did what he said. I took off my shirt, my bra, my panties. I got into bed naked, my breathing already quickening.

—There —I said.

—Are you wet already?

—A little.

—Touch yourself. And tell me what you look like down there.

I described my cunt to him in more detail than I had ever described anything to anyone. I told him my lips were small, pink, that I kept myself shaved with a strip left on top, that my clit swelled easily when someone touched me right.

—I’m going to lick you all over —he told me—. I’m going to start with your tits, biting them until I leave marks, then I’m going to go down slowly, licking your stomach, until I get down there. And once I do, I’m not letting go until you soak my whole face.

—Keep going.

—And then I turn you over. I put you face down, lift your ass, and shove my cock in all at once. No slow. No gentle. I drive it in all the way to the balls.

While he talked, I was fingering myself with two fingers, squeezing my tits with my other hand. On the other end I could hear the unmistakable sound of a hand moving up and down a hard cock, wet, with lube or spit, I didn’t care.

—Suck me —he asked at one point—. I want you to suck my dick.

—My mouth is open —I lied, even though I put two fingers in my mouth and sucked them so he could hear the noise—. I’m swallowing it whole. Right down to the throat.

—Holy fuck —he moaned—. I’m going to cum on your face. All in your mouth. Want it?

—I want it. Give me everything.

We came almost together, panting, cursing, our breathing so broken it was hard to make out the words. When we were done, he laughed.

—You’re a gorgeous little slut —he said.

—So are you —I answered.

With him I learned that the absence of expectations can be a form of freedom. There was something clean in knowing that what we had was exactly what it was: two people who liked each other, who fucked over headphones three times a week, who told each other things and laughed and then each went back to their own life. No guilt, no promises anyone could break.

It lasted four months. It ended without drama, one day when he told me he had met someone at work and wanted to try something serious. I told him I was happy for him. And I meant it completely.

***

The third one was different. Different in ways I still struggle to describe exactly.

His name was Sebastián. I met him in a discussion room about film, and the first thing that caught my attention was that he didn’t try to win me over. He didn’t do the things men do when they want to impress you. He gave an opinion about a movie with conviction, I pushed back against his argument, and he laughed and said:

—You’re right. I was wrong.

That was what hooked me.

It took us weeks to move into private conversations. And when we did, the tension was different from what I’d had with the others. Slower, denser, like when you know something is going to happen but you don’t want to rush it because the moment before is part of the good too.

One night, after a conversation that started with books and ended with things neither of us had ever told anyone before, he said:

—I think I like you.

—I already knew —I answered.

—And?

—And I’m glad.

What followed was one of those nights when time does something strange. Sebastián had a deep voice that dropped even lower when he spoke slowly, and that night he spoke very slowly.

—Close your eyes —he told me—. And don’t open them until I tell you.

I closed my eyes. I was already naked under the sheet, waiting for him, with my nipples stiff and my legs pressed together.

—Picture me there —he began—. Sitting on the edge of the bed. And I’m looking at you. Just that. I’m looking at you for a long while before I touch you.

—Touch me now.

—No. Not yet. First I want you to open your legs for me. Slowly.

I opened them. The sheet shifted on its own. The cool air touched my wet cunt and I felt a hard throb between my legs.

—There —I whispered.

—Now bring your hands up to your tits. Squeeze them. Hard. Like I would squeeze them.

I obeyed. I grabbed my tits with both hands, squeezed until it hurt, pinched my nipples and tugged at them. I let out a short moan.

—Good —he said—. Now one hand goes down. Very slowly. Across your stomach. Not to your cunt yet. Stay there a moment, on your belly, feeling how hard you’re pounding.

I was trembling. Nobody had ever spoken to me like that before. With that calm authority, without rushing, as if he had all the time in the world to make me crave every inch.

—Now yes —he went on—. One finger. Just one. Slide it between your lips. Don’t put it in. Just run it outside, up and down, until you soak your whole hand.

I did it. I was so wet the finger slid on its own. I started panting, clamping my thighs around my own hand.

—Sebastián, please.

—Please what?

—Let me put it in.

—Not yet. First the clit. With two fingers. Slow circles. And don’t rush.

I stayed like that for ten minutes, fifteen, I don’t know how long, while he guided me with his voice. He brought me to the edge three times and three more times made me stop before I came, with the order right before the end. I was crying from pleasure, with my hand soaked, my thighs shaking, begging him.

—Please, Sebastián. Let me come. I’m asking you.

—Now yes —he said, and his voice cracked a little, the first sign that he wasn’t exactly holding together either—. Put three fingers in. Deep. And with your other hand keep touching your clit. And when you come I want you to say my name. Loud. Don’t care if anyone hears you.

I shoved three fingers in at once. It was like splitting myself in two. My cunt clamped so hard I lost my breath. With my other hand I worked my clit furiously and in less than twenty seconds I came with a cry that escaped my throat before I could control it.

—Sebastián —I panted, shaking all over—. Sebastián, Sebastián.

On the other end I heard him finish with a low, long growl, and then his heavy breathing as he recovered. He didn’t say anything for almost a minute.

—Good —he finally said.

—Yeah —I answered. I had nothing else to add.

After that I stayed staring at the ceiling for a long while, with the cum on my own fingers drying on my belly and a tear sliding from my temple to the pillow. Not from sadness. From something I still can’t name.

***

With Sebastián it lasted six months. And in that time there were moments when I caught myself thinking about him for no reason in the middle of the day, checking my phone to see if there was a message from him, waiting for eleven at night with more excitement than was prudent.

That was a sign. And I knew how to read signs.

We talked before things went any further than I could handle.

—You’re feeling something —he said. It wasn’t a question.

—I’m feeling things —I answered—. But I’m not going to do anything about it.

—Why not?

—Because I have things to finish first. And because it wouldn’t be fair to either of us.

He didn’t argue. He asked if I wanted to keep going the same way. I said yes, and we did, but something changed after that conversation. The nights became less frequent, and we both understood it without needing to say so.

One day we simply stopped logging in. No fight. No explanations. That’s how some things end.

***

There’s something nobody tells you when you get into this kind of dynamic: you’re going to learn a lot about yourself. Not just about desire, though that too, but about how you function, what you want, how much you can give before it starts to cost too much.

I learned that I can separate desire from affection with considerable precision, but that when the two appear together in the same person, precision gets complicated. I learned that laying the rules on the table from the start isn’t cruelty but respect, even if the other person has a hard time understanding it in the moment. I learned that there are people who change you even if they’re hundreds of kilometers away and even if you’ve never touched them with your hands. I also learned that my cunt could come as many times as I wanted if I had the right voice talking dirty in my ear.

I don’t know if that makes it all worth it. I think it does. Or at least I think not regretting anything is a valid way to answer that question.

I finished my technical degree, just like I’d planned. I started working. My life settled itself into order the way it does when you pay attention to it. And the game was left behind, like chapters that have already done their job.

But sometimes, when I’m alone one night with nothing in particular to do, I wonder if in some virtual room there’s someone like me from a few years ago: someone who went in looking for conversation and still doesn’t quite know what he or she is really looking for. I hope they find it. Or that they learn, like I learned, that sometimes the process of searching is already the answer.