The Virtual Game Girl Called Me That Early Morning

Nearly two years ago, out of sheer boredom, I discovered that inside that virtual reality game there were women like me too. I had gone in thinking it would be just another sandbox, something like The Sims or Roblox, with ridiculous avatars and teenage chatter. But something hooks you when you realize that behind every little pixel doll there’s someone breathing on the other side of the screen, someone who types slowly, who hesitates, who is also alone at two in the morning with a hand shoved between her legs.

That particular night I was stressed out from work, not in the mood to write another line, with that stubborn kind of heat that shows up when you’ve spent too many days locked inside yourself. I didn’t want anything serious. I didn’t even want someone who knew my face. I just wanted to distract myself, stop thinking, and, if the night got interesting, slide two fingers into my cunt with the help of a stranger’s voice.

I loaded the game, chose my usual avatar — a violet-haired girl in a crop top that was way too small — and went straight to the main lounge, the area where people stand around doing emotes while trying to find someone to talk to. There were about ten people there. Three caught my eye right away: a blonde in a school skirt laughing to herself in a corner, a redhead with tattoos on her arms, and a short-haired girl sitting on the virtual sofa, legs crossed, staring at nowhere in particular.

That last one was Lúa. I knew it when I walked over and read the name floating above her head.

—Waiting for someone? —I typed in proximity chat.

—No one in particular —she replied. —And you?

—Me neither. I just wanted to see some faces.

—There are no faces here —she answered. —Just masks.

It made me laugh. I sat down beside her on the sofa. We stayed quiet for a while, which in a game like that means the two of us watched the other person’s avatar breathe with its default animation. Then we started talking about stupid stuff: the bug of the day, the servers being down, the people who came in just to make fools of themselves.

—Do you have Telegram? —she typed after a while, without moving her avatar. —The chat here is slow and deletes itself.

I thought about it for two seconds. I sent her my username.

***

Lúa wrote like she’d spent hours choosing each word. She took her time replying, but when she did the sentences came down whole, typo-free, with a calm that made me nervous. She asked me my real name. I gave her a fake one, Aitana, and she replied that hers was fake too but that she preferred to keep being Lúa.

—Better that way —I wrote. —If you knew me for real, you’d get bored.

—I doubt it.

—I mean it. I’m the kind of person who shows up in someone’s life for a month and leaves without warning.

—Me too —she wrote. —Maybe that’s why I came over.

We spent a couple of hours like that, telling each other little stories. That she was studying something related to animation and worked in a neighborhood café. That she lived alone with two cats named after characters from an old manga. That she hadn’t fucked anyone in months because the last girl she’d been with had left her with a strange emptiness, not from love, but from the habit of having another mouth on her tits before sleep.

—You? —she asked.

—Same. But with a guy. And I’d rather not think about it.

—Don’t you think about girls?

—I think about anything that distracts me. Right now I’m thinking about your mouth, for example.

—Off to a good start —she answered, and the period at the end of that sentence hit me between the legs.

Then she sent me a photo. Just her feet on the bed, a white duvet, and the yellow glow of a low lamp. Dark blue painted nails. Nothing else. But it was enough for me to imagine the whole room, the silence, the smell of a girl’s deodorant in a place where she lived alone, and I immediately imagined myself going up with my tongue along those ankles until I found her cunt.

I sent her one back, harmless too: the turned-off TV screen reflecting my bare leg, a piece of the old T-shirt I slept in. An image so banal it could only be read one way: I’m in bed without panties, keep going.

—Your thighs are showing —she wrote. —You got anything on underneath?

—Nothing.

—Show me.

I didn’t send a photo. I sent a three-second audio clip: my short breathing, the rustle of the sheet as I opened my legs. She took half a minute to answer.

—Save that —she typed. —I want it for later. Get back in the game.

***

—Let’s go back into the game —she wrote half an hour later. —There’s a private room north of the map. Almost nobody goes in there.

I loaded the game without thinking. My violet-haired avatar appeared beside hers in a cabin with wooden walls and windows looking out onto a half-rendered forest. She had already changed clothes: a short dress, bare feet, rapid-breathing animation.

—I didn’t know you could do this here —I wrote.

—There are things you only do when you’re not looking at the official forum —she replied.

She made her avatar move closer to mine. My pulse sped up for no apparent reason, because they were pixels, and even so they weren’t just pixels. She triggered an emote I hadn’t seen before: her character’s hands climbed up mine from the waist. I had to search my menu for a way to respond. I found a similar gesture and my avatar returned the caress, slowly, as if the two of us were testing how far the other would go.

—Are you wearing headphones? —she wrote. —I need you to listen.

I put them on. She opened voice chat for the first time. Her voice was low, a little rough, with an accent I couldn’t place. She said my fake name slowly, as if testing whether it held me properly.

—Aitana.

—I’m here.

—Tell me what you’re really doing. Not the avatar. You.

It was hard to speak. I told her I was in bed, with the laptop on my knees. That I wasn’t wearing pants. That the room was dark except for the glow of the monitor. That my nipples were hard against my T-shirt and one hand was already resting over my pussy, still on top, waiting for permission. I told her the truth, all of it, without embellishing anything.

—Good —she said. —I want you to close your eyes for a moment.

I closed them. The headphones let in only her voice and a soft noise in the background, as if she were shifting the sheet around.

—Picture me there. Not the avatar. Me. And I’ve just put my hand on your thigh. I’m going up slowly. I’m not touching you yet. I’m just stroking the inside of your thigh with my nails. Can you feel it?

—Yes —I said, and my voice came out rough.

—Open yourself a little more for me. Take your hand away. I want you touching yourself over your cunt, without putting any fingers in. Just the palm, pressing.

I obeyed. I pressed with my palm and felt the wet heat already soaking through below. She heard the sigh that slipped out of me and laughed, that low laugh that already knew me without knowing me.

—You’re wet —she said. —You don’t even need to confirm it for me.

—Soaked —I answered.

—Perfect. Now spread your lips with two fingers. Leave yourself open. But don’t put anything in yet.

***

I spread myself the way she asked. The air in the room touched my clit and a shiver ran all the way up to the nape of my neck. On the other side of the headphones I heard a short, wet sound, and I understood that she also had a hand between her legs.

—Are you touching yourself? —I asked.

—Ever since I saw you walk into the lounge —she answered. —I’ve been soaking wet because of you for two hours.

—Show me how you do it.

—Circles. Slowly. Middle finger on the clit. Nothing inside, because if I put anything in now I’d come in a minute and I don’t want that.

—I want to see you come.

—And I want to hear you first. Listen to me. Take your middle finger away. Start doing what I’m doing, circles, slowly, no rush. Count out loud to twenty.

I started counting. By eight my voice was trembling. By twelve I wasn’t counting anymore, I was moaning the numbers. She listened to me breathe and guided me with unbearable calm, as if she had a stopwatch in her head.

—Now put one finger in —she murmured. —Just one. All the way in. And stay still.

I slid a finger inside and a long gasp escaped me. I was so wet it went in without resistance, and inside I felt the pulses like a drum against the fingertip.

—Push it in and pull it out slowly —she said. —Make it sound. I want to hear how wet you are.

I did. The wet sound filled the mic. On the other side, Lúa moaned for the first time out loud, a short, sharp moan that shot through me as if she’d licked my ear.

—Put in another —she panted. —Two fingers. And with your other hand, touch your clit.

I slid in the second finger and used my left hand on my clit. Fucking myself while listening to her breathe was something new, something I had never felt with any man, with any girl. I was open, exposed to a voice that had no face, and that voice was handling my cunt better than most of the hands that had been there.

—Faster —I asked.

—No. Slower. Hold it. I want you to come when I tell you to.

—I won’t be able to.

—You can. Slow down. Squeeze your thighs together. Hold on for one more minute.

I closed my thighs around my fingers and stayed almost still, trembling. On the other side I heard her speed up, her breathing breaking into pieces, and suddenly I heard her let out a quiet curse, almost a whisper:

—Fuck, I’m coming, Aitana, come with me, come now.

I released my thighs, moved my fingers fast, pressed my clit with the palm of my other hand, and came with a moan I couldn’t control. It was a long, dirty orgasm, the kind that leaves your face burning and your legs wet all the way to the knees. She came at the same time; I heard her say my fake name twice, wrecked, half-choked, and then only breathing.

—Keep going —she murmured when she was almost done. —Don’t stop now. Give me another one.

I didn’t stop. I went back to circles with my soaked fingers and she made me come a second time, shorter, more electric, biting the pillow so I wouldn’t wake the whole building. She didn’t stop either. I heard her finish a second time with a choked cry against the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

And the avatars standing still in the cabin looked like two useless statues while, on the other side of the screens, two women were finishing themselves off in silence, listening to each other’s breathing as if it were the only proof that any of it was really happening.

When I was done, I sat there for a moment not knowing what to do with my body. My fingers smelled like me, the sheet was soaked beneath my ass, and I didn’t even dare move. Lúa stayed quiet too. Then I heard her swallow.

—Are you still there? —she asked.

—Yes.

—Are you okay?

—Better than I have in a long time. My fingers are dripping.

—Lick them —she said. —I already licked mine.

I brought them to my mouth without thinking. I licked them slowly, one by one, and let out a long sigh into the mic so she could hear it. On the other side she laughed, satisfied, like someone closing a book they’d loved.

***

We talked a little longer, without tension now. She told me it was the first time she’d done anything like that with someone from the game. I told her I had chatted before with several girls —and several guys too —but I had never gotten to this, never come twice with the voice of a stranger sliding through my headphones. That normally I pulled away before that, because I knew how these things ended: they went on with their lives, I disappeared without warning, and two months later I didn’t even remember the nicknames.

—Are you going to disappear? —she asked.

—Probably.

—Me too.

We didn’t promise each other anything. We didn’t exchange real phone numbers, or social media under our real names. Just the game username and Telegram, which either one of us could delete without leaving a trace.

Before logging off, she made one last emote: her avatar leaned toward mine and kissed it on the cheek. I answered with another. Then we both left the game at the same time, without saying goodbye.

Months have passed. We’ve talked three or four more times, always late, always at that strange hour when no one has anything to lose, and always ending with fingers inside and a broken voice. I know that sooner or later one of us will stop replying. I also know that when that happens I won’t look for her. That’s how this works: we show up for something, give each other just enough, and leave before the other starts expecting more.

But that first night, as I took off my headphones and looked at the game screen with the empty cabin, my cunt still throbbing and my fingers smelling like me, I knew that somewhere another woman was doing exactly the same thing — turning off the lamp, folding the soaked sheet, smiling alone — and for a moment I stopped feeling quite so strange.