So there was a time when I tried cybersex. It wasn’t for long as I get bored easily and few guys are great at it. But no, cybersex some years ago was a by-product of sex dating online. You would meet someone online whose torso or certain body parts you liked the look of. I realised later that these weren’t always their photos but, a girl can dream.

You would have the chat, rarely get off and move onto the next one. I didn’t really get what the big deal with it was but it does give you a chance to test out your fantasies. Answer?. No matter how filthy you think your imagination can be there are thousands of guys online who are filthier. So you’re ok my precious. That thing you like to do with peaches and cream, it’s really not going to shock anyone.

But then one day I met a guy from match.com. Another reason match.com and I broke up. He seemed alright and said he worked in banking. Turns out he works in the admin department for a bank. Not even a bank teller dude? You don’t even get to touch the money? And then he said he lived in Catford. It was never going to work. But in my mind I decided he lived in Hampstead and was a Trader. I was starting to get the hang of this suspended reality malarkey.

It started as cybersex. He loved it I didn’t. But then he was a filthy bugger who was online every night with something new he wanted to do to me. I would ‘oooh yes Daddy’ and ‘yes right there’ my way through a few scenarios before he’d thank me and sign off. It was all about golden showers and all this messy stuff which made me think, not in my flat. EVER! Then he suggested we Skyped. So I did the obligatory clean-up of the room, sorted out the lighting and put on the cute tight topped pyjamas that one has tucked away for such occasions. No winter onesie for me!

There were three things that messed up the cybersex. First his voice. In my mind he was a cross between the deep voiced one in Boyz to men and James Earl Jones. Authoritative and commanding. So who was this pipsqueak butchering the English language at every turn? Clearly he knew how to write it and yet when he spoke he sounded like he was auditioning for an Urban Disney voiceover.

Then his body. Apparently that photo he had up of his torso was quite a number of years old. My guess would before they created the concept of gyms. He’d eaten his way through quite a number of tubs of Ben and Jerry’s since then. He blamed his sedentary job.

Oh his place was a bloody mess! How was I supposed to imagine having sex without bringing out the marigolds and industrial strength Mr Muscle? I asked him about it and he said that he had just had the builders in. Oh how long ago? I asked. A year ago! I politely told him that this skype thing wasn’t going to work for me. We tried to go back to writing but every time I would imagine me breaking a heel in that messy room or his squeaky voice telling me to touch him in places I really didn’t want to touch.

So keep cybersex to cyber ex my precious and never blur those lines. The reality is much less of a turn on.

© Chelsea Black

Chelsea Black is a writer. Romantically seeking her Fubo (future boyfriend) she often gets distracted by misadventures. She is currently working on her second book, first baby (sperm to be confirmed) and first real career. Chocolate and cocktails are food groups