It s Practically What Uncles Are for Catherine s Epilogue
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For The Love Of LiciaChapter 46: An Epilogue, Of Sorts free porn video
Here ends the story of Angique and Alicia. I called it a true fantasy and I guess it is. But I do understand how this might confuse you. How could a story be at once true and a fantasy? Which part was true and which was fantasy? And does it matter? Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't. But yes, a fantasy it was, and true as well. Even though in 'reality' it never ended like the story did.
I met Alicia on a chat site, and maybe that is as far as the truth goes. Because, you see, until today she and I never met. We were just two names typed on a screen and hurled at each other through cyberspace. She never knew more about me than I allowed her to know; on the other hand I only knew what she told me.
Our chats went on for years. They happened at random; we never made appointments, there was the time difference and there were the hazards of business and travel. We met in a 'fem-only' room that was open to the public and in 'private rooms' that could only be visited by people who knew their name. One of those rooms I called Villa, another Wintergarden. They were just little boxes on a computer's monitor, but everything you read about in this story happened there. Ah well, almost everything.
Maybe I know more about Alicia than she knows about me, but then again: I only know what she told me. I know part of her 'real' name and where she lives (lived?). I know about her childhood, her family, her marriage and divorce. I also know about her business and most of her 'true' love relations. I guess I know her better than most people I met in 'real life.' But it might as well have been all made up.
Alicia knows a lot about me too, but she also won't ever be certain if it is truth or fantasy. I told her my name was Angelique Sophie Jonckers, born near Brussels in 1981, about 24 years old when we first met. Even though I gave her a wealth of details about my physique, my past, my business and the place I live, she might doubt them just as I doubt hers. In her own words: I could as well be 'a man ... or have some horrible disfigurement ... you might be some archbishop or king or prime minister or whatever... '
I am none of that, but I guess that is beside the point. What has always been very much the point was the fact that Alicia considered our relation in cyberspace as a fantasy — incomplete and therefore inferior to 'real time.' My love had no credibility for her. She often told me she loved me and I guess she did, but to her it was an abstract kind of love. Pledging her love was like a turn of phrase, I guess. And to my shame I have to admit that it took me years before I understood. You see, I never wondered who Alicia was in whatever 'real time' there might be. I fell in love with the girl I met in cyberspace, not with the girl (woman? man?) whose fingertips typed her into life.
When I once tried to convince her that true love could very well exist in Cyberia, in fact that it didn't need the stamp of reality to be true love, she showed me how very much more down-to-earth she was.
"You see," she answered me, "despite your saying you love me, you don't really. I don't see how you can expect me who can breathe and move to just sit here and type all day."
By now you may start to suspect that my true fantasy with Alicia didn't end the way the story did. You are right, of course. So maybe from here on we'd better call it a true nightmare.
It was only to the end of our affair that the utter futility of my love became clear to me. Alicia told me she could no longer accept whatever it was we seemed to have. To her it was just 'typing words and masturbating to it.' She insisted that I'd give her my true identity; it wouldn't affect her opinion at all, she promised. She even assured me she would get on a plane and come over to me 'to be your wife, your slave girl, your whore. To care for you and to pleasure you. I am also an excellent cook, you know?'
I stalled, desperately clinging to the virtual straws that remained.
Then the inevitable moment arrived when our relationship became a farce. It was when she casually told me that she had taken her life to 'the next level.' In our virtual Journey she had by then cleared the Gate of Hunger, an episode where I whored her out to a lot of people to train her in every way a girl could please men and women. It obviously inspired her to act on that in 'real' life. She'd made an appointment with a man and spent an evening with him for money. (Once again, all I have is her word — so remember: I can't vouch for truth or fantasy.)
I was devastated. Not because she did it — I was proud she'd found the courage to realize her dream. I'd always insisted there shouldn't be a barrier between her wonderfully free 'virtual' being and the rather inhibited, guilt-ridden creature she was in 'real time.' What shocked me, though, was how she went about it. Before her casual remark she'd avoided me for over three weeks, making lame excuses about being 'busy.' Then, only after she'd prostituted herself for three or four times, she dropped her little bomb, telling me she was very proud of it.
She was honestly surprised when I told her I felt cheated because she had done it all without me and behind my back. We had been talking about it for ages, but now, when she at last decided on doing it, she never involved me. She never consulted me or shared her emotions. She never even told me about her plans, making it clear that I had no claim on her 'real' life; I didn't even exist there — which of course was a very sane attitude.
Just to show how incurably blind I was where she was concerned, let me show you a snippet from our final e-mail correspondence on the subject.
"Alicia, you know very well how we worked on this together for more than two years. I had to force you to do things you were scared of, but needed to do in order to become who you really wanted to be. In the process you broke my heart maybe four times, running off, panicking. I picked you up, swallowing my pride; I dragged you all the way to this moment.
Mikhaela
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