Like the many of you who haven’t yet succumbed to the real world of hard deadlines and meals that don’t come in a box, I’m a highly skilled procrastinator. My unwillingness — inability, perhaps — to do things in a timely manner has historically ensured a number of things in life, ranging from a ‘B’ in British lit (gasp!) to a color-coded closet (well, OK, maybe there’s another reason for that). Until the other night, though, never had my penchant for procrastination offered me anything nearly so frightening as the intent gaze of a fiftysomething guy with a full orchard of chest hair, head resting gently on his pillow.
Let me explain.
On Thursday night, while most of my friends were out making hazy memories in Pacific Beach, I had the great fortune of staying in to write two papers — both overdue, thank you very much — sometime before the sun rose or the last of the Redbull wore off. After almost an hour of exerted effort, a hard-earned study break was certainly in order — but with my polos still arranged in perfect rainbow order, my news feed devoid of any photo thumbnails worth clicking and my stomach already well past Nutter Butter capacity, I resorted to the one stalling mechanism surpassed in desperation only by flossing or clipping my toenails: AOL Instant Messenger.
After a few minutes catching up with one of my oldest friends, it was revealed that she’d forged an unlikely bond with someone from Bulgaria who was on the rebound and conveniently built like a Greek god. She said they’d been introduced by something called Chat Roulette — which, evidently, is not a virtual form of the lethal Russian game of chance, but an excuse for strangers to make meaningful conversation or show you their penis.
Naturally, I was signed on within minutes. My friend had warned me that ChatRoulette.com — which allows users to video chat with perfect strangers — was a little different for guys than it was for her, but surely that wouldn’t stop me from meeting a charming Eastern European all my own within 10 minutes. You can’t hurry love, but I was in no particular rush.
After a passing period’s worth of failure, though, I found my friend couldn’t have made a bigger understatement in noting the Web site was “different” for guys: It’s configured to automatically connect you to another user’s Web cam, but also provides the option of a “Next” button, should that stranger’s broadcast be unsatisfactory. It’s a useful tool, especially when you come across a pixilated stream of someone shielding his face with a handwritten sign reading “Boobs?”
Most of the matches I came across in my extended study break were, like me, young, male and apparently looking for something highly specific. There were, however, a couple noted exceptions, such as the aforementioned fiftysomething, whose coy grin I only discovered after several minutes away from the page — and took as an irrefutable sign that it was high time I got back to that Spanish paper.
After those fleeting minutes of creeped-out observation and half-hearted hope, though, it occurred to me that even if the Internet can connect me with a saggy 50-year-old in five minutes flat it’s not exactly the most lucrative procrastination pit stop. I’ve got a towering pile of clean clothes to worry about before I dare start on whatever paper’s due next, but I think that next time, before I resort to Chat-Roulette desperation and risk another unintended stare-down, I’ll take on the sock drawer instead.
