On talking to a virtual friend for the first time
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Last night I finally spoke to the virtual friend I've had the longest. About six years or so as he pointed out.
Putting the length of our assorted comments on each other's posts beginning with Yahoo and on to our respective Live Journals and emails over the years into a chronological context was a shock.
I'm pretty sure I remember how I first heard from him. I was freshly aflush with the wild surmise that I could find crossdressers erotically appealing (that I had a couple of times long ago without my unconscious response waking up the clear thinking brain sometimes regard too fondly).
I'd never had much to do with transvestites, never have to this day, and I was wondering the proper gender pronouns to use. I think "Krystal MethBurger" said to use the feminine when the guy was en femme. Pretty obvious, eh? Little did I realize that my correspondent was rare exception among gay guys who wear girl's clothes in comfortably speaking of being out of a dress.
Later he - calling himself Overweight Old Fart - I and others would hang out on a Yahoo Club devoted to feminine gay guys (and those who "admire" them). Commonly we'd write about the struggle of feminine gay guys. Often they are anything but welcomed by the new generation of ordinary gay people. Sadly the bisexual and (ha ha) "straight" men they attract rarely make the kind of caring lover a person of any gender quality would want.
In email as Pristine Waistcoat he would be the only person I confessed early problems in my life with Charles to. He made a safe confessor. Normally I'd share my problems with my best friend. Not that I let myself, afraid that my problems would cause my friend to resent Charles. Pristine's generous empathy could never harm Charles. Several times he'd give me his telephone number in case I wanted to talk to someone. I never did.
I'm more responsive to the sound of a person's voice than to any musical instrument. That has led me to own hundreds of jazz and pop vocal CDs. When the time suddenly seemed right to get to know the longtime friend that I'd never met his voice was worth the cost of the call in itself.
Quite the liar he'd told me he sounded like a New Jersey truck driver. Not that I was silly enough to buy that. I figured he'd have one of the accents common to those who live in and near Manhattan.
What I heard was probably an instance of what must be a rich diversity of British Commonwealth accents. Gracefully he elided syllables, sounding always gracious, I fear I must say delicate. It wasn't an accent I could've imagined. Usually when you hear a trace of British Empire the consonants are strongly rendered. While he was hardly inexpressive he stayed in a narrow tonal range that you might imagine a jazz singer deliberately cultivating.
Don't know how long we chatted. Mostly of it was of many things we'd typed at each other through the years. But talking, even if it leaves your groping for words when the keyboard gave you space to think, is always more satisfying. It is easier to slip in the nuances.
Don't know how long we talked. His phone died, mine developed an inability to dial out. So I ate and went to sleep.
I enjoyed myself so much that I didn't even shift my voice into the range I used to use when meeting a pretty guy for the first time.