My second self

“I’m not going to help you if you don’t take it seriously,” my friend admonished me.

“When have I ever done that?”

For weeks he had been extolling the virtues of the virtual universe, Second Life. He would boast about his property, his clothes and all the sex he was having.

“But it’s not real,” I’d remind him. Then he told me you could fly and smoke without consequence. “Where do we begin?” I asked.

He took me through the steps of creating an avatar. My second self is everything I am not: chiselled and muscular. It’s like plastic surgery without the bandages. Though you can adjust the size of your package, you have the genitals of a Ken doll to start.

“Let’s go buy you a penis,” he said.

The Woody Power store boasted its V2 was the most realistic but I went with the Xcite X3 starter package that included a sculpted cock, ass, nipples and a t-shirt. When you touch the nipples the cock gets aroused.

Upon purchase I literally flew out of the store, giddy as a child with a new toy. “Your new cock is a pretty powerful device,” read the installer guide. “We recommend you check out the documentation when you have the time.”

Now they tell me.

Penis in place, we went to a gay beach where he introduced me to his friends. I found myself engulfed in a swarm of avatars giving me things: t-shirts, jeans and body hair. It was like a makeover montage in a teen movie.

We went from the beach to a gay bar but it was closed. “I thought the whole point of the internet was it’s always open,” I said.

A couple of weeks later I logged back in and went to a gay nude beach by myself. I took off my clothes but couldn’t find my penis. I could masturbate and cum, but I couldn’t see the damn thing. I asked someone if they knew what the problem was but he had only joined the day before and was still learning how to use his own.

We fumbled with our cocks until we gave up and went to a gay dungeon where we had sex. As I proceeded to pound him, the X3 informed me I was breathing, heaving and “having trouble concentrating” while my partner typed, “Fuck me harder!” Without knowing it I was caught in “the grip of a powerful orgasm.”

My hands weren’t even touching the keyboard. It was like a game of Pong from the 1970s; if you leave the paddles in a certain position, the game plays itself.

And just like a real man, he never writes, he never calls…