Almost five years ago I started a literary website. My initial expectations were, frankly, minimal. It was a scrawny and unattractive little thing at first, traipsing around the Net in a shoddy brown dress. Just a few contributors, no real direction, no idea how to wear its makeup. But it has really blossomed. Five long, hot years later? Now it knows how to work an IP frock. Wear a string of embedded pearls. Shake it for the pixelverse. My little site has become a lithe, glowing thoroughbred. She’s one of the sauciest destinations around, literary or otherwise. She has a huge stable of users and fans and an unbelievably high quality of content. Actually, if I’m being truthful with myself, I think I’m a little bit in love with her content. The way her page breaks move and flow. The way she downloads and buffers. Her short, supple fonts and nubile sans-serif bolds.
So what does this mean? Lord only knows. But there’s one thing for certain, and it’s messing with my head:
Dust, what happens when you wake up one morning and realize you desperately want to fuck your website?
I really, really need an answer.
Oh, I understand completely. The good news is that your lust for your site is probably well-warranted. Nothing is more coquettish than long, undulating strings of clean ASP code that come together in a single tight package of subscription-free news and entertainment. I’ve seen just this sort of binary seduction rumored across the bandwidth–from dispirit servers, lonely chat rooms, and as the painful rash left behind by seemingly innocuous enhancement downloads. It is easy to imagine your site’s allure–the cache of wavy hair, a propagation shaped like an ebony cigarette holder, red velvet LAN-gloves and an optimized miniskirt hiked halfway up to her meta tag. Yes, Braf, as your site reclines on its Georgia divan, one delicate columnar arm draped over her head, absolutely bursting with the naked sexuality that is inherent in all quality random prose and stable release, it’s no wonder that you’ve fallen into an administrative K-hole of want.
Okay, but here’s the bad news:
You cannot fuck your site.
Your site can do what she pleases with you, but you are the passive participant in this relationship, no matter how many hours you’ve devoted to her every whim. The internet, you see, is not patriarchal. The great untold secret of this generation is that cyberspace is Gaia, and you are its humble man-servant. Its human sub-domain. Within this ravishing Trojan Horse is a much smaller horse. Actually, a horsey. Made of plastic and painted bright pink and bouncing on a spring. And you, Braf, are riding it. While your shareware mommy waits impatiently. I hope you have plenty of quarters.
At HTML mistress is a cruel mistress indeed.
You may only be paying per click, but you’re still paying in the long run.
I advise you to quietly persist in the fulfillment of your role as administrative cabin boy and neutered courtesan. The site will continue to improve, you will be paralyzed with desire, and that is as it should be.
In the meantime, you can probably work off some steam by fucking your cellphone.
Just don’t forget to download the Lambskin 2.0 app.