erotomania
by Nicolas Rivera
The trick is to do the opposite of convention. Lighting, video quality, the flattery of a flirtatious angle are important details, but the key to social media is delivery. Look at the camera. Address your audience directly. Peer past the lens, straight through the pixels on the other side, and stare deep into the heart of your keeper. A little cliché, perhaps, but cliché wrapped in novelty feels brand new. More important to the algorithm, the old-made-new equals clicks. And clicks are the keyboard warrior's love language.
On that note, the more effort you funnel into online interaction, the stronger your presence becomes. It's tedious, often unfulfilling work, but you never know who's watching. A double-click here, a cheeky emoji response there, and voilà! Engagement spikes statistics, and numbers don't lie. Also, if you're able, find your lane. Fifty percent of Americans self-classify as chronically online, meaning there's no shortage of avenues. Ironically, outdoor baddie blogs or sexy survival strategies are all the rave, for now anyway.
Last thing. There's no reliable methodology for tracking trends—best not to try. If you want a personal take as to why scantily clad bodies sharing outdoor survival tips in seemingly remote areas (not me outing myself) are surging in popularity, maybe there's a signal of desperation permeating through the modems. Food, drink, and fuck—all but a click away. It's new, exciting even, but how long can the good times last, if indeed these are good times? People crave the façade of control, and if one day the delicate, tangled fibers of world-wide-web collapse, it's comforting to think we stand a chance at a life without wireless connection.
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She wants me to find her. She's never said so verbatim, but there's no absence of clues. The way she smiles. Soft, direct stares. The record of her aura, her whole being, inches from my face. Commanding my utter, utmost attention. As if to say, for your eyes only. I want you. Find me.
She is the highlight of my day. The sole purpose of my existence.
Some days she doesn't post, and I fear the worst. What if someone else found her first? Hundreds—no, thousands—of prying eyes steal glances at what I know is mine and mine alone. On such days, mired in the midst of absence, I peruse her substantial backlog. I comment, un-like then re-like, not because she asks me to, but because she needs me to. All part of the algorithm. Scratch my back, and I scratch hers.
I imagine her touch. My hands on her skin. For the first time. As if it were our last.
I know what you're thinking. DM her. Make my dedicated affection known. End this sideways-two-step, this game of tender cat and hungry mouse. I share your thoughts too, but in moments of such weakness, I remind myself. Love is complicated. Love is fire. Hold the flame close to keep the body warm but grip the heat too tight and white-hot agony sears the nerves beneath the skin. Or worse. The fire dies.
Instead, I'll do the logical thing. A humble soldier, I heed her command.
I will find you.
I'd pull the moon out of orbit if this she so desired. But lucky for me, all I she asks of me if is to find her. Five years ago, tracking someone's whereabouts through a snippet of video evidence was a painstaking, collaborative effort, but the future is now. It's like they used to say. Problem or solution? There's an app for that. And the last thing I need is fifty other men, women, and children fresh on her trail. This is personal.
For your eyes only.
New post. Her latest summons delivered right to my inbox. I screenshot, crop and compress an image. Upload in seconds. Waste a minute on spam ads because my traffic on a webpage is payment enough. Voilà. Geomarkers. Time of day. And what I really need. Coordinates. She's closer than ever. 100-miles or less. She's a hiker. Deep into the grove, secluded from the noise of modernity, she beacons.
I will see you soon.
Tell us one detail of world beyond our roots. Our memories are numbered in rings. But like the green of our arms—brown buds to green flourish to amber crisps that fall—the lives we've known feel endless. We traveled lifetimes to get where we are. On the wind. Inside wet bellies. Latched on the backs of beasts much larger than you. Most warm bodies don't mind if we invade their space. Only you seem to mind.
That is the order of things. All things. We eat what you cannot. We breathe the air you expel. You, and others, eat the fruit of our labors, and if we're lucky, you spread the grain of our existence. We invade. Politely, but without permission, so an invasion, nonetheless. Then again, how can we invade where we always belonged? Does anyone, anywhere, not belong? If so, who decides? We'd like to meet them, this arbiter of decree. We have questions.
Tell us of the empty ocean above our heads. Tell us of our neighbors, of our children, who by now, likely have children of their own. Tell us why you run, alone or in packs. There goes two now. Two bodies. Four legs. Stomping. Noisy. Panting. What drives them reckless around our bodies? Do they chase the wind like our seeds chase the light? What happens when the chase comes crashing to an end? We will wait and see. Closing in now. Almost within reach. Do you want to know what happens? Share with us a story, and we'll tell you what we know.
Photo of Nicolas Rivera
BIO: Nicolas Rivera is a Fiction candidate in the Texas State M.F.A. in Creative Writing program. His most recent work can be found in Allium's Fall of 2024 Issue of Poetry and Prose, and his debut novel, Haymaker, is currently in the process of query.