With a mighty fine dinner filling me up, I prepared for a nice relaxing evening full of memorable arguments on the Internet. And the mood was perfect: an early episode of Pokemon played on my old TV, it was raining outside, and my feet were in heaven. I also liked how I only needed to use my eyes to get old Stevie doing things exactly how I wanted. The entire time he was in my room, he didn’t make even the slightest cough. And with that ski-mask, it was like the big dummy wasn’t even there.
“Oh Elliot, just what is all this?” I groaned as I looked across all sorts of new messages in my (anti)social media accounts. “Wait…did freaking 4chan pull this off?”
I knew something fishy was up with just the sheer amount of flaming going on in what could only be described as “Gamergate” in style. But after taking a gander at some of these rage-posts, I came across a little more than the usual piles of misspelt curse words. There were in fact repeated references to a certain someone by the handle of “Mistress Nari”. One especially delightful comment read, “U STUPID FUCKING CUNT! NARI IS THE GODDESS OF ALL. GET DOWN ON UR KNEES AND SERVE THE REEEAAL MISTRESS!”
I again wondered if this was just another kooky set of shenanigans cooked up by the 4-basement crew. But after several minutes of digging into all these zombie messages, all of which purely seemed to obsess over the likes of “Mistress Nari,” I realized that this was one rabbit hole I just couldn’t hope to skip over. Soon, I imagined myself in an Alice costume as I plunged right into maybe one of the darkest places on the ‘net that didn’t require a Tor (at least I could only hope).
But within less than a minute, I could already feel my digestion going sideways. This was even after I was well prepared for it. You see, since the beginning of my career, I have seen countless other Twitch “goddesses” who treat their fans like they’re just piñatas full of Amazon gift cards. But this Nari was a whole new breed, and all it took was one single video:
“Ah yes…now I want you to…burn yourself with it,” she said in a smoky voice as she sat back in her chair, her shoes propped up like a sleazy corporate fat-cat. “But don’t just burn your flat ugly face. Aim right for that pathetic stumpy little PENIS!”
There were in fact around ten others in this snippet from one of her streams. Yes, these guys were just beating and lashing themselves, all in the name of their beloved Goddess. But what struck me most of all was not how religiously fanatical they were, but how truly blank, how…cold this bitch Nari was.
Nari herself was like some expat from South Korea (although I think she was only half-Korean). And despite a slight accent, her English couldn’t be any more clear and commanding. She typically wore a leather-clad “biker-chick” outfit and much of her content seemed to revolve around her busting through people’s doors and smashing up random pieces of furniture. Honestly, at least half her job seemed to be just going around slapping and “humiliating” these sad little stooge office workers. (Funny enough, most of her videos were not available on her main channel, but they were sure making their ways on Pornhub and pretty much all those other XXXbaloneyslapper sites.)
After a while, I decided to finally send a little “greeting card” to dear Nari. “Hey you piece of K-POP trash,” it plainly read. “I’m not sure what your deal is, but maybe a mental asylum would do the trick? You know, Kim-Jong-Ill syndrome is a very serious disease.”
I had a good chuckle at this, but I was rather shocked to find my message responded to in less than a minute. Yes, the Goddess herself actually appeared to have been sitting upon her throne awaiting a post from me, like some kind of demented Nazi hawk. But even more surprising was what she said: “That humor of yours! My my…won’t you visit me? You like coffee?”
“Excuse me?” I typed. Well, it soon occurred to me that if she watched my videos on any kind of regular basis, she would know that I lived not too far away from New York. So, it was likely she wasn’t just being weird. “Let’s say I do meet you,” I added. “What on earth do you expect us to talk about...? What ‘tools’ you recommend in your ball-bust dungeon…?”
This was responded to once again with mind-boggling speed: “I only have too many things to say,” she noted. “For one, I know your life can be better. And that’s because you don’t know how to just have fun in this job. Well, not yet.”
And just like that, it seemed that I had made a true bond. Yep, no matter how hard I tried to be mean, it just didn’t seem to work. Nari was apparently unfazed by my clearly non “joke bro” insults, and by the third message, I had none left. The two of us Goddesses were just going to have to have a snack together, and I had better get used to it.
* * *
Well, as this wacky evening rolled on, I could only continue to wonder about this crazy slave-whipping Catwoman I was scheduled to meet. The only way I could keep my inner curious cat contained was to keep my head firmly down into the absolute gutter of the Internet.
While an episode where Pikachu was getting thrashed by another Pokemon called Sandshru raged on, I came across an Instagram page of someone who I knew was a fan of mine since the start. Fittingly enough, her name was Stacey, and I probably never would’ve remembered her if it wasn't for my Nari invitation.
Yes, Miss Stacey seemed quite similar to Nari, particularly in the unbelievable arrogance department. She was a self-proclaimed “Foot Goddess” who did her thing purely as “research” for her university thesis on female objectification. Of course, all it took was one look at this bimbo to imagine that she liked her time at college very much. Her hair was more purple than Barney, and she even had those ridiculous round glasses that only a dorky detective’s assistant should ever need. Oh, and let’s not forget the pretentious hipster Middle East neck-scarf thing that you wear when you’re buying a latte more expensive than a Burger King blow-out.
However, Stacey’s page did humble me just a bit. I mean, she just had style. Before I knew it, my eyes were swept away by those gorgeous size eleven feet of hers as she posed with various renowned pieces of literature like The Communist Manifesto. Yeah, for just a little while, I could even sort of forget that her whole shtick was to use her own fans as guinea pigs just so that she could expose those wicked perverts (oh my)! But I also couldn’t help but remember how nice she was to me in the few times we exchanged comments. Apparently, I was a fellow member of the “sisterhood.” And she knew full-well what my real mission was. Haha! Take that you SIMPs!
But Miss Stacey’s smashingly successful socks-selling Instagram only seemed to open up a whole new Pandora’s Box of incel losers, all of them getting toyed with like barbecued G.I Joes. I soon found myself trapped on a page that wasn’t even a Goddess. No, we’re talking a God and Goddess. Freya and Zeus? If so, maybe Foot Fetishism was created on the eighth day.
Alright, I’m talking about a little Twitter (and Poonhub) page for none other than the Perfect Lovebirds. Basically, they consisted of a preppy little bitch named Brooke (the snotty sort who serves you lukewarm crap at Starbucks), and her boyfriend Wesley, who was like the ultimate smooth-faced pretty boy heartthrob, (with a physique so photogenic and towering that it would even make “Chad” look like a decrepit truck driver with diabetes). Yeah, this was basically one of the most good-looking pairs of annoying canoodlers you would ever have the misfortune of seeing. And they had followers. Lots of them. Apparently, they were almost as popular as I was, and all they really did was record themselves making out while taunting the absolute “LOSERS!” who drooled after them. Jesus Almighty, why did you die for us again?
Of course, once more, I was strangely unable to keep my eyes from being completely magnetized to their content, and it wasn’t just because Wesley was so obscenely hot. The video that stuck with me most had the camera positioned right at the edge of their bed where their (you know) feet were. It seems so tiresome to keep laboring such a thing, but they both had absolutely beautiful feet. Really, even Wesley’s massive flippers were damn pretty. But the best part was when he and Brooke paused their kissing for just a moment, just so that he could say, “You pathetic Foot-Boys just keep buying all our socks! But trust me, you will never have a taste of Brooke’s, no matter how desperately hard you try to get just a little whiff. That’s because, when we package them, my socks completely soak into hers! Hah! But that’s probably what you wanted all along anyway, wasn’t it?”
“YUCK!!” I yelped to myself. “I mean come on...you cannot be gay at all! A completely straight, kissless virgin guy who dreams about girls all the time and yet, THIS is what he gets in the end?”
As this manically villainous webcam couple just cackled along in their Saturday morning cartoon moment, I just couldn't help but join in. Yes, I was definitely more than just a little amused. Oh, I felt something truly sexy that I might never have even known existed. And without further ado, I couldn’t help but notice that Wesley himself had a separate profile. (For his actual gay fans??) It seemed like such an insane shot in the dark, but I sent him a little…message. And I wasn’t even attempting to be mean this time around….
“Oh Elliot...you must really hate me now,” I said to myself rather glumly. “But I’ve got to try this out. If not, I may never know who I really am. I may never even know who Princess Misaki is. Gosh, the very fate of all cyberspace could be at stake!”
* * *
Some night this was sure turning out to be. I was now quietly tiptoeing out of my room and down the stairs to the living room like some sneaky old Pink Panther. And with every mirror that I passed, I couldn’t help but notice how ridiculous I looked. Really, with nothing but a belly shirt and a little sliver of a skirt, I truly had no shame.
But before jumping out to my Uber, there was one certain little room that I seriously had to offer a visit. Actually I just popped down a hall that I probably only ventured toward once a month. It was in this dusty corner of the house that I could hear something…. With my fingers under my lips, I placed my ear right by the door where the persistent noise was coming from. Oh, you better believe this was Stevie’s room, and there was definitely a bit of an “ugh, ugh, UGH!” going on. Yes. Somehow, I managed to avoid bursting out laughing as obnoxiously as a Final Fantasy X character.
Once I was in my Uber, however, it didn’t take me long to forget about whatever could be going on in Stevie’s sad-but-true universe. With my eyes locked on my phone, I could only bite my lip and make a goofy horse expression as Wesley’s most recent message came back into full view.
“In the big city all week ;) Hardly gonna be seeing Brooke at all!” he had posted.
But one text he sent, the one that always found its way back to my sights, was the very first reply he sent me, and it read, “Yes, I seriously have seen your vids before, you kitten. I’m thinkin’ you and I could make some damn amazing stuff together if you catch my drift.”
I’m sure there really isn’t much point in even describing the sort of insane renaissance paintings that were now flooding my imagination. Both me and this ultimate male-model dreamboat from Baywatch were practically ruling the known universe together. But these quirky fantasies about intergalactic Greek Gods sort of bloopered straight out of my mind the second the Uber arrived at my scheduled club. Yeah, as I found myself tripping over my own ballet shoes at least three times along the parking lot, I had to admit that it would be a heck of a lot more comfortable to have just stayed at home in bed making little “ugh, ugh, UGH!” noises of my own.
It was too late now, and thankfully I had enough ID on me for the very discerning bouncer to reluctantly let my nervous, underage-looking ass in. Pretty soon, my surroundings were fully enveloped in a neon blue darkness. I got goosebumps as nostalgia began to stab me all over the place.
“So much can happen in a place like this,” I thought. “It all seems so inviting…but your heart can get tossed into a wood-chipper here. The path to oblivion can be a frighteningly short road indeed. Isn’t that right, Sir Gentleman?”
Probably the only thing that could ease my willies was the simple fact that there was not a whole lot of people around. After all, this still wasn’t the big city, and it was almost 1:00 AM. But as I found myself wandering right into the middle of the almost empty dancefloor, I saw him: Wesley was perched at the bar with a martini in hand, and he set the barely touched drink aside as soon as we locked eyes. His incredible towering presence drew closer and closer to me….
Yep, hate to break it to ya folks…but the life of your dear Princess Misaki would never quite be the same again….