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Chatroulette. Next.

Yeah, I was scared. I’d heard people talking about this thing called Chatroulette—a Web site that plunges you into someone’s dorm room via webcam, no censors to protect you. There’s no telling what Man will do behind a veil of anonymity. I was anxious. For The Chronicle, I’d do it.

I hover my mouse over the Play button for a few seconds, thinking about my childhood innocence. Play.

“Looking for a random stranger…” At least they’re being honest. “Connected, feel free to talk now”

An Asian guy pops on the screen, probably a teenager. I yell nice and loud, “Where are you from?” (Later, I will realize the more pressing question is simply “Where are you?”) Maryland. We talk about the weather—he had the week off due to snow. Next.

A series of four or five “rejections.” That is, I was Next-ed after four seconds.

First girl pops up for a second before she hits next. Pretty cute. Next.

First penis. Next.

I begin to realize nothing here is lasting. No matter what happens in one “encounter,” either of you can hit “Next.”

Second penis. Overhand. Next.

Two women from Liverpool sharing a joint. “Take it easy. You’re cool.”

I’m feeling more comfortable. I finally get the guts to check “Auto Reconnect.” I won’t have a breather between connections.

A couple more penises (different connections). Next.

I wonder what Alfred Kinsey would think of this (more penises). Next.

A sign reads, “Show us your t—s.” Next.

Cam is blacked out. Stranger types: “masturbate.” Next.

A woman, about 25, from Sweden. Tired of yelling, I type, “What do you think of the site?” “many jerks…ure nice.” Next.

The excitement of who you’ll be connected with next is addictive.

Two frat bros. “Hey captain ginger beard.” Next.

I wonder what I’m looking for. Next.

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