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We met in an AOL chatroom in the “Friends” category, bonding over a shared interest in baseball and the inspiration for his screenname; I’d impressed him by referencing the lyrics to “Don’t Eat the Yellow Snow.” Every day (except Monday and Wednesday, when I had Hebrew school), between pm and pm, I’d grab the Compaq laptop from my parents’ room, zip past my babysitter watching General Hospital, and log onto AOL to see if Frank Zappy was on my buddy list.I don’t remember the specifics, but I remember we talked about classic rock and which colleges he thought Dana should apply to. Selector .selector_input_interaction .selector_input. Selector .selector_input_interaction .selector_spinner.

This veil of anonymity let an entire generation of young women like myself experience their sexual initiations in AIM chatrooms.

For the first few weeks or so, my relationship with Frank Zappy skirted the lines of PG-13 respectability.

Then one day, he started telling me what he wanted to do to me if he met me, and I, picking up on his cues, told him what I (or “Dana”) wanted to do to him.

Of course, I had no idea what I was saying; much of what I said was based on what I had seen on General Hospital and read in Jackie Collins paperbacks.

I was Dana, a name I had lifted from a character on my favorite Purple Moon CD-ROM.


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