do you believe in the westworld? – theatre of hate

There’s even chatrooms linked to these sites. Most are empty, wind whistling and tumbleweed blowing down empty wooden streets, but now and again, you come across one with a bit of life to it.
The ‘Ah Belong Tae Glesga’ room, as you’d imagine, is vibrant and well-attended. As is ‘We Arra Cloth-Peepull’. Glaswegians, eh? They’ll talk to anyone.
Very friendly and welcoming. ‘Ah Belong’ is just a general Glasgow room, filled with all sorts, rubber, wood, metal, cloth – even some of the weird ones, leather, latex, that sort of thing.
I’ve nothing against anyone made of that sort of material, it’s just not my thing.
There were a lot of meatfolks (as they call them) there, too. In fact, the room was so crowded, it was hard to get anyone into conversation. The screen kept shooting up, too fast to read.
‘We Arra’ was a bit quieter – and all cloth/clothadmirers – mostly Glasgow, but one or two from Edinburgh, Fife – even as far afield as Inverness and Aberdeen.
As you can no doubt imagine, the Glaswegians did most of the talking, often typing in dialect-spelling, which slowed me down a little at first, before I got used to it and after that, it just seemed to characterise them a bit more.
The Glasgow contingent seemed to regard it as ‘their’ room – and all others as lesser scots, somehow.
There’s a strategy I use in these situations. I got it from ‘A beautiful mind’, this Russell Crowe film a newsprint girl dragged me to, years ago.
The secret is, ignore the alpha female (or females) and focus instead on two or three of the ‘beta’ women. Let all the other idiots fight over little miss alpha, while carefully grooming someone who’ll be a lot more grateful for the attention.
I decided, after looking around, to focus on a rubbergirl from Cowdenbeath in Fife. I’m not exactly sure where that is, but it’s probably further than the places I have heard of, like Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy.
Her bio-page said she was forty-seven, which might’ve been true, but she could’ve been ten years south of that.
After my run-in with that older woman yesterday, I found myself strangely drawn to this woman from the town that may-or may-not exist.
She pulled me into a private window and the conversation became darker, more sexual, almost at once. She began passing me over photos – including the face pic from her bio-page. In the full-length version, her breasts were bared. I sucked in my breath and looked up quickly at where the youth opposite was staring into the space above and to the right of my head.
He was – or appeared to be – paying me no attention. I let my eyes drop back to the shiny, waterproof tits on the screen in front of me.
She was certainly in good nick for a woman of her age and I told her so.
She seemed pleased with that and sent me another two. In the first, she was wearing a black bikini and in the second, which took ages to download, she was dressed as a nun, hoisting up the skirts of her nun-suit and showing acres of shiny soft grey thighs.
I groaned inwardly at this kid who’d got in the way of me masturbating and thumbed my phone number across to her.