Kik Isn’t For Kids

Anonymous Apps and Adultery

I’m on Kik.

As a middle-aged woman.

My teenager asked me, “Mom, why do you have Kik? That’s so shady.”

Yeah, duh. That’s precisely why.

Kik is anonymous. I don’t have to reveal my phone number. Link to a throw-away email. Made-up a user name.

Cloak and dagger shit.

“Just talkin’ to some college buddies…” Nope. More like scoping out extramarital sex.

I’m in deep. I’ve made up multiple user names not to own how many days I’ve been on it. Hmmm. I should give out the younger account. Which one makes me look less slutty?

“Are you on Kik?” every new guy asks.

What do you think? Am I an affair virgin? Guide me, please. I am not wise in the way of affairs. Make love to me and say that I’m yours.

Spare me. I’m a bad girl. I have been on here for far too long.

“Yeah, I’m on Kik. Give me your user name,” I text.

“Scored,” he thinks. But I ask for a reason. I want to scope them out before I decide whether to chat.

First things first. What is the pic like? Is it creepy? I had one guy who had a pic of what looked like a deformed fruit. This doesn’t bode well. Neither for the guy with Aerosmith for his pic. I can take them in small doses but seriously? Or the tricked out motorcycle picture. Good to know, dude. I’m not hopping on the back of your bike, ever.

If I don’t like the picture of the guy or his “avatar,” it’s over before it begins. I don’t give out my Kik name often.

The next thing I’m leery of is time on the app. Guys I text on Kik have been fucking around for centuries, it seems. 1692 days on Kik for one man.

“Dude, that’s a good amount of time on this app.” “Oh, I am on and off. I don’t always use it,” so and so is typing.

“Really?”

He thinks I’m innocent. Awww, so cute.

I don’t believe him. YEARS on Kik isn’t a good sign. How underhanded is he? Like a career adulterer? Do I need a blood test in writing for this guy? Could we have a tiny bit of morality left?

Next is the user name. XX is a popular one. Or the more creative XXX. Let’s be clever, people. Anything with your hammer or lover is not a good option. Initials aren’t wrong yet a tad impersonal. TV or movie characters are next, like Maverick from Top Gun. Or Bane. I’m desperate to fuck someone with a metal mouthpiece. I had one guy with Mikeistyping user name, and I thought he was typing. I’m a moron. It took me days to figure it out. I’d wait to see what he would type…

His user name worked, I’ll give him that.

The next issue is that Kik is a free-for-all burial ground.

What do I mean?

I mean that Kik erases all your messages when you log out. So, I forget who I was talking to and what I said. I’m old, shoot me. It’s hard to keep track of all the convos. From the fake names to initials to nicknames to nonsensical numbers, I just give up.

It’s like a game of Survivor. Will I ever remember the potential lover’s real “fake” name before the dialogue dries up?

“You are from where again?” I’ve typed far too many times.

This is Doug from Ashley Madison. Who’s he? Mr. One4Fun or TickTockD or HotMan2C or DiffrLUV.

“User name?” I text. “Goodtimenow, but I’m off the site — too many fakes and bots,” Doug types.

So I can’t verify your profile? Great. I have no recollection of you.

My secret life player list keeps getting longer. And I can’t remember any of them.

Hey hey: A fellow pervert after my pussy and threesomes. I’ve shut him down. Numerous times. He always comes back. “Hey, you found anyone yet?” I bet you have, though.

GreatGuy: A fellow Redditor who has become a sounding board and dear internet friend. He’s on the fence about cheating, and I’m not pushing (but I’d like to have him). His moral scruples make him untouchable. Dang it! I always want the men I can’t have.

MJ: Another Redditor who has become the most amusing part of my day. I adore him— his humor. Red leather jacket not included. We will never consummate this love affair due to distance, but I can dream. And send plenty of lewd thoughts his way.

Norman Rockwell: You guessed it, another adulterer who is getting laid on the regular, and we share all sorts of debauchery. He’s the farthest thing from wholesome.

Mr. Diamond: A Tinder find. He might be a contender or, he might be false gold. A flash in the pan. This lifestyle is full of them.

Frank Sinatra: He’s a dish from Ashley Madison. So suave and old school. A definite hopeful if our schedules ever align. I just don’t know how much to wish for.

Hugo Drax: James Bond villain. So you aren’t going to launch a nuclear missile in my life? He is actually a Sir. As in Sir Hugo Drax. But these are minor quibbles. Armaggedon is a much bigger deal. He wiped himself out in the end.

Mr. Dick: Not his real handle. He sends torso shot after torso shot and his dick in front of a bathroom mirror. He’s hot, but never making the cut, but he is cut. I admire his body but not his brain. Actually, now as I think about it, this is true for so many…

“Text me, babe, whenever you want to get together.”

Irresistible.

“I’m smart. Believe me.”

I will. You are perfect. I am done with looking.

“You can settle for me,” he types.

“There have been a few too many no-way-in-hells for me able to jump blindly,” I respond.

The false starts.

Will I survive on this app long enough to find a lover? That’s the real question.

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