Just Don’t Send It
to My Mom
A Personal Essay About Sextortion, Shame, and Surviving the Internet
By Blake Prentiss
Texts about unpaid parking tickets, emails about undelivered packages, and sex bot Instagram followers, scammers show no lack of creativity with their tricks. But a child of the digital era like myself; I thought I learned at a young age from surfing the unregulated internet about scams and how to deal with them. I mean, in elementary school my friends would “prank” text me weird codes of symbols and dashes just for it to be an omega virus and shut down my iPod touch. I knew my data was being ripped off Instagram to feed Jörmungandr-like algorithms, but that’s normal. Unfortunately, though I learned last night, like most things for me, I was not as prepared as I thought I was.
I got off work late and like many 20-something year old men, I was turned on by the desolateness of capitalism and craving some form of hedonistic expression. So, following in the footsteps of my gay ancestors, I logged onto some obscure sex app also known as Grindr. Mostly I do this in the same way my dog repetitively tries to shake; Mind numbingly and futilely. I refresh and check my messages with glazed over eyes for five minutes before putting it down until next time. Obviously for the sake of self-destruction, I did it different this time.
A cute guy had messaged me, -courting me really- with the classic line of “What’s up?” His profile was filled out and even had a clear, unblurry face picture. Traditionally marking him as a piece of gold among glitter flakes, I thought fortune had finally smiled on me. After exchanging my own pictures and talking for a bit, the conversation re-focused on the reason for its existence. Sex. In this round of photo exchange, things were more explicit and we decided to take things to text, to get serious. At this point, I look like a straight fool dancing for the crowd, blissfully unaware that my head is about to get cut off as the comedic finale. And honestly? I should’ve known better.
A part of me did, as subconsciously I was noting any and all “off” signs. His number had an area code from a different country? Well maybe he had relocated recently I don’t know. Some of the texts made no sense and were failing in the laws of basic English? Alright, that’s not everyone’s first language so. Even when he returned to Grindr to harshly write,” Why aren’t you answering your texts?” Mind you, only two minutes had passed. I still let it slide. He’s weird and quirky and I’m not worried about the long-term I thought. Well, as I was in middle of answering his question about my living situation and trying to explain why I still have a roommate at 23, he sent a paragraph that made my heart drop and flip over about 5 times.
While I mostly blacked out from anxiety, the first words clearly read “I will ruin your life-” The rest of the message was something about how he was going to say I had been harassing him, and he was going to expose me to everyone I knew. The shock that ran through me is still here and is actively causing my breathing to stop occasionally. How could this be happening? This was a real person; he had multiple photos- he had even asked for my name for God’s sake. Do you know how rare that is? Little did I know that he had only asked for my name to further stalk me and everyone I had ever known. The worst part was, that he sent screen shots of me. And not just my selfies, which wouldn’t have been that bad really, but he had body, dick, and hole pics locked and loaded. They were sitting in a drafted face book post with my name, number, and city just one scroll away from the other screenshots he sent of my friends and mutuals Instagrams.
More mistakes that will outlive me on the internet…
I was going to be hunted down and burned at the stake for my sexual crimes and perversion. Full Salem Witch Trials. That’s what I thought for about 30 seconds. Until I realized, honestly, I wouldn’t care if my friends saw my naked body. It wouldn’t be new to some, and the rests should just be flattered. More importantly, he had written the wrong city and a place I no longer lived. This mistake shined to me like Gandalf to Frodo. I saw hope and a chance to outmaneuver the maneuverer. Or at least make it out unscathed and unexposed.
I drafted my own message. Not only did I tell him off about his mistake, but I boasted of my lack-luster financial situation which would’ve been no benefit to him anyways, and open pride in my gay identity. Conveying that I was not the ideal target for this shit in the first place. Thank God I came out after high school. Fear is how they control you. I repeated it in my head over and over despite the shaky hands gripping the phone. I knew I had to take the leap of faith and went ahead and blocked him, ignoring his promised consequences.
Of course, right away I dove deeper into the internet for guidance or similar sufferers from the trusted almanac that is Reddit. It has yet to fail me in these niche situations and so I prayed for aid in my darkest moment. The legendary /rGayBros answered immediately. There were posts and posts about guys having gone through this and just reading their testimonies. Wow. As survivors. It raised me up and I knew I could make it through this too.
I raced through the replies and stories. Everyone says just block them, don’t send them any money, some guys even went to the police. Sextortion is the legal term for it I learned. These were a nice chamomile tea, but right now I needed a Vicodin.
Clearly, the ultimate worst possible outcome of all is: My mother. That someway this creep would find my mother and expose her to something no parent wants to see. The active and in practice sexuality of their kid. No one was saying though. Saying if the scammers go through with it and send the photos and “ruin our lives” or not. Eventually, I drifted down to the bottom, and someone said most of the times they don’t. That was enough for me. I sterilely removed everything connected to this whole situation from my phone and tried to put the next foot forward.
12 hours have passed, and none of my relatives or friends have called to mention it. That’s a good sign. For now, I still walk with my head down and hoodie covered. Or I will be the next time I leave the house. Scared, but taking it one hour at a time.
This is what surviving looks like I think.
I doubt I’ll be on Grindr or the like for at least a week. Or until I start listening to my dick again. I certainly understand why so many men refuse to share face. I might even join them. Trauma rips off the clothes we wear and reminds us that we’re just human. In the end, it’s obvious that my thoughts would be universal for anyone in this situation. They boil down to; Mom, I hope I’m not the direct cause of an early stroke for you, and I swear I don’t do this often. And secondly, Sebastion, if that’s really your name -or if those pics were really yours- you were actually kind of hot.