Sex Pests and SMSS
Shocking as this may sound, I can remember a time when my cellphone was not permanently attached to my hand. Not the time the guy tried to force it momentarily out of my hand using hair tugging, bad language and the threat of violence and a handgun. Nice try, buddy. But a time when, in fact, the cellphone did not exist. Yup – prehistory.
I was suddenly struck by the ways the cellphone had altered my very being. There is all the obvious stuff: how I now apparently think completely differently, with lots of research having been done and books published to this effect. Consequently, it’s a surprise to me that I am able to concentrate long enough to write this column at all, given all the things I would rather compulsively be doing on my phone.
It isn’t even a phone any more, is it? There is a trainer at my gym who hails from Bulgaria, and I am not saying anything about Bulgaria here, mind you, but he refuses to upgrade his cellphone. So he quite literally still has a phone. This antique takes calls and sends SMSs. That’s it. Nothing like the brain prosthesis grafted onto my hand.
Which brings me to the troubles I have me recently like an evil porn plague. It started at 10am with a call from a private number. I thought it was my brother calling me on Skype. He does that and then we have pretty much the same exchange every time: ‘ Call again, I can’t hear you…’, ‘No, not this time either.’ The third time, I heard him. And it was not my brother. It was some crazy weirdo talking to me about his tackle.
I promptly shut that down, then he sent photos of his member on SMS. Three times. I deleted it all. Then he took it to the next level. my WhatsApp, followed by videos. I did not look at that damn video but the damage had been done. My hand felt dirty; my phone felt violated, never mind me. He carried on all day.
I consulted Kaptein Steyn of the SAPS. He said it was pretty gross (he watched the video). and the resources of the SAPS are already rather stretched, given the daily violations of a much more intense and confrontational nature taking place on a grand scale all over the place. I spoke to a former SAPS investigator who now specialises in private investigations. It would cost me a lot of money and a lot I decided I didn’t want to give him any more of my attention. It was more than enough that the sick thought had occured to me that I had somehow brought this on myself (this stuff will do that to you). I suppose that is what have much better things to spend my hardearned cash on. Feel-better shoes, for example.
Sex pests used to hang around in dirty is permanently attached to your hand and your psyche. I blocked the sick bastard but, in retrospect, he had managed to invade more than my cyberspace – he had made me feel vulnerable in a way that was incredibly private. That phone is like an extension of my self; I tweet on it, I Facebook on it, I Instagram on it, I curate my music, my pictures and my runs on it. I work all day on it and chat to my friends and family on it. It has my life embedded on it. And now this sicko was all over it – and so was his terrible appendage. His cyber attack seriously made me rethink my relationship with the cellphone graft at the end of my arm. Post Penis Stress Disorder – sadly, it’s a thing.
I’m delighting in my Kisua