Later that night, after Grace received her email, she
found that she could not send email. One small voice within me was asking: why me,
Lord? Is this some sort of modern
version of Job, who lost everything and was consigned to a dung heap? Are continual problems with
televisions, computers, phones and cables my form of dung-heap repentance?
I called Darrell, but it was
quite late, even for the dream technician. I then called Qwest technical support. After an hour (including warnings that
the conversation may be recorded for training purposes, etc., etc.), the guy I spoke
to suggested that it might be a PC problem. He got me the 800 number for Microsoft Outlook Express
technical support and that led to the most sexual experience I have ever had while
on the phone with tech support personnel.
I eventually reached India,
where a woman named Doha efficiently led me through several tests indicating
that, indeed, email could not be sent from Grace’s laptop. Then she asked if she had my permission
to take control of my computer. I
agreed.
I downloaded some software and
in a few seconds the mouse indicator icon was leaping around my tabletop
seemingly on its own volition. In
actuality, I was computer helpless when, a few moments before, I had been
merely hopeless.
It was, as I have noted, an
almost sexual experience, sort of computer bondage. In the best sense. My hands (or rather my fingers) were metaphorically tied,
prevented from having any effect whatsoever on what was happening to my
computer. I could do nothing but
watch as the Doha-controlled long-long distance mouse icon leapt from page to
page, flitting to make a correction there, preventing a continuing screw up,
opening some contents, checking off a box or indicating “no” during another
flourish.
Then, almost as suddenly as my
session began, Doha said that the problem was fixed. She returned control back to me, allowing me to receive and,
hallelujah, send test emails.
Everything worked. I was enthusiastic in my thanks
to my Indian computer dominatrix. “I
am happily married, but after your demonstration, I think I have fallen in
love.”
Doha giggled, briefly, probably
embarrassed by my effusions.
After sharing with her how
strangely sexual it felt to have her take control of the computer (a revelation
I am quite sure Doha could have done without), I asked if she would be willing
to live in one corner of my office and to be ready to take over our computers
to solve problems 24/7.
She pointed out that she, or
someone very much like her, was already available by phone 24/7. Then she checked to make sure the
problems had been solved and that I was satisfied.
I really was. Satisfied. I considered
telling her that I was so happy that I was thinking about having a post-coital
cigarette (even though I gave up smoking decades ago), but I thought that might
violate some international sex harassment rule. I thanked her once again, left my desk and told my wife
about my experience.
“It was very strange,” I
said. “I have to admit that it was
almost a sexual experience.”
Grace, ever the realist, was not
jealous of anything that happened on a technical support call to India. She merely asked, “So the problem is
solved and you’re sure I can send email?”
I must admit that in the weeks
and months that followed my Doha experience, I did not dream or fanaticize about
her. That led me to conclude that
I was not addicted to computer bondage or laptop S&M. I merely had a one-time, very
happy and successful inter-continental fling with Doha.
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