“Clit.” I was told about mine in the #1 Chatroom by men with handles like 8inchMonster. Unsure of what this was exactly, I Asked Jeeves. Wow, really. Ok. Hmm yes thanks for doing that to my clit I’m glad you’re turned on by that and also my blonde hair and double Ds. Yes, I’m like—really horny. Like all the time. I’m wearing nothing! I rarely wear clothes. Clothes are just a nuisance because I’m so horny, you see.

Men spoke about my second body—the one I crafted in their imaginations—with the same dismal verbs—dripping, pounding, fucking. Had they seen the child’s body actually sat at its bedroom PC, succumbing as it was to male puberty, their thirst (orgasms were signified by long irrational keystroke sequences like dhjscbjhdsch) would have turned into a choke of disgusted rage.

The magenta silhouette of a woman with hourglass shape was my avatar, and the vessel by which I first received male desire. A kind of anthropology of the male gender I’d soon embody and what made them tick. I wondered if I, one day, would be on the other side of this assignation—would I be the lonely 8inchMonster looking for the ever-horny, ever-dripping magenta girls and their clits? Fuck I hope not.

Shon Faye is a writer living in Bristol, UK. She's flatchested.