My computer crashed the other day. A blue screen of death appeared without warning, I hit the ‘off’ button in fright and re-booted with a heart full of hope but my trusty laptop never got past a black screen with green vertical pinstripes.
My first thought was Oh, no, I can’t deal with calling tech support in a far-flung country when I can’t even elucidate the nature of the problem, let alone garner the patience to troubleshoot. I’ll pack it up and take it to the local repair shop tomorrow.
My second thought was Oh shit, I have just finished some quarterly accounts and hope like hell ‘safe’ mode works because, of course, the crash occurred immediately after saving and immediately before plugging in the back-up drive. I’ll be furious beyond respite if I have to re-create my somewhat pluck-a-number-out-of-my-arse accounting methods.
My third thought was Holy fucking hell, what porn, smut and other incriminating data on my hard drive needs to be relocated before I take it to the shop? It’s not a large town and I know the workers there by association. I don’t think they need to know me as well as they might if they start sniffing around.
I spent the next few minutes on my knees begging the computer to allow ‘safe’ mode to start. After some heart-stopping moments of white text scrolling wildly up a dark screen, the basic and clunky safe interface appeared. I owe someone one of my remaining nine lives for allowing me temporary access to my spreadsheet and secrets.
While I’m zealous about respecting the privacy of anyone I’m involved with and take precautions to protect information that comes from or involves someone else, I’m in a fortunate situation that 99 per cent of the time it doesn’t matter what’s not blocked, not hidden and not history erased after every log-in. ArmyDude showed me his electronic footstep erasing procedure once and the additional intricacies to remove everything made me reflect on my good fortune that I need to be careful but certainly don’t need to hold my breath if my partner wants to use my computer.
The other one per cent of the time (as in this week), I panic, and thank my lucky stars I’m anally retentive about being organised and not being much of a porn fiend.
On one drive partition I found a short clip of double-handed anal fisting. I wouldn’t classify that as porn, but rather a documentary because I stare goggle-eyed that the human body can take and (in this subject’s case) enjoy such a frenetic pounding by a man with two very large hands. Moved to portable drive.
I also found a video of a man bent over, fucking himself with an extremely large dildo and replacing the dildo with his own hand. Now that’s flexibility and I’m classifying it as a documentary as well. Moved.
The woman shooting green apples out of her backside? Sent a few weeks ago by M1 in an attempt to shock me. Deleted.
And that was it for the videos (I keep a few clips on a DVD because of my obsession with a clutter-free computer and The Drummer has gigabytes of everything from titty fucking to bi boy gang bangs if I ever feel the need to indulge – now, if *his* computer broke this would be a different story).
My hidden section of the C: drive for personal ephemera was more worry inducing. A casual hunter of information wouldn’t bother delving so many layers of blandly-named folders to find the interesting stuff, but someone with IT nous could probably dig up gold with a simple .jpg search in hidden files and folders.
Some things I had forgotten about:
A wish-list of sexual adventures I typed about 18 months ago (I had forgotten about the wax play and the fisting/anal penetration combo!). Re-read, noted and moved.
A copy of a long BDSM story exchange with M1. I doubt there’s anything of literary value but I was loathe to discard 100-odd pages of mental exploring. Moved.
A folder of photos commissioned by M1 when we were playing dom/sub. My genitals with vibrators in each orifice, nipple clamps attached to my labia and clit, knives, forks and spoons (handles inside, thank you) when he was issuing kitchen-related sets of penetrative demands, and some interesting rope work when he ordered me to masturbate after having tied myself up. Delete, delete, delete and empty the recycle bin to make sure they never see the light of day.
Photos archived from my mobile phone that are little signposts of the past 12 months of my life: Jekyll’s hand where I thought it would never go, the reddest backside in town when Jekyll and Hyde tandem-slapped my arse, a dentally-perfect bite mark on my shoulder, masturbation shots and videos sent by Jekyll and ArmyDude, some nude shots of MB that I keep for remembrance’s sake. Moved with a smile.
The data on my computer is now cleaner than fresh show (or as clean as I’m content to live with – too bad if I left some muddy footprints somewhere) and the limping laptop can be taken to the doctor’s.
I’m still looking over my shoulder about what I might have forgotten, but this is a time I’m appreciative that I don’t need to conceal every trace of my other adult life. My inner naïve idealist wishes that everyone could fuck with impunity, but my hardened realist ponders how much track-covering hard work a secret life is for others because contents of a computer only touch the outer skin of illicit embraces.