I first heard of Second Life over winter break, while flipping through a copy of Time magazine as I ate a bowl of Yogurt Burst Cheerios. The article described it as a graphic wonderland for Internet perverts seeking pixelated intimacy: cyber sex taken to a creepier, more visible level.

Second Life was one of those random bits of information I could have stored away until the automatic flushing mechanism in my brain pushed it out in favor of something class-related like integrals or amino acid structures. Perhaps things would have turned out better if the idea had ended up that way. Instead, while trying to avoid the first assignments of second semester, I turned to my Internet-obsessed boyfriend and said, “Hey, have you ever heard of this thing called Second Life?”

As I described the program to him I saw a manic, worry-inducing glint in his eyes, a look with which I had become familiar in the weeks following the release of the Wii. “Wait, how much does this cost?”

“I think it’s free to just make one.”

That sealed it. “I’m making one.”

The process was simple, requiring only a fake name and a Gmail account. Within ten minutes my typically scruffy Jewish boyfriend had an online alter-ego, a buxom female furry named Kitten Yao. “It’s pervert-hunting time,” he said, rubbing his palms together and licking his lips in anticipation.

I have had two extremely brief and disturbing encounters with the infamous Internet Perverts that television magazines, like Dateline and 20/20, have made so famous: once when I was thirteen in a chatroom (“Hey, dew u want to tlk about making out?”) and a second time this summer in a disturbing Facebook message (“Hey baby, do you need someone to be your Superman?”). These incidents may not make me an expert, but when Kitten clattered into the welcome area, literally bushy-tailed and wide-eyed, I figured it would only take seconds before we snagged our first Perv.

Second Life is set up as a sort of cross between a chatroom and a video game, so our Kitten trounced around a pre-made world of characters with real people on laptops behind them. Most of the “people” Kitten encountered were not fox-human hybrids but clean-cut, fit-looking characters with name bubbles floating above their heads. Kitten clattered up to the most promising-looking groups of males in her impossibly high heels and attempted to woo them with my boyfriend’s typed un-artful advances (“Hey, I’m Kitten. I’m a fox. ;)). Despite my boyfriend’s lack of skill, I still expected them to respond like frat boys during NSO. Instead, every male we encountered shied away from our creation as if she were the unwashed smelly kid in the back of the bus. No one would even approach us until we ran into a kindred spirit, a male furry named Rob.

“Hey,” my boyfriend made Kitten say. “I’m Kitten. I’m a fox.”

“I see that,” replied Rob.      

The whole conversation was just as awkward as an NSO social gathering. Perhaps more so: we both had tails. More tail-less people joined us, all of them more interested in the words forming in the corner of the screen than the shortness of Kitten’s skirt. These people weren’t looking for cyber thrills; they were looking for actual companionship. At midnight on a Tuesday, unknown people hiding behind bland, self-created faces were seeking friendship from other anonymous graphic characters. Tight clusters of Second Life avatars chatted and made plans for later the same way Penn students talk on Locust Walk. I almost wished we had been approached for sex: being sought for a genuine, deep relationship somehow seemed worse.

The people on Second Life were seeking social justification from the Internet from nameless, fake-faced people hiding behind glowing screens. It is easy for most of us to judge them. But think about our own daily routines. After class the first thing I do is check Facebook. I met a girl who questioned the likability of one of my friends because of his lack of Facebook “friends.” She found social solace in the fact that she had more Facebook friends than any other person she knew, hundreds of whom she had never met or had only a passing conversation with. Second Life is not so different from many of the online communities that have formed in the last few years. Like Facebook and MySpace, people on Second Life have a list of “Friends.” They create personalities for themselves, a different face they present to a different world.

Perhaps Facebook is better in that we use our real names and real pictures. We aren’t trying to hide anything. But our Facebook profiles, our blogs and screen names, are not actually us. 500+ Facebook friends does not equal a handful of sincere, personal relationships. We all get caught up, however, in the possibilities the Internet gives us. Who hasn’t wasted valuable hours reading their News Feed, YouTube or talking on AIM? Who doesn’t feel a hint of satisfaction at opening their email and seeing a Friend Request or became irritated with a significant other because they took too long to type a reply? Regardless of whether or not we have an account, the Internet has created another world that is swiftly and silently engulfing our first lives with a Second one.