BY EMILY CRAWFORD

In print | Published April 1, 2010

I should open this column by saying that Chatroulette absolutely terrifies me. As I’m sure you all have heard by now, Chatroulette is an online chat interface in which the user is randomly connected with another user from anywhere across the globe by video and/or written chat. If the user doesn’t like what he or she sees, one can dismiss one’s cosmic connection with a simple click of the “next” button, which will usher the next available chatter onto his or her computer screen. Unsurprisingly, Chatroulette is full of exposed foreign penises, despite the “Please stay clothed” rule that appears on the website’s opening page. The nudity, for me, is the least scary part of Chatroulette. Far worse are the strange behaviors one sees: men dressed up as animals, gas-mask-clad faces, unintelligible commands given to do strange or offensive things. Chatroulette has become society’s great arena in which everyone can conduct their own psychological experiment, but with no rules, no guiding ethics. This, of course, is all coming from the perspective of someone who has never played Chatroulette herself.

Yes, I am a Chatroulette virgin, and for now I plan on keeping myself quite chaste in that respect. Normally I am all in favor of some healthy experimentation, but I draw the line at making my real-time image and actions public property to be viewed by anyone. Because Chatroulette brings a publicity that is quite different than say, appearing on film or having one’s picture in a newspaper. The anonymous viewers on the website don’t just get to see your image, the way that celebrities’ images are accessible to strangers everywhere; they get to peer into your bedroom or living room, see what you are doing exactly at that minute, how you look — not an image of yourself that you’ve prepared and previewed, but your immediate reality that changes every millisecond. This is a privilege that I happily reserve for friends, family, acquaintances, even random passersby – but not strangers half the globe away. Call me a prude, but I like to know that the extent to which I can be observed is limited by physical space and notions of privacy – and when you sign on to Chatroulette, you are absolutely throwing the notion of privacy out the door.

This is not to say that I am condemning the use of Chatroulette. Rather, I suppose this column is posing a question to Chatroulette users: Why? Why is that fun for you? Is it the thrill, the novelty, the voyeurism? Because the phenomenon is, above all, a condoned method of voyeurism. Users can peer into the lives of others, guilt-free, because those others knowingly signed up to do the same. It is exactly because it is completely consensual that I can’t really condemn Chatroulette altogether — hey, if you enjoy it, more power to you. But there is still something in the concept that I find unavoidably “icky,” and it has little to do with the prevalence of nudity on the site (although I’m not dying to see a stranger’s genitalia either, to be honest).

Although I myself have never participated in Chatroulette, many of my friends have. In fact, many of my friends LOVE it. They sit huddled around the screen, thinking of new things to do, such as “Let’s convince them that we’re Puerto Rican!” or “Let’s have a staring contest!” Apparently, the thing is quite addictive. In fact, groups of vaguely intoxicated college students are reportedly one of the more common demographics found on the website, right after genitalia and lonely old men. I’m guessing that the fad’s coverage by everyone from The New York Times to Gawker might have something to do with its popularity among the collegiate set.

I have come to the conclusion that it is precisely the voyeuristic aspect of Chatroulette that makes it so appealing. It is basic human nature to want to peek through holes in fences and listen at keyholes, but we are generally told not to indulge these curiosities. Chatroulette plays into this by telling us its okay, that not only can we spy and eavesdrop away with abandon, but we should feel free to shuffle through human beings using the “next” button whenever we get bored. To be fair, the website does offer the equalizing knowledge that whoever you’re voyeuristically watching can watch you right back, and interact with you, but this doesn’t make the root of the pleasure one derives from it any less sinister. The amount of genitalia and requests for nudity on the site confirm this overtone of sexualized voyeurism that the site creates — apparently it is not uncommon to be connected with a middle-aged man holding a sign that says “show me your tits,” who will promptly hit the “next” button if you are either incompliant or male.

So I seem to have found the root of my fear of Chatroulette: It is a fear not only of being observed by a complete stranger, but a fear that I would enjoy doing the same. The fact is that we, as human beings, all have some level of voyeuristic desire — be it the desire to look at a friend’s phone when he or she leaves it in your room, or the desire to be a total creeper and spy on your neighbor while her or she is naked. I fear Chatroulette because I fear what obscure or disturbing pleasure I might derive if I indulge my own scopophilic desires. So next time that you find your mouse hovering over that “next” button, about to decide that your current chat buddy is not interesting enough, stop to think about what weird Freudian desires they may be failing to fulfill in you. Not because you should stop or feel guilty, but just because we could all use a little more self-psychoanalysis in our lives.

Emily is a junior. You can reach her at ecrawfo1@swarthmore.edu.

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