BigDeezy: pull it from behind

BigDeezy: moan

BigDeezy: louder

Camming was usually more complex than this. Men wanted to get off, obviously, but if they only wanted to get off there was an Internet full of free porn out there. What camming offered was companionship. A dialogue. Interaction. Even if it was illusory, it fulfilled some social need.

Men like Mark didn’t want companionship, though. They wanted a living doll. Something to pose and fuck and discard. It was more a power fantasy for him than an erotic one.

These strictly pornographic sessions depressed me. Mark was never impolite, but he was utterly impersonal. It was a relief when the chat ended.

My next request popped up immediately.

Incoming video call from RicanLover.

Any ethnic reference in a username gave me pause. Clients were usually respectful, even appreciative. Once a guy paid to chat in Spanish for an hour and told me about his extended family in San Juan. He called me Boricua and said I was a dusk flower blooming. He paid me to get him off, too, of course, but it was nice, unexpected, that little wire of human connection, a bright filament threading across the digital void.

But sometimes they just wanted an outlet for their darkness.

I could always cut the session short if it was some creep.

ACCEPT.

The client wasn’t one, but two guys. They’d paid to transmit video to me. Broad chests in lettered hoodies. Frat bros, both grinning in a dimly lit bedroom. One clutched a can of PBR.

“Hi guys,” I said. “Two for one. Lucky me.”

They chuckled, nudging each other. They mumbled, but their mic didn’t pick it up clearly. Their eyes shone.

I could see they’d need some coaxing.

“You boys look excited.” I ran a hand over the bra I’d put back on. “I love sexy college men. Do you want to double-team me?”

“You speak English?” Beer Can said.

A hitch in my pulse. Don’t judge yet. “Yes.”

“Cool. So do we.”

They laughed again.

Bad vibes.

I scrutinized the room. Pinup posters. Red Sox pennant. University of Massachusetts sweater hanging on the back of a chair.

Bingo.

I smiled. “So you guys go to UMass? That’s cool. Do you have friends at Harvard? MIT?”

“Hey,” Beer Can said, leaning forward, “we’re not paying you to talk.”

The other guy—Lacoste, I mentally dubbed him, spotting his polo collar—jostled his friend. “Sorry,” he said to me. “He’s been drinking. We’d like a show, okay?”

I played up the striptease, feeling them out, but they were quiet now, respectful. Off came the bra. When I squeezed my breasts together and groaned, Beer Can took a long sip. His eyes stared over the rim, mesmerized.

Lacoste smiled. “You’re fucking hot.”

“Caliente,” Beer Can said, and giggled.

Lacoste elbowed him. “Hey . . . Morgan. I was wondering something.”

“What’s that, baby?”

“Do you have, like, other outfits?”

“I’ve got plenty. What are you looking for?”

“Like a . . . maid’s outfit.”

Beer Can snorted.

“A French maid?” I said cautiously.

“Sure, whatever.”

“Yeah, I’ve got one of those. You boys mind hanging on a minute? I’ll play something to get you warmed up.”

They nodded, all grins.

I launched a video clip for them—me deep-throating a dildo—and went to my wardrobe. By the time the clip ended I was dressed in a white-laced black babydoll and knee-high stockings, sitting on the bed.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Lacoste said. “Damn, that’s hot.”

I struck poses—bending over to the floor, rubbing an imaginary speck of dirt off the bedpost—and let myself zone out, feeling as if the costume did the work for me. Like it was the body, not me. Every now and then I touched the bracelet on my wrist like a lucky charm.

“Hey . . . Morgan.”

Lacoste perched on the edge of his seat, watching me avidly. Beer Can sprawled back spread-legged, his erection jutting against his track pants.

“Yeah, baby?”

“I was wondering if you could . . . man, this is going to sound weird.” Lacoste cleared his throat.

“Go ahead. You can ask me anything.”

“It’s kind of personal.”

“No judgment here.”

“All right. When I was a kid, growing up, my parents had a maid. Named Luisa.” He shifted in his chair. “She was hot. Really hot. I used to fantasize about her.”

I looked at him encouragingly.

“Can I call you Luisa?”

“Sure.”

“Cool. So like . . . I used to jerk off to you, Luisa. In my bedroom. While you were downstairs vacuuming.”

I leaned over and ran a palm across the mattress as if pushing a vacuum.

“Fuck yeah. Just like that.” Lacoste sucked air through his teeth. “I’d squirt in my socks, right before you did the laundry. So it would get on your hands.”

“Naughty boy.” I rubbed a hand between my thighs.

Lacoste began to rock in his chair, as if touching himself. Beer Can watched me silently.

“Luisa?” Lacoste said.

“Yeah, baby?”

“Would you like to come . . . clean my house? And watch me jerk off?”

God, some men. “Sure. I’d like that.”

“Yeah?” Lacoste rocked faster. “Would you watch me jerk off into a sock?”

“Sure, baby.”

“You would?”

“Of course.”

“And then would you let me slap you in the face with it? Could I slap you in the face with my come-filled sock, you spic whore?”

Lacoste leaned back from the laptop and snapped a sock at the screen. Beer Can burst into high-pitched laughter.

Red.

I saw actual, literal red.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I grabbed the laptop, wishing it were him. “Huh? This is what gets you off, spewing racist shit at a woman?”

“Woman?” Lacoste said. “Woman? Do you see a woman?”

“Nah,” Beer Can said. “Just an island monkey sticking her ass up to get fucked.”

“God, look at her face,” Lacoste said.

“You pathetic sacks of shit.” Run up the clock. Pay me to rant at you, dumb fucks. “You’re a joke. Fucking privileged white boys, intimidated by women. You think I haven’t heard shit like this before? Get the fuck off my planet.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Lacoste said. “Calm down, mamacita. Or we’ll come over there and calm you down. You like getting double-teamed, right?”

“In the real world, you could never touch a woman like me.”

“In the real world, I pay sluts like you to do what I want.”

“You think paying me gives you the right to spew this fucking garbage? You think you can buy a license to abuse a human being? You’re the fucking cancer in this world. Entitled little shits like you.”

“Where do you live, Luisa? I’ll pay you to suck my dick. No lie.” He pulled out a money clip, a fat wad of bills. “Then you can wash my socks.”

“You’re paying me right now to make an ass of yourself.”

Beer Can smirked. “We can find you.”

“No, you can’t, you fucking troglodyte.”

“We’re tracing you right now. We’re coming for you, Luisa.”

DISCONNECT.

I sat back on the bed, fuming.

There was no danger of being found. Before I started camming, Frankie coached me on safety and anonymity. No identifying objects in the room. No sports team or college memorabilia. Never mention any place you’ve gone to school or worked. And on the off chance someone might recognize me on the street, I had a region ban in place. No one in the state of Maine could view my cam.

There was no physical danger. Only psychological.

The first rule of camming, Frankie said, was to protect yourself. Always be safe. You are the product, the service, the whole business. Value it. Value your time, yourself. Don’t compromise for a few extra bucks. They were never worth it in the long run.

But I always learned things the hard way.

Each stroke of the oars painted silver moonlight across the ocean. My mouth was salty from brine and my own sweat. Hair in wet coils like kelp. Dip, pull, lift. As long as I kept rowing, the pain couldn’t settle. Be a moving target.