I am in the tastefully lit bathroom of a downtown nightclub, taking a picture of myself reflected in the wall of mirror in front of me. The sweater I am wearing is suggestively low-cut, but I center on my face. My sea blue eyes sparkle in the unnatural light.
I had stepped out into the alley with some random guy to smoke a joint about an hour ago, so I am a little light-headed. I made out with the guy for a minute or two, in payment for the joint, I guess. Guys always want something, and making out is effortless and quick.
The dull thudding of the music pounds through the wall. “I am a lovely girl,” I tell myself. Most of the time I have confidence that I am attractive. I have a face that men sometimes cannot look away from, and a body that draws eyes when I cross a room. Still, it is difficult to ignore the trolls. Sometimes it is hard to feel pretty.
I compose the second shot in the mirror, my face tilted this time, long black hair flung behind my shoulder to expose more of my neck. I wear a more sultry look in this shot, but it is sexier than my first shot not because of my expression but because of the long expanse of my exposed neck. I read somewhere that men are turned on by a woman’s exposed neck because it suggests vulnerability. Encoded in our DNA is the idea that a woman showing their neck communicates trust and submission, by allowing a man the opportunity to bite it and rip it open.
I will never let that happen. This is the illusion of vulnerability only. I sell illusion. My vulnerability is not for sale.
The music continues to thud through the walls. The bathroom is empty, though the nightclub is crowded, so it will not be for long. I reach down and pull back the edge of my sweater, to reveal the swell of breast beneath it. As I do so I let my fingers graze comfortingly across my breast. I let them linger a fraction of a moment on my nipple. I feel it tingle.
I take another shot, my fingers at the edge of my sweater, my smile turning from sultry to inviting. This shot is exactly what I want. I post it on Twitter, adding the text, “See you soon boyzzzz” to the image.
I have taken over twenty pictures today. I have posted nine online. I use Twitter, mostly, but also Instagram, Tumblr, Flickr, and my own page, of course, where I archive everything. I used to do short videos on Vine, until they changed their policy, disallowing any content they find "sexually provocative."
That’s pretty accurate. That’s my goal. Like I said, I sell illusion. I am a cam girl, and I am very good at what I do. I get paid well. This is how I market myself.
Another girl comes in, and as the bathroom door opens the music becomes much louder, intruding into what had been my own personal space until the door swings shut, and the music is returned to a dull thud. We make brief eye contact and share a generic smile before she goes into a stall and shuts the door. She is pretty: tall and slim with short blonde hair. This makes me feel good. All women should feel pretty. All women are beautiful.
I am tempted to wander back out onto the floor, but I have a nice buzz going and I am enjoying the solitude in here. I feel comfortable and safe. My nipples are starting to harden. When I take pictures of myself I become aroused. Not because I am thinking of all the faceless, interchangeable men and boys who will be looking at it, jerking off. The wall of the monitor separates them from me. I am aroused because this is me, this is my territory, and this is what I do. I enjoy this. It has little to do with them.
I glance behind me to make sure the stall door is closed, then cup my breast in my hand, my hardened nipple growing more obvious under the fabric, framed between my thumb and forefinger. I take a shot. This one is mostly of my breast, but some of my face is in the shot as well, lips open. I take another shot, my hands still cupping my breast, my nipple swollen, and this time I make sure my tongue is in the frame, licking my lower lip.
“I have lovely breasts,” I tell myself. They are mine. This is me. I lightly pinch my nipple.
Sometimes it is hard to feel beautiful. I have read the comments sections on Twitter, on Flickr, when I post my pictures. They call me a whore, a slut, a cunt. They call me ugly. They tell me I'm a worthless piece of shit. Even the words they use are hard and sharp and cacophonous: fuck, cock, tit, cunt. I don't care. They are avatars to me. They are blocks of pixels.
I love soft words. Pussy is a soft word. Kiss is a soft word. Sigh. Cum. Lovely.
I put down the camera. I hold both my breasts in my hands. My nipples are now engorged, tingling. I have lovely breasts.
Not all the comments are from trolls, of course, many tell me the opposite, how beautiful I am, how hot, how sexy. How much they love me. How much they want to fuck me. These comments used to make me feel better. I divided the online world into those who approved of me, those who didn't. I don't do that anymore. I know who I am. This is who I am. This girl staring back at me in the mirror. I don’t care who they are.
My pussy begins to tingle. My camera sits on the counter, next to the sink.
A few of the commenters I know. They are genuine real world friends, fellow cam girls, or fans of mine who follow me from platform to platform. Some of my fans have attempted to form a genuine bond with me. They empathize when I am feeling sad, celebrate when I am happy. They know someone similar to me, a facsimile of me, and I am happy for that. I welcome that. I consider them my friends. I don't know the rest of them at all. They appear to be mostly young men, a few young women (always young, everyone always portrays themselves as young), but they could be anyone: serial killers, convicts, my next door neighbor, my Mom.
It doesn't matter.
Most days I post my pictures and videos every few hours, as a tease, a come-on, an advertisement. That evening I'll go online in lingerie or a hot dress. The goal is to get tips, which translate into money. The cam site gets a chuck of the profits, I get the rest. It is mine.
I hop onto the counter of the bathroom sink and spread my legs. I pull my dress up just to the point where my panties are showing. Just a taste is what I give them, just a tease. I pick up my camera and take a shot. I pull my dress a little higher and take a shot. I slide my finger down the obvious cameltoe formed by my moistening pussy lips. I take a another shot.
Sometimes I finger myself for my audience, or use a sex toy, if tips have been high and the room relatively non-hostile. Sometimes I cum, and sometimes I cum hard. Sometimes I have to pretend. It is not for me. It is for them. Mostly.
It feels so comforting to have my finger between my pussy lips, even though there are thin red panties between the material and my skin. I slide a finger inside my panties, gently tickling my clit. I take a shot. I take another shot. I post that one, and caption it with, "Be on cam soon :-)." My panties are pulled down low in the picture, nearly showing my pussy, my finger slipped just inside the seam. You can see the barest outline of my pussy lips traced in my thin red panties.
I lean back against the mirror and close my eyes. I slide my finger deeper inside me, and feel my warm juices beginning to flow.
I put the camera into my pocket. This isn’t for them anymore. This is for me. This is mine.
I hop off the counter, and head into the stall, I close the door, I spread my legs and lay back. I sigh, and let my body relax, draped against the ceramic and tile. I close my eyes.
I heard a tiny, almost imperceptible, whimper of a moan from the other stall. It is unmistakably sexual.
I was so high I had totally forgotten about her. There is a woman in the next stall. She is pretty. She is tall and slim and blonde. She smiled at me. I touch my nipples and let out a tiny sigh, and it is returned immediately by a low animal purr from the other side of the wall, noticeably louder than the last one.
She must have been watching me the whole time through the wide crack in the door. She was watching me as I took pictures of my face and my lips and my breasts in the mirror. My pussy grows wet as I think of her watching me, and I move my hand down inside my panties, teasing my clit. I coo softly.
She answers my moan with her own, then whispers, “You are so lovely.” She does not call me a slut. She does not call me a cunt. She does not call me a whore.
You are so lovely, she said.
The words are seismic. I slide my fingers against my pussy lips, and then slip them just inside me. I let out tiny quiet whimpers as I began to finger my pussy, first one finger inside me and then two. She responds with her own sounds, sound that defy words, sounds that come from deep inside her, like waters pouring from a private well. I picture her fingers buried deep inside her. I shiver at the image, push my fingers deeper into my pussy, moan again, louder. We create a wordless dialogue of small purrs and whimpers and sighs, a secret language of our own. It is ours.
The bathroom door swung open, settles gently back into place. I hear heels clicking as someone else enters and walks to the mirror. I freeze for a fraction of a second but can't stop my fingers from exploring my clit and pussy. I stay absolutely silent, bottling up the sounds even as my nerve endings sing, begging for release. I imagine the woman in the stall next to me, with only this thin wall between us, a separation as insubstantial as human flesh. I am inside her fantasy, she inside mine.
As soon as the woman leaves the bathroom and the door closes we both explode with mutual pent-up sexual fury, me first groaning loudly as I slide my fingers deep into my pussy and grind against them, she responding seconds later with a gasp of pleasure, as if she has been underwater and can only now take in air.
I feel an orgasm start to rise inside of me, not from my pussy but from the very center of my body.
“Cum with me baby,” I whisper.
“I'm with you,” she whispers back. "I'm so close."
And as our wordless dialogue continues I feel my legs tense and my nipples harden and a deep quake of noise escape my throat. My pussy lovingly grips my fingers, my back arches, and my body convulses.
"Yesssss," my partner exclaims, the final sibilant in the word like water, like wind in trees. The prolonged "ssssss..." evolves into a sigh, and I sense her orgasm beginning to subside. Mine is still passing in waves through my body, pulsing like the ebb and flow of waves at the beach.
After a time I hear the creak of the stall door, the clatter of shoes across the tile floor, the gentle settling of the bathroom door. She is gone. I am left surrounded by walls, but I am not alone. Walls are so easily thwarted, we can pass through them like ghosts to find what is on the other side, to find each other. We are never alone.
I only saw her for a brief second. It is not an image of her I carry with me as I exit the stall, the bathroom, the club, and head toward home. It is the soft sound of her voice, her coos and purrs, following me as I catch a cab. It fills my ears as I head toward home, forming a warm and soft and comfortable nest inside me as I open my door and take off my clothes, facing the blank glass wall of the monitor, ready to perform.
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