Cam I Help You?
I’ve never had any men in my room, but many men have seen my room. A few women, too!
I close the curtains. Blind the blinds. I light candles but keep the overhead on. The cam won’t pick me up otherwise. Pick up my D cups. My thigh highs.
My studio—my bedroom—is draped with old, theatre curtains. Fitting!
I’m not much different from all the blond, brunette and bosomed girls on the site. English is my first language, which counts for something? Counts cash, I hope. It’s tough to compete with these Bosnian bombshells. I had to specialize. Special Ops. With each and every customer.
My laptop makes a juicy, syrupy, kissy noise, and I know I got one. Smooooochie.
I thought the noise was funny at first. Reminded me not to take this so seriously. But now I can’t change it. Now this is not a joke. It’s my life!
I poof my hair. I scooch my bra. I Marilyn the mirror.
“Miss Bubblegum here,” I say—(I know).
It’s Ron. One of my regulars. I sit Indian style and look at my nails—have to act like I wasn’t expecting him. Ron likes to watch me pour olive oil on my breasts and eat cocktail shrimp. I hang the shrimp over my face like a batch of grapes in a fancy painting. “More, more!” he says. That’s why I was expecting Ron. He sent the oil and shrimp to my apartment this morning. Ron appreciates the finer things in life. Easy money, Ron is.
Smooooochie. I put glasses on for Jamal. We pretend I’m his life coach. I life coach Jamal into getting naked. We take off our clothes together, one piece at a time. I slip off my tank top; he tugs off his tie. I peel down my underpants; he unbuttons a button. Jamal always shakes when we get to his socks. I squint my eyes and whisper, “Remember: economics trumps management competence.” And then he yanks off his socks and gorilla-pounds his chest, and I make a hundred-forty-five dollars.
Steve is next. Steve ejaculates when I threaten to tell his wife.
Then there’s Fishnet Guthrie, Cowboy Gaurav. A new married couple just wants to see what it’s like. They tell me what they like, and I show them. The wife takes command. The husband says, “That’s enough now,” and the wife says, “Bill!” and then they’re gone.
Business crawls. So I group cam, where the comment section is king.
“bend over”—I bend.
“spread open”—I spread.
“9/11 was an inside . . .”—wrong window, man!
The penny tips come flying. Ching, ching, ching. Someone asks me to perform a side plank—ugh, yoga fetishists—and I knock over one of the candles with my outstretched foot. Whoopsies! These curtains are flammable!
But the flame goes out in a snap. Skinny smoke snakes up and peppers my nostrils, and for a moment I can’t tell if I’m charming the smoke or the smoke is charming me. The cam can’t pick that up though.
Ching, ching, ching. Smooooochie.
It’s all the same to them.
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