Camgirl

by Isa Mazzei

  Private Message from BlueRune: a pretty doll

  Private Message from BlueRune: maybe you come alive when no one’s looking.

  I read his message, trying not to move my eyes too quickly. I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to respond to his words, but I knew not to ask. I remained frozen. My right hand was aching from the lack of blood. My arms felt weak.

  Private Message from BlueRune: Maybe i’ll catch you

  Several more minutes elapsed. My legs were cramping. My hand felt icy cold. I was light-headed from breathing so shallowly for so long. Just when I was about to break my pose and apologize, Blue sent me a final message.

  Private Message from BlueRune: you are such a pretty doll. Thank you.

  Then he quickly exited out of the private chat. I collapsed onto my bed. I shook my hands, feeling them tingle as the blood rushed back.

  After I returned home from the AVNs, I had thrown myself back into work. I focused on building my own show and my own viewers and tried to ignore the rest of the noise. Once Blue’s private ended, I clicked back to my public show, hoping someone else would scoop me up. No one did, so I turned on some Stan Getz and waited for FunnyGuy, deciding that my all-baby-pink outfit would work fine for a public show.

  Funny had been spending more and more time in my room, and if he showed up, it meant I was in for at least a $100 tip. We bonded over music––he said it was rare for someone my age to share his tastes, and he often told me I was too good to be “doing this” with my life. Normally, a comment like that would piss me off, but with Funny, I took it with a smile. He was the one paying for “this,” after all, although he usually left before anything got too sexual. I had given him my number as a token of my gratitude, and he was quick to use it. He didn’t sign on that night, but he shot me a text instead.

  FunnyGuy: una, I’m going to call you tomorrow

  Of course he was.

  I always sorted my viewers by what they wanted. Some wanted sex. Some wanted to show off. Some needed to feel important. Some wanted to be friends with other men, wanted a community. There were also those who wanted a therapist. That was the case with Funny, and our relationship quickly felt like that of mentally ill client and unlicensed mental health professional. He called me at least once a day. Sometimes twice, sometimes happy, sometimes sad, and almost always drunk.

  “Una…” His thick Mississippi accent stretched my name into four syllables. “My wife, you know?”

  “Mhm…” I did know. I knew exactly how many times I had to say “mhm” to convince Funny I was actually listening. As I knew well, with any drunk person, their stories were repetitive at best, incoherent at worst. I tried to piece together a clear picture. Funny was a family physician. He was on the board of a bank. He lived in the South. He had two teenaged children. His wife hated him. His children hated him. He drank too much. He wished he could be sober like me. I was too good to be a camgirl. He was a doctor, and did I know he was a doctor?

  “My wife…she just hates me. She just hates me.” It was 2:00 p.m. in Mississippi. On a Tuesday. His voice was thick with bourbon.

  “I’m sorry.” I was walking around the driveway of my sister’s apartment building, waiting to go in.

  “But you, you know? You…” I waited for him to finish. He said nothing and instead began humming softly. “If you ever need anything, Una. If you ever need anything at all. Antibiotics, or whatever.”

  “That’s very sweet.” It’s really a shame I didn’t need anything because I clearly had a very irresponsible hookup. Not that I would ever give this man my legal name. Could you prescribe meds to an LLC?

  “Una, what should I do?” The agony in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Stop drinking. Join AA. I go to AA.”

  “My sponsor—remember Bud? He’s been… Well, Bud’s on the bank board with me. He’s sober. You know? Twenty, twenty years or something. Una.”

  “Yes?” This was the fourth time I’d had the same exact conversation with him, and I was starting to get fed up—hundred-dollar tips or no.

  “My wife hates me.”

  I sighed, kicking a rock and sitting down on the edge of my sister’s front porch.

  “Funny, you need to call your sponsor then. Not me.”

  “I know. I know.” His voice was deep and breathy, full of self-

  pity. If he was looking for sympathy, he was looking in the wrong place. My sympathy could be bought, but it was running out, quickly.

  “Funny, you know I can’t help you, right?”

  “I know, I know, Una. That site, you shouldn’t be on that. I just wish there was some way.”

  “I like my job.”

  “If you ever need anything, Una. Anything. Just ask, you know? I want to help you.”

  “I know, Funny.”

  “I don’t know what to do with Joshua. My son. He gets so angry. Every day.”

  “He’s a teenager.” I knew that wasn’t why Joshua was angry. But it was easier to say.

  “Yeah. He hates me too, probably.”

  I pictured Funny at home alone in a giant house with white pillars and a large green lawn. It probably had a wide front porch with matching furniture and wicker tables and floral pillows that were changed out every year. I imagined him in an ornate office, dark wood; dark, rich carpet; those green lamps with gold chains.

  “Funny, I have to go. You can’t keep calling me.” My voice came out harsher than I intended, but I was irritated, and my sister was beckoning me through the front window. He didn’t say anything. I wondered if he had passed out.

  “Funny?”

  “Do you have a nice cocktail ring?” His question came out of nowhere.

  “A what?” I wasn’t even sure what a cocktail ring was.

  “Every woman needs a good ring. For parties. For hosting. My wife has a whole collection.”

  A ring for hosting. How Southern.

  “I’m sure she does. But I really—”

  “My wife does David Yurman. Do you know David Yurman?”

  I paused. Of course I knew David Yurman. David Yurman adorned my mother’s fingers and wrists.

  “No, is he good?”

  Funny laughed from the other end of the phone, a slightly pained, drawn-out laugh that ended in a hiccup.

  “Una, when is your birthday…?”

  I hesitated. “February.” Nothing wrong with giving the right month. I did want birthday presents. Especially if they were David Yurman birthday presents.

  “Every woman needs a good ring,” he repeated.

  “For hosting?”

  “Yes.” He laughed again, this time more slowly, as if he were searching for the right sounds. “For hosting.”

  I hung up, overcome with a horrible feeling. I wanted to help him, sure. But I also couldn’t. I couldn’t provide the emotional support he was seeking. What had happened with Odin was happening with Funny. These men needed more than for me to take care of them. They needed to own all of my time. I thought back to Vegas. I needed a whale who didn’t need me back. What I needed, I realized, was Jiggy.

  ×××

  Jiggy lived in Denver, and he popped by my room more often now that he had met me at the after-party. I knew a lot about him already, mostly whispers from other girls. Jiggy was rich. Jiggy was the man who ruled the strip clubs in the 1990s and ruled the cam sites in the 2000s. He wore a gold chain, gold rings, and drove a 7-series BMW. Jiggy was charming. Jiggy kissed your hand in greeting. Jiggy held roses between his teeth. Jiggy was a high roller in Vegas. Jiggy could walk into any sold-out nightclub and be given bottle service. Jiggy was a legend. If you were in Vegas, Jiggy was the man to see. And, apparently, also if you were in Denver. I told Jiggy I would meet him for lunch. And Jiggy took me to Chipotle.

  I am honestly not sure how someone is supposed to look classy while eating a Chipotle
burrito bowl. I don’t even think it’s possible. All the same, there I was, carefully balancing a few beans on the end of a fork, trying not to drip sour cream on the table.

  Jiggy sat across from me, picking something out of his tooth with his pinky. He was wearing a gray Broncos T-shirt, shorts, and Crocs. Except for the two gold rings on each pinky, he looked like a normal dad. He was also eating a burrito bowl, shoveling up mouthfuls in a way that told me he wasn’t too worried about looking classy.

  “So then, you know, I’m like, trying to pry the two girls apart,” he laughed. “It’s a real catfight. Just like you’d imagine.”

  I laughed and looked down at my half-eaten burrito bowl. “That’s so crazy.” I needed to play it cool. Megan had said Jiggy didn’t like it when girls sucked up to him too much.

  “Yeah, you girls can get pretty out of control at these things.” He smiled at me. “You seemed to be having a good time. I didn’t see you after Allie’s party.”

  “Oh yeah, the AVNs were really fun.”

  “You should’ve come back to my suite, so many girls were staying with me. Megan, too. It was packed, I mean, such a party. You girls really get wild at these things.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah, I mean, I do so well at poker that Caesar’s always puts me up. And those suites are so huge, you know—the more the merrier. I’m happy to offer a place for you girls to crash.” He scooped a bite of his bowl with a fork.

  “Definitely.” I smiled at him again and ran my tongue over my teeth, checking for lodged food. Since the second we arrived, Jiggy had been talking a mile a minute. He knew every single thing about every single camgirl, the minutiae of their drama seemingly occupying every fold of his brain.

  “Anyway, have you pitched in for SugarP’s fundraiser?” he asked.

  “Oh, she’s doing a fundraiser?” I barely got the question out before he was talking again.

  “The fundraiser for her son. Needs some special therapy. I threw her a couple thousand, you know. Poor girl. She tries so hard.”

  I sort of knew who SugarP was. She was a brunette, I thought, vaguely.

  “Yeah. That must be difficult.” I glanced up at him. “So do you have any kids, Jiggy?”

  He chuckled. “Yeah, I’ve got two. Daughter in college, son in high school, lives with my ex-wife. Anyway, you’re missing the point, right, with the fundraiser. She was going to offer prizes—”

  “You miss them?”

  “Who?”

  “Your kids.”

  He paused thoughtfully, then laughed. “Nah. I have a good time.”

  I smiled at him and glanced back at my bowl.

  “Listen, I have something for you back at the house, not far.”

  It wasn’t exactly an invitation. I took another bite. Other girls seemed to trust him. I guess I could too. “Sure thing…”

  “Okay, so SugarP offered these prizes, right…”

  When we finished eating, I got in his BMW. It was newer than mine and had red seats. This man could buy anything he wanted. He didn’t care if I liked him. I wasn’t special to him. I had to find a way to get to him. He drove me to his house.

  Jiggy’s house was picture-perfect suburbia. It was painted pale purple, with a white fence and a door with a polished brass door knocker. A yard framed the house in vibrant green, and a small American flag fluttered from its perch inside a flower pot on the front porch.

  As he let me in the front door, I had a moment of misgiving. No one knew where I was. I could easily get murdered. My sister would stop by my apartment, realize I hadn’t been home. Panic. My mom would be even more convinced that I had joined a cult. Was I being the stupidest person ever? Probably. But I had to hook him.

  The front door led to a hallway, a set of stairs, and a small office off to the right. The inside of the house was covered in boxes, half opened or open, contents spilling out onto the side tables and leather couches. Jiggy led me into the living room: piles of magazines, unopened mail. His dog, a red bloodhound, ran up to me, barking. I knelt to pet him, carefully avoiding some water bottles lying on the floor.

  “You have a lot of packages…” I noted, trying to sound teasing.

  “Yeah, get a lot of mail,” Jiggy said absently, moving to the fridge and mixing himself a Crystal Lite. He mixed a second one and passed it to me.

  “I’m okay, thanks.” I stood up and walked over to him. “Thanks for lunch, by the way.” I leaned against the counter, looking at him slyly, popping my hip.

  Jiggy nodded and chugged both Crystal Lites. He motioned for me to follow him downstairs. “The real good stuff is down here,” he explained. “I call this my treasure room.”

  Down the stairs was a partially finished basement, exposed concrete roof with spare furniture. Jiggy led me off to the side, where he had a small collection of custom paddles and whips made from alligator skin.

  “So I ordered a bunch of these alligator paddles,” Jiggy was explaining to me, holding a few up. “Custom-made. Very expensive. The guy didn’t even make paddles, I had to explain to him how to do it. But I thought the texture of alligator skin would be fun.” He slapped it against his thigh, glancing up at me expectantly. The sound was muted, rough against his jeans.

  Okay. I knew what he wanted. “Well, that’s not the way to do it,” I said teasingly. I bent over one of the folding tables, wiggling my butt a bit. “Try it now.”

  He slapped me with the paddle, and I yelped cutely. “Yeah, I think that’ll do nicely.”

  “Then it’s yours.” Jiggy passed it to me.

  “Thank you.” I glanced down at the brown alligator skin paddle. “Can’t wait to use it.”

  “Thought you might appreciate it.” Jiggy closed up the plastic bag with the other paddles and turned to head back up the stairs. My attention, however, was caught by something else. The entire basement, I realized, was like the upstairs of the house, crammed full of boxes, clothing racks, piles and piles of papers and books. What was curious though, were the stacks of small metal safes covering several folding tables.

  “Jiggy, what’s in all these safes?” I asked, moving in the opposite direction and looking at the metal boxes, which were stacked three high in places.

  “Ah these, well.” Jiggy floated over as if he had been waiting for me to ask. “Check it out.” He popped one open, revealing several sparkling necklaces. He moved down to the next safe and popped it open too. Earrings. Rings. Bracelets. He moved down the line revealing piles and piles of jewelry: emeralds, rubies, sapphires, coral, amethyst, quartz, gold, silver, rose gold.

  “Real silver base on those earrings there,” he pointed out. “And that’s platinum, although actually I think I have a set in white gold as well…” He rooted in the safe, searching. “Pearls, obviously.” He gestured to another box. “Freshwater and cultured.”

  I leaned over the case, scared to touch anything. “Oh wow.”

  Jiggy didn’t disguise the smugness in his voice. “I’ve got quite a collection. Check out this necklace—it’s sapphire. Did you even know sapphire could come in this color?”

  “Wow, no…”

  “Yeah, I’ve got a lot of rare gems. Hard to come by stuff.”

  Don’t act too impressed, I reminded myself. I leaned forward to stare at a matching pair of bright orange sapphire earrings. A small price tag was attached to the corner: QVC. I glanced at the others, they all held tiny QVC price tags.

  “What are these for?” I asked, trying to discern a price on the other side of the tag.

  “My future wife,” Jiggy stated, as if it were obvious. “Or, I mean, girlfriend. Whatever. They’re beautiful pieces, right? Beautiful. And I get such good deals on them, such low prices. Makes sense to buy them when they’re on sale. And most of them come in sets, right—earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings—all matching. Goes with any outfit.”
/>   “Right, of course.” There were literally piles of jewelry in this basement. “Well, your future wife is a lucky woman,” I mused, running my fingers over an emerald bracelet. Jiggy’s eyes followed my wrist.

  “Let’s see if SugarP is online,” he said, suddenly. “I know you wanted to see her.”

  Jiggy led me back upstairs and took me to his office near the front door. Equally crowded with mail and boxes, it was a small space with just a desk and a chair. He sat in the chair and tapped his computer awake. He went to MFC.

  I leaned against the doorframe awkwardly. Jiggy leaned forward in his chair, squinting at the screen. He needed glasses. I saw several pairs buried under papers on his desk. Jiggy navigated to SugarP’s show. I crossed into the office and slid onto Jiggy’s lap, perching on his knee and leaning onto the desk with my elbows. On screen, SugarP, a petite girl with smokey eyes, knelt in front of a colored wheel she was spinning for prizes.

  I reached for his laptop. “Let me tip her.”

  Jiggy pushed my hand away, his hand lingering a moment on mine. He asked, “How much?”

  “Give her a hundred.”

  “Your wish…is my command.” Jiggy tipped her, and she smiled at the camera.

  I glanced over my shoulder at Jiggy, raising my eyebrows. “A hundred dollars, not a hundred tokens.”

  He grinned at me, then obliged. SugarP cooed a thanks. We watched her in silence for a few minutes as someone tipped her to tease her nipples. I felt Jiggy get hard under my thigh. Perfect. I would leave him wanting more. Get him to come in my room, dump tokens in hopes that I’d visit him again. I shifted my weight a bit, teasing him.

  “Jiggy…you’re fun.” I kept my tone light, genuine.

  Jiggy leaned forward and nuzzled my neck, biting me slightly. “Oh yeah?”

  I shrugged my shoulder, pushing his face away cutely. “Yeah. But I should probably get going.”

  Jiggy typed a message.

  Private Message from Jiggy69: hi Sugar

  Private Message from Jiggy69: I’m with Una. She says hi.

  On screen, SugarP’s eyes darted up to the camera. “Oh my gosh, hi Una!” She called, waving at the camera. “You guys, Una is watching me.” She smiled, flirty. Jiggy tipped her another hundred bucks.