by Leah Raeder
Everything was still in my brain—how the human skeleton fits together, how ribbons of muscle furl and twist around bones, how light and shadow paint objects into three dimensions—but it was locked inside and I could not extract it and put it on fucking paper anymore.
“If you were actually going to kill yourself, how would you do it?” Elle said.
“I don’t know. With whatever was nearby, I guess.”
“You don’t care how?”
“I care more about the note.”
It was so like us—she was always hung up on how, when all I cared about was why.
“What would your note say?”
“Not really a note. A drawing.”
“Of what?”
I ripped the sheet from the pad (with my trainable hand) and mashed it in my fist, tighter and tighter till it felt like my skin could absorb it, make it vanish.
“Of what I love most.”
Of you.
(—Bergen, Vada. One Thousand Ways to Say Good-Bye. Charcoal drawing on paper.)
The razor glinted on the desk, clean and bright.
Calling to me.
Put something else in your hands. Now.
I took out my phone. And there was Frankie’s message.
I know. It’s a cliché: life robs girl; girl sells body. But I didn’t think of it like that. And I didn’t think of it affirmatively, as me finding worth in my flesh despite losing the part I prized most, my primary hand. I didn’t think of it as being sex-positive or even having much to do with sex at all.
I was just broke and sad and lonely, like everyone else on this planet. The Internet is life, and life is a bunch of lonely people making money off each other’s longing.
I hurled myself onto the bed and flipped open my laptop.
Okay, cam girl. Show me what you’ve got.
* * *
The front page was a grid of images: pussies, asses, tits, mouths, a catalog of every fuckable orifice and cleft in full HD. Skin everywhere, pale peach and buttery gold and creamy brown. Few faces; the occasional tat or piercing became a substitute for identity. The bodies were in the middle of teasing themselves and others with toys and fingers, spreading legs to the lens, stroking breasts and cocks. The images had captions like #cumshow at 500 tokens and #anal play close-ups. Most of the cammers were girls, waxed and tweezed and lotioned till their hairless skin shone, but a handful were boys, also polished. They were ranked by popularity.
Tiana was number one.
Clicking her thumbnail took me to a page with a live webcam and a chat box. In the cam, Tiana/Frankie, still in her white dress, sprawled across a canopy bed. Amber light drifted through muslin bed drapes and diffused into a warm mist. Tiana looked like a reposing empress, one knee raised to show the shadow between her legs. She smiled down at her laptop screen.
The chat was full of things like this:
ImUrDaddy: spread ur legs more honey
ImUrDaddy: u look so hot
jiffylubed: how are you tonight bb?
AlphaBillionaire has tipped Tiana 200 tokens.
choclit_luvr: lets see dat pussy
Tiana’s mouth quirked. “You’re impatient tonight, boys and girls.”
Her hand trailed up her shin and caught the hem of her dress, as if on accident. It rode up her thighs. She wasn’t wearing panties.
choclit_luvr: FUCK YEAH BB
jiffylubed: exquisite.
ImUrDaddy: touch urself
She teased. When a user tipped her with tokens, more skin appeared. Eventually the dress came off. She cupped her breasts, dipped a hand between her thighs. Took her time. Those hands moved over her own skin as if she were sculpting it for us, creating herself out of nothing. Her viewers grew wild. Trash-talked each other. Lunged against invisible leashes, barely civil. The more frenzied they became, the more languorous her movements.
No. She wasn’t slowing down—I was just caught up in the hysteria with all the others.
At two thousand tokens, the page informed us, Tiana would perform a blowjob. The tokens ticked up. So did my pulse. Part of me prayed she’d blow the blond boy from the party. He was my type to a T—slender, viperous, his eyes hooded and knowing. Boys like that usually knew how to fuck, took it slow, made you come first. But another part of me felt a strange resentment. As if I deserved to be in that room with her. As if I were the one she called to every time she gazed deeply into the cam. I knew that on her side she was facing a black pinhole on her laptop, a lens into nothingness. There was nothing between us. Only light dancing down wires. But somehow it still felt like she was looking at me.
Which was exactly what every other Joe Blow was undoubtedly feeling.
The token counter flashed GOAL MET.
“Thank you, gentlemen. Ladies.” I could swear she winked at the cam. She bent over, flashing bare ass and a slash of damp pink, and pulled a box from beneath her bed. “Biggest tipper gets the honors. Alpha, who will I fuck tonight?”
AlphaBillionaire: ty bb
AlphaBillionaire: big white please
Tiana removed a large peach-skinned dildo from the box.
ImUrDaddy: nooooooo suck the black one
tool1995: fuck u n***a ass bitch
[MOD]HenryVIII: tool1995 has been banned from Tiana’s chat.
ImUrDaddy: lol owned
Tiana rolled her eyes wryly, winked at the cam, then put the sex toy to her lips.
* * *
When I looked up from my laptop the room was awash in dawn light.
All night I’d clicked cam after cam, one of those porn zombies who can’t get enough, mindlessly devouring, growing hungrier the more I consumed. In the end, Tiana/Frankie was tame. There was something almost quaint about a girl sucking a dildo for hundreds of anonymous viewers. So uncomplicated, so obviously sexual. The deeper I delved into the rabbit hole, the less it was about sex. Somehow the cam girl who smeared her belly with ketchup and mayonnaise at a generous tipper’s request seemed more vulnerable than the girls who vigorously fingered themselves while their tits bounced. Fetish work was so nakedly about control. About one person’s particular pleasure.
I pay you. You obey me.
The code morganiscute unlocked a private section on Tiana’s page. Videos of her doing virtually everything sexually conceivable: fucking toys, boys, girls, household objects. Photo shoots with ultra-high-res close-ups of her nipples and clit and toes, brown and pink pixels totally decontextualized into blobs of color, like abstract art. Mundane shots of her brushing her teeth or pulling on socks. Oddly, the mundane pics far outnumbered the sexier ones.
Was that a thing? Chore porn?
Maybe it wasn’t solely about getting off. Maybe it was the illusion of intimacy, of sharing a life with this girl you jerked off to. Seeing her doing normal human things. Imagining yourself there beside her, brushing your teeth after you made her come.
I’d expected stuff like anal and bondage, every shade of kink. None of that fazed me. It was the sheer normalcy that made me uneasy. The raw, pulsing loneliness of it. I knew this world. I knew these hungry zombies with gravestone shadows beneath their eyes, emptiness aching in their palms. I was one of them.
Camwhorez.com operated on a token system. One token cost ninety-nine cents USD.
There was no info on the site about what percentage cammers took home, but even at a measly 10 percent royalty rate, Tiana would’ve earned two hundred bucks for two hours of work. My entire month’s rent in one night.
“Numbers don’t lie,” Ellis said once. “Not like fiction. Or art.”
“ ‘Art is a lie that makes us realize truth.’ ”
“Who said that, some artist?”
“Some artist. Pablo something.”
“Oh, shut up. I know who Picasso is.” She looked at me fervently, imploring me to understand. “But that’s the difference. Numbers can’t lie. They’re pure. Our faces, our names, they’re all lies. They’re fictions we invent to tell stories about ourselves.”
> “But you like stories.” I twisted a lock of her hair. Long bangs, buzzed on the sides. As if she were two different people. “You like playing make-believe with me. Isn’t there truth in that, too? In the ways we pretend?”
“That’s different. That truth is full of shades.”
“So is life.”
“To us. But when you look at it under a microscope, life is just equations playing out. Geometry and physics. Numbers. Each one has one meaning. It’s so simple and clear. So beautiful. It comforts me.”
I smiled. “I love the way your mind works. It’s so simple and clear. It comforts me, too.”
“Are you calling me simple?”
“No, silly. I’m calling your mind beautiful.”
(—Bergen, Vada. A Beautiful Mind. Copic marker on paper.)
Truth in numbers. Who could argue with two hundred bucks a night?
Maybe it really was that simple.
You pay me. I obey you.
* * *
On Monday I walked into the coffee shop and stood in the doorway, soaking up the light. Ceiling crisscrossed with timber beams, exposed brick walls. Once upon a time it had been a warehouse full of men in brine-stained overalls with arms like marine rope.
Strange, to look at something and know it’s the last time you’ll see it.
I wondered what Max said the last morning he saw his son. If he regretted it now, something petty, thoughtless. An omitted I love you because of course he did and it was awkward to keep reminding the kid. No I’m proud of you or I know your life isn’t easy or I’m sorry I wasn’t a better father.
I knew exactly what I’d said to Elle before the headlights flared in the rearview like a supernova.
I’m sorry I’m sorry I love you.
Tanya gave me a cagey look when I stepped behind the register. She wasn’t scheduled today.
“Someone call off?” I said, reaching for my apron.
No answer.
Curtis poked his head out at the sound of my voice. “Vada. Come see me in my office.”
I’d shut my phone off when he wouldn’t stop calling all weekend. So this was the inevitable, then.
“No.”
“We need to talk about—”
“No,” I echoed, louder. “If you’re going to fire me, do it here. In front of everyone. Where you can’t put your hands on me, for once.”
Heads swiveled from the order line. Tanya darted a shocked glance at us. Curt reddened.
A customer walked over and strode right behind the counter.
“Excuse me,” Frankie’s blond friend said in his mellifluous voice. “There a problem here?”
Frankie sauntered up behind him, planting herself at my side.
I could have kissed them both.
Curtis eyed the guy edgily, possibly wondering if he was a jealous ex. “Sir, I’m afraid I have to ask you to—”
“The thing is,” Frankie said, propping her palms on the counter, “maybe I misheard, but I could swear the young lady just described sexual harassment by a superior.”
Her friend shook his head. “And then you were going to fire her? That’s—what’s the word—”
“Extortion,” I blurted, my heart skipping.
Frankie tsked. “And in front of all these witnesses, too.”
“Not smart,” the guy said.
“Not smart at all,” Frankie said.
Curt looked from him to her to me. “This is a big misunderstanding. I never meant—”
“How about you take some time to reflect,” the blond guy said, “and give the lady the day off?”
“Paid time off,” I added.
Frankie caught my eye and smiled.
My boss mumbled at the counter, head down. “Okay. We’ll see you tomorrow, Vada.”
Dumbass. Don’t use my real name.
The three of us strolled out into cool ocean air and cobblestone streets glazed with mist.
“Holy shit,” I crowed once the shop door closed. “What are you guys even doing here? You realize you just saved my job?”
Blondie gave me a shrewd look. “Don’t thank us. If you got fired, you could get unemployment.”
“I don’t want unemployment. I want to work.”
“Pride comes before a fall, Vada Bergen,” Frankie said slyly.
I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. They went on a few paces before turning.
“Who are you?” My fists and calves tensed. “Did someone send you?”
“Huh?” said the guy.
“Are you from the insurance company? Am I under investigation?”
They glanced at each other.
“You in some kind of trouble?” Frankie asked.
It seemed ridiculous, suddenly. Trouble. Trouble would be a price on my head, a hit. All I had was a bereaved man seeking closure over his son’s death. Closure I had good cause to prevent.
No one is after you, I thought. You’re just paranoid, Vada.
The blond guy peered up the street. “You afraid of your boss?”
“No. Never mind.”
“This is no place to chat,” Frankie said. “Join us for breakfast? We’re not criminals, I swear.”
“Just criminally good-looking,” Blondie said.
Frankie rolled her eyes.
Portland’s morning rush was in full swing. Flannel coats streamed around us, the weather-beaten faces of laborers mixing with pristine white collars. You could read their lives in their hands. The dockworkers’ were callused, rope-burned, cracked. Golem hands, tough as stone.
We headed to a pub at the end of the wharf, entered through a swing door. No patrons at this hour. Sawdust hung in still nebulas within shafts of sun. We sat on high-backed stools near the kitchen and watched a cook open a crate of fresh-caught fish.
Frankie scrolled her phone while the blond guy spread his hands in welcome.
“We haven’t officially met. I’m Dane.”
“Vada. Which you already knew, apparently.”
“We e-stalked you,” Frankie said.
“Gotta vet the candidates,” Dane said.
Frankie counted off a finger. “Mistake number one: didn’t use a disposable email address, ‘[email protected].’ ”
“That’s ‘memory, the heart’ in Spanish,” Dane said. “I looked it up. Some painting. Total nightmare fuel.”
“So uncultured,” Frankie said. “But at least he’s cute.”
He ignored her slight. “We found your real name. Then all your social media accounts. We know where you work, go to school, who your friends are. Even found your mom and sister.”
Frankie flipped another finger. “Mistake number two: didn’t use a proxy.”
“A proxy hides your tracks online,” Dane said. “Makes you anonymous. People can’t tell where you’re connecting from.”
“I know,” I said. “Shouldn’t you stalkers know my best friend is a coder?”
Frankie raised an eyebrow. “Your best friend didn’t do a great job teaching you online safety.”
She had, though. I’d grown careless on purpose. I was so sick of being lost I just wanted someone, anyone, to find me.
“Okay,” I said. “What else did you learn about me?”
Two women survive fatal car accident. Man, eighteen, who died in crash was well above legal blood alcohol limit.
Dane shrugged. “The past is the past. All we care about is who you are now.”
“Can you follow instructions?” Frankie set her phone on the bar. “Can you exercise discretion in heated situations? Can you handle new experiences which may disturb and unsettle you?”
“Am I joining a cult or a cam site?”
“The site I linked you to,” Frankie said, “is no longer my employer. They’re my competition.”
“You quit?”
“Broke out. I was their biggest star, and they paid me peanuts. I stopped doing private chats. Wasn’t worth the time. I made more in free chat off tips.”
“We thought w
e could do better,” Dane said. “So we became entrepreneurs. Rented a studio. Bought top-of-the-line gear. Now we’re signing the talent.”
That’s where I came in. Fresh blood, naive. They’d exploit me the same way this site had exploited them.
But I needed cash and a place to crash, fast.
Dane stroked a thumb across his lower lip. In the dimness his eyes glittered like sun skipping off ocean chop. His face fascinated me, aesthetically. Every angle was oblique, deflective. The shift of the sea was in it. Emotion crested for a second and was gone.
“Sell me on it,” I said.
“Great work environment.” Dane laced his hands behind his head. His jacket rode up, revealing chiseled abs and V lines. “Excellent views.”
I snorted.
“You make your own schedule,” Frankie said. “Work at your own pace. All necessities are provided—room, food, clothes. We take care of you. And our royalty rate is the most generous in the industry. To make this much solo, you’d have to be a celebrity.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Our clients have very particular tastes.”
“What she means,” Dane cut in, “is they’re kinky bastards.”
“And not your garden-variety kink,” Frankie said. “We’re talking extremes. Gray areas. Boundary pushing. There’s an EMT on-site at all times.”
“It’s not for everyone.” Dane scrutinized me dispassionately. “You need to be willing to face your dark side every night, and not fall into it.”
“Intrigued?” Frankie said.
I nodded, slowly.
“Good,” she said. “Very good.”
“Now,” Dane said, the hint of a curve in his lips, “sell us on you.”
—SUMMER—
—4—
Incoming video call from gag4me.
I clicked ACCEPT and a window opened. On one side was me: tungsten floodlights toning my skin a soft copper, chest tilted toward the webcam. My body all lithe lines in a dark bra and jean shorts. Sultry half pout firmly pasted in place. On the other side, a black rectangle held my reflection. Clients rarely turned on their own cams. It cost more.
gag4me: good evening morgan