Cam Girl

by Leah Raeder

  I faked a laugh, throaty, reckless. “Why do you think I’m sad?”

  He didn’t dignify that with a response.

  I glanced at the clock. Fifty more minutes.

  I could log off whenever I wanted. I already had his money.

  SoBlue: do i make you uncomfortable?

  I started to speak and then, on impulse, typed instead.

  Morgan: I’m not sure what you want from me

  SoBlue: i just want to talk.

  Morgan: you want to talk about real things

  Morgan: that’s not what I do

  SoBlue: too kinky for you?

  SoBlue: i could describe my big veiny cock if that makes it easier.

  I laughed again, genuine. “It sort of does, yeah.”

  SoBlue: why is that?

  “Because then I know what you want.”

  SoBlue: it’s simple.

  SoBlue: i want you.

  A thousand other men had said those words to me. This time I felt exactly how heavy they were.

  “Who are you?”

  SoBlue: i’m just a lonely guy on the internet.

  SoBlue: who’s in love with a lonely girl.

  It’s funny. Boys call us mushy and romantic, but they almost always declare their love first. Girls are the ones who hold back.

  “You’re silly, but sweet. You want real talk? I’m sad because I’ve completely fucked my life up.” I wrapped my arms around my knees. “But that’s such a cam girl cliché. Let’s talk about something else. Like the color blue.”

  Then I told him something true.

  A long time ago, there was no word for the shade of the sea and sky. People described them instead as moods, temperaments: fierce and volatile, or melancholy and pacific. In Homer, the sea was “wine-dark.” In other classic texts it was a degree of gray. No one knows, really, why the ancients couldn’t put a word to that hue. It was colorblindness not at a physical but an intellectual level, an inability to describe what we saw because we lacked the language to conceive of it as separate. The sea was a vast goblet of wine. They looked right at it and saw juiced grapes and the fluid in their veins.

  Scientists studied isolated tribal societies to see if the phenomenon still occurred in the modern era. And it did. Those with simpler languages called the sea a shade of black or red, a primal color. It wasn’t important enough—not like blood or nightfall—to give it its own name. Their brains became wired to see it as a subsidiary of another color, glossing over the hue and instead focusing on its emotionality. But people with more complex, technical languages, those rife with hues and hex codes and Pantone swatches, are trained to see color in a different way. We all see blue, but some of us see blue as an inflection, a mood, of black or red, while others see blue as its own creature.

  “A lot of artists,” I said, “have been obsessed with the color blue. Yves Klein got so crazy about it he painted canvas after canvas with nothing but pure ultramarine. They named a new color after him. He had models roll around naked in blue paint and throw themselves at blank canvases. He called them ‘living brushes.’ That’s how intense it was for him.”

  SoBlue: you’re an artist.

  “Photographer.”

  SoBlue: more than that.

  SoBlue: you speak about art sensually.

  SoBlue: you’re a living brush, too.

  “I’ve dabbled.”

  SoBlue: don’t be modest.

  SoBlue: let me see your art.

  I waved at the wall behind me. “Voilà.”

  SoBlue: not photos.

  SoBlue: i want to see something that came from you.

  My first instinct was innuendo—I washed that off in the shower, baby—but instead I gnawed my lower lip, not even caring how unattractive it looked. I kept staring at that black rectangle and thinking how, a thousand years ago, it would have been the same blue as the sea.

  “That was the past. I don’t paint anymore.” Then I let my temper fly, a small barb. “Don’t ask about it again.”

  Blue didn’t respond.

  It shocked me to see that the hour was up. It’d felt like mere minutes.

  “Why did you pay so much to listen to me ramble?” I said.

  SoBlue: i’ve thought about you all day.

  SoBlue: every day.

  SoBlue: for a long time.

  SoBlue: tonight i just . . .

  SoBlue: needed more.

  “So you’ve been watching me. Are you one of my regulars?”

  SoBlue: i wouldn’t call it regular.

  “What would you call it?”

  SoBlue: obsession.

  It wasn’t unusual. The entire point of camming was to coax viewers into a frenzy of infatuation. Make them want more, and more, and put a price tag on each piece. We became obsessed with them, too. We fell in love with their infatuation. It’s hard not to love the way someone loves you. The entire industry was a device to bring two lonely minds together in a digital nowhere, put two disconnected obsessives inside the same small box and let our explosive yearning generate money.

  In a way it wasn’t so different from art. It bridged the void between minds, let us feel something together, ten tokens per minute. Sometimes I thought, Money isn’t filthy or cold. It’s the only way we can be human with each other anymore.

  SoBlue: morgan is thinking . . .

  I smiled. “I wonder what you think will happen. Between you and me.”

  SoBlue: i’m not thinking beyond this moment.

  SoBlue: i’m completely in it with you.

  His words made my chest expand in a strange way. Partly just the breath in my lungs, partly something unnameable.

  “Tell me about yourself, Blue.”

  SoBlue: our hour is up, morgan.

  First rule of camming: protect the product. Value your time.

  “You’ve already paid me a ton,” I said. “I don’t mind talking more.”

  SoBlue: if you could see how my face just lit up, you’d laugh.

  SoBlue: i’m like a little boy on christmas.

  I laughed anyway. “You’re kind of cute.”

  SoBlue: i’m excessively cute.

  “Don’t be modest. Let me see how cute.”

  SoBlue: clever.

  SoBlue: you like me, morgan. admit it.

  SoBlue: you don’t want to stop talking.

  “You make me laugh. It’s been a while since a client’s done that.”

  SoBlue: “client” sounds so cold.

  “What are you then? My Romeo? My—”

  I’d started to say Prince Charming and felt a stab of guilt. Here I was flirting my ass off with some guy, while Elle was alone out in the dark woods.

  SoBlue: not quite that tragic.

  I sprawled on my side, switching to typing.

  Morgan: sorry, bad thoughts

  Morgan: where were we?

  SoBlue: let’s see.

  SoBlue: what are you wearing?

  SoBlue: no. we’ve established that.

  SoBlue: the question is, what am i wearing?

  Morgan: bet I can guess

  SoBlue: please try.

  SoBlue: this should be good.

  Morgan: you’re too anal-retentive to be a boxers guy

  SoBlue: why do you say that?

  Morgan: no misspellings, perfect punctuation

  SoBlue: i’ll take it as a compliment, then.

  Morgan: you’re also too much of a hipster to be a briefs guy

  SoBlue: this seems more like character judgment than an erotic guessing game.

  SoBlue: why am i a hipster?

  Morgan: your pathological disdain for the Shift key?

  SoBlue: fair point.

  Morgan: so, Blue

  Morgan: I think you fall somewhere in the middle

  I raised a knee, not too provocatively, just teasing him a bit.

  Morgan: you’ve got an edge in you

  Morgan: a little ego, a little swagger

  Morgan: but you’re too smart to be one o
f those caveman chest beating types

  Morgan: you’re a boxer-briefs guy

  Just the way I like them.

  He didn’t respond for a second and I said out loud, “Am I right?”

  SoBlue: you’re right.

  SoBlue: but i bet you can’t tell me the color.

  On impulse I said, “Red.”

  SoBlue: i’m torn between being aroused and alarmed.

  “My next guess was Superman undies.”

  SoBlue: funny you should mention that . . .

  “Oh my god. No.”

  SoBlue: yes.

  SoBlue: owned. never worn.

  SoBlue: i’m saving them.

  “For what?”

  SoBlue: for the girl of my dreams.

  SoBlue: who’s waiting to be swept off her feet by a suave anal-retentive hipster wearing superhero skivvies.

  I lay back on the bed, laughing. “What grown man admits he owns Superman underwear?”

  SoBlue: one who’s very comfortable with his masculinity.

  You are, aren’t you? I thought. You don’t give a shit what I think. You’re not one of those try-hard guys desperate to prove how alpha you are.

  You just paid me enough to get my attention. And then you were yourself.

  There’s nothing sexier than a man who’s comfortable being himself.

  I gazed at the cam, my eyelashes lowering. “Blue.”

  SoBlue: morgan.

  SoBlue: you have that look in your eyes.

  “What look?”

  SoBlue: like you want to get off.

  “Do you?”

  SoBlue: in my mind, this whole time . . .

  SoBlue: my hands have been all over you.

  SoBlue: every time you move, every time you breathe, i can feel it.

  “That’s fucking hot.” I slid a hand over my thigh, toward the inside. “Let me get you off. Both of us.”

  SoBlue: i want you.

  SoBlue: so badly.

  SoBlue: but not yet.

  “Don’t be shy, baby. Are you hard?”

  SoBlue: no.

  SoBlue: now stop.

  Spit stuck in my throat. I sat up straight. “Are you for real? I want to do this for you.”

  Do you not realize how rare that is, dumbass?

  SoBlue: this isn’t business.

  SoBlue: i’m not your client.

  SoBlue: don’t give me a show.

  “Who exactly do you think you are?”

  SoBlue: let’s not end on a bad note.

  “Well, being sexually frustrated kind of sucks. Which I’m sure you know, since you drop thousands of bucks on cam girls. I can’t believe a client is turning me down.”

  SoBlue: i’m not your fucking client.

  There we go. I’d found his button.

  I dragged the laptop closer.

  “You are, though, Blue. You might be funny and cute, but you paid me to talk to you. Don’t forget that.”

  SoBlue: when was the last time you truly connected with someone?

  SoBlue: when you didn’t feel completely alone?

  SoBlue: i saw it in your eyes.

  SoBlue: it was tonight. with me.

  SoBlue: i may have paid you, but i gave you something, too.

  SoBlue: don’t forget that.

  My pulse vibrated so hard it made my hands shake. Who the fuck did he think he was? Paying me a couple thousand bucks didn’t mean shit. He had no idea what kind of relationships I’d had. What they’d meant to me. What they still meant.

  When I wrapped my hands around Elle’s neck I felt a deeper human connection than I ever had with anyone else. It might be sick and unhealthy, but it was real. I felt it in my marrow. My blood.

  This? This was words on a screen. Nothing.

  “You know nothing about my life,” I said. “Nothing about my loneliness. But I know all about yours.”

  I moved my cursor over the DISCONNECT button.

  “Thanks for reminding me why we don’t get personal with clients. Have a nice night.”

  Click.

  Morgan left the room.

  Session ended. Total: 1:31:16.

  —6—

  Ellis was in the kitchen again the next morning. This time two coffee cups stood on the table. She eyed the farther one, then looked up at me.

  I sat grudgingly. “Caffeine: my one weakness.”

  “You also have a weakness for gummy bears.”

  “Okay, two weaknesses. I’m still supervillain material.”

  “And what about gel pens?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “You know too much, Ellis Carraway. I’ll have to destroy you.”

  She lowered her face, but I caught a slight smile. A brassy red lock strayed across her forehead and I clutched the mug, battling the urge to touch her hair.

  It was so easy to forget the bad blood when she was right there, across the table, sitting in the morning light. It could’ve been a year ago. No time lost at all.

  “So what are we working on today?” I said.

  “Actually, Frankie’s going to—”

  On cue Frankie walked into the kitchen, radiant in white chiffon. She rubbed my shoulder in friendly greeting and nodded at Elle.

  “Ready, Miss Daisy?”

  Ellis blushed.

  “She’s kidding,” I said. “She likes putting people on edge.”

  “I’m a professional provocateur,” Frankie said.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Is that what they call stripping on the Internet now?”

  “Sassing the woman who writes your paycheck. That’s bold.”

  “Did you just say ‘sass’?”

  Frankie flipped her sunglasses down, Deal With It style.

  “Where are you guys going, anyway?” I said.

  “To take over the world. But first, legal meetings.”

  “Well, knock ’em dead.”

  Elle rose to leave, then paused beside me and murmured, “Bye, dorkus malorkus.”

  I tried to be cool. I really did. But she gave me that crooked, sweet girl-next-door grin that I could never resist, and I said, “Bye, nerdus maximus.”

  “You look pretty.”

  My stupid sappy heart mopped this up. “So do you.”

  “Oh my god,” Frankie said. “Too cute. You two. I can’t.”

  I sat there after they left, the coffee forgotten, feeling mixed-up and conflicted and inexplicably warm.

  Then Jasmine, a petite, cherubic cam girl who did BDSM, came downstairs in just her panties and a pair of nipple clips and I returned to my room. Dane had finally answered my texts.

  DANE: sorry busy night

  DANE: did u do it?

  MORGAN: yeah

  MORGAN: we just talked

  MORGAN: and he paid me

  DANE: damn

  DANE: ez $

  MORGAN: the best kind

  I sprawled on my bed in a drizzle of honey sun.

  DANE: be careful

  DANE: guy gives u $

  DANE: wants to meet irl

  MORGAN: he didn’t say anything about that

  DANE: he will

  I thought of Blue’s parting words. I may have paid you, but I gave you something, too. Don’t forget that.

  Yeah, but I don’t owe you shit, buddy.

  I asked about Boston but Dane had errands to run. I could pass the time with another surprise cam show, but it didn’t appeal. Nor did reading, sunbathing, taking photos, or getting off purely for my own gratification. I paced my room, nervy, agitated, feeling like Max.

  Get out of the fucking house, loser.

  Last time I’d seen the tree house, rain had been falling right through the roof. Today the woods were full of sunlight, clear beams glittering with dandelion seeds and pollen like jewel dust. The air was pungent with sweet summer rot. I climbed the split-log staircase winding up the old oak. The door had no lock. Few things did out here.

  Inside was a single large room. Tree branches thrust up through the floor and exited through holes car
ved in the roof. Kitchenette, couch, loft with a bed at the top of a narrow staircase. Ellis had swept out the drifts of leaves and scrubbed the pine boards pale. Her neatness and precision were everywhere: dishes aligned razor-straight on the sink counter, blanket folded crisply on the couch.

  “This is so you,” I said aloud.

  All this bare wood needed color, life. I’d bring her something. Housewarming gift.

  Wait, why am I gifting someone I want to leave me alone?

  “Because,” I said, “I’m the queen of fucking denial.”

  I walked to the window. On the table she’d stacked a pile of small logs, too tiny to give much heat. Besides, it was summer. Who needed fire? So Ellis: overprepared but impractical.

  “All you do is hurt me,” I said, hefting a log and smacking it into my palm. “And I keep coming back for more. Why do you keep hurting me, Vada?”

  I answered, “Because I hate the way I feel about you.”

  “Why do you hate it?”

  “Because it screws up the whole way I see myself. It makes me feel crazy.”

  “Well, you are crazy. You’re standing in a tree house talking to yourself, psycho.”

  Time to bounce.

  I retraced my steps, searching for clues that someone had been there. When my phone buzzed I knocked a glass off the counter but caught it like an ace, lefty.

  “Hello?”

  “Where the hell are you?” Frankie sounded riled. The hair on my arms prickled. Frankie never got upset.

  “Went for a walk. What’s wrong?”

  “Get back to the house immediately. We have a situation. Ellis is freaking out.”

  She hung up on me.

  It wasn’t until I got home that I realized I’d left one thing different. I’d forgotten to replace that log atop the stack.

  * * *

  Frankie crossed her arms and said, “Who is Max Vandermeer, and why is he stalking you two?”

  I glanced at Ellis beside me on the couch. Glasses off, eyes red. She sniffled into a tissue and my hand floated toward her, then fell.

  “He’s not stalking us,” I said wearily. “There was an accident.”

  If you tell a story enough times, it sounds like fiction. You don’t feel that visceral throb of resonance with the person who is you, who did the things you did. She’s just a character. Vada and Ellis on an icy winter road. Flaring headlights, bursting glass. Three white dragon tails of breath. Then only two. Later, a haggard man who holds you and cries, who wants to be close to you because you’re haunted, because you carry the ghost he loves. His hands touch you differently one night but you don’t tell anyone. You pretend everything’s fine. Even when your feet feel heavier every day, when the air smothers like a pall. When you feel something pulling you under but can’t escape, because it’s pulling from inside.