And then I bring my eyes back to my feet, and I watch them turn and walk into the hotel, alone, so very alone.
Chapter Three
Loncey
Finally, I’m alone.
I sigh as I collapse onto my couch. It’s been a long fucking day. Or rather, a long day of fucking. Pablo Ferrasco more than lived up to the expectations Harley made sure I had. I feel a little buzz in my veins as I think about editing the video of us three together, hoping the way he fucked me while I fucked Harley looked just as good as it felt. Miko, who is now predictably back with Harley, was the cameraman so I have every faith it’s going to be a good take. Yeah, today was a fucking good dayanda good day fucking.
I smirk to myself at the thought. How many other people can say that?
Actually, quite a few. There are more of us adult content creators than people think. I’ve fucked over two hundred of them over the last few years too.
I should shower again. I always shower before and after a scene, but there’s something about washing in my own shower that feels more cleansing, more grounding, like I’m truly home. Even if my home is a glorified shed.
A small wooden cabin I built myself about four years ago, if it was on wheels or located in the middle of a lush pasture, it would be considered a trendy tiny home. However, in my mother’s back yard, it looks like a slightly strange add-on, an afterthought. And that’s exactly what it is, in many ways.
I moved back in with Jessica and Mom immediately after I broke up with Geneva, the woman I was with for a good portion of my twenties and my early thirties. I was twenty-five when we moved in together after less than a year of dating, but it made sense. Seven years older than me, she already had her own place and lived only a couple of miles from my mom and Jessica so I could still be around for her appointments and to help out on her bad days.
Back then I was a personal trainer and had only just started to share content online. I had a popular but half-assed YouTube channel and an Instagram profile with grainy, filtered photos that should never have been as admired as they were. But as Geneva often pointed out, all I had to do was take my shirt off and “the girls and the gays” would come running.
Ever the businesswoman, she wasn’t wrong, although I know she never intended for me to take it to the level I have.
I smile to myself as I wonder, not for the first time, what she would make of how my career has evolved from sharing fitness tips online to taking all of my clothes off and fucking in front of a camera.
Does she even know?
I shake my head and stand. I shouldn’t be thinking about that. I shouldn’t be thinking about Geneva at all.
It’s been more than four years. I’m over her. I punctuate that thought by stripping my clothes off and throwing them in the laundry basket.
The cabin’s bathroom would likely win awards for smallest room in the world, but it has everything I need with a rainshower, a toilet and a small sink atop a built-in cupboard. The shower was my one indulgence when building the cabin. Ensuring the water pressure was strong enough for the full effect took days of work, but it was a fun problem to solve, and every single day I reap the benefits of my hard work. I miss doing things with my hands.
Like painting. I really miss painting. Maybe one day I’ll go back to it. When work isn’t so busy, and when Jessica is more stable.
The shower hits the spot, helping unwind my muscles and making me feel squeaky clean. I go back to my couch with a towel wrapped around my waist, picking my laptop and hard drive up off the neatly made bed on my way. Next to the door, the couch lines one side of the bed, which faces a small kitchen comprised of just a few cabinets and enough counter space for an espresso machine. I don’t cook in here much, and more often than not, I go into Mom’s house to do so, but I like knowing I can when I want to. When I want to spend time alone.
When Ineedto spend time alone.
Which is how I feel now.
I’ve checked in on Jessica, who is in her room flicking through a new recipe book after doing her last physical therapy for the day. Mom is out at a birth and will likely be gone all night. I’ll be up early tomorrow to take Jessica to a check-up appointment as it’s been two weeks since she was hospitalized for that infection. I plan on doing nothing but an hour or so of work, making myself a sandwich to eat and then crashing for the night.
I’m quick and efficient answering the last twenty-four hours of DMs and emails, until I see one from SAFE, an underwear brand wanting to sponsor my attendance at XXXCon, a conference for online adult content creators that takes place in Las Vegas every year. I went my first two years in the business but last year, I skipped it. I don’t need to network for workopportunities anymore, and I turn down more brand offers than I accept. However, this one has caught my interest. I’ve heard of the underwear brand before, they sponsor a few other online sex workers I know and they’re well-known for supporting queer creators. They’re a non-profit and claim that for every pair of boxers or panties sold, they provide period underwear and cups to those who need them in developing countries. They also campaign for period products to be tax-free. I tap out a quick reply saying I’m interested and asking that they send me more information.
I then pick up my phone and call my sister.
“Hey,” she says. She sounds quiet, but normal.
“Hey yourself. Are you okay?”
“I literally haven’t moved a muscle since you poked your head in my room about an hour ago.”
“That didn’t answer my question.”
“I’m fine,” she says, dragging out the vowel of the last word.
“Do you need anything? You ate dinner already, right?”
