I closethe door behind me, lock it, and sit at my machine.
Too loud downstairs. Too much noise, too much everything. For the whole day, really. Ever since we left the Marina I’ve been ready for a dark room and quiet.
I’m not just being antisocial. Saturday night’s a good time to get things done: lonely people are their loneliest and wage slaves have the day off with another one to come.
Me, I don’t take days off. Saturdays or otherwise. Duty calls. No rest for the fuckin’ weary.
The screen flares blue-green, a matching glow lighting up the wall behind it, when I wake it with a stab to the keyboard. Two clicks and I’m at home base, my dashboard, that informs me my latest payments have cleared and are processing. I swipe away the notification and get to the inbox.
I’ve got a system here. Like I do for everything. And it works. Page through quickly, delete the obvious bots, spam. Fire back my hotkey auto-responses to the obvious scammers: no in-person meetings, no real names—not that that matters for me. Not interested in a manager, don’t do brand deals or collabs with anyone I don’t meet in real life, and there’s no one in my life you could blackmail me against.
Any messages left after that are fair game. And I’m ready for it. I know some streamers hire chatters, but ask me, they’re just being fucking lazy. I’ve seen guys bitch in creator chats about how everyone’s just a scammer or a bot, it’s a waste of time, blah blah blah, but if you don’t have a bullshit detector fine-tuned enough to sift through the psychos, stalkers, and script-kiddie wannabe account hackers, then this is not actually the job for you. Surprise, but it takes more than just exhibitionism and a crypto account to succeed at this.
Besides, it’s not really that much talking. Much more listening.
I lean in a little, scanning. The back of my neck prickles: I’ve been letting the custom requests pile up. Which is unlike me. I’ve just been…distracted, I guess.Because there’s a fucking kid in my house now.
I scrub a hand over my face.
Of course Pan would think it’s fine to let a random child crash here indefinitely. His definition of a “good idea” is novelty, pure and simple, bonus points if it causes a stir or ruffles some feathers. This checks all the boxes.
Except the real problem’s not Pan. I’ve known him long enough, been through enough with him, to know that he’s only capable of so much on his own. You cut him off at the source, refuse to help, and eventually his own laziness and inattention catches up with him.
That’s why I had to leave. Not just because I was done with all of them and their bullshit for the night, not even because I do have work to do. Because of Tink. The way he was scampering up, getting Pan a beer, doing whatever, whenever. That rubbed me the wrong way, and hard. Pandoesn’tknow what’s good for him; he actively knows what’sbadfor him, and that’s what he wants.
And it seems like Tink will always get it for him.
My mind flashes to the Lagoon, the other night.
You’ve got to be more careful about who you let in.
I am. I always have been. That’s why I do what I do, the way that I do it, in a room that’s double-bolted and soundproofed out the ass. Nothing comes in and nothing gets out unless I say so. And I never do.
But Pan’s not like that. And Tink’s holding the fucking door for him.
A faintpingfrom my inbox redirects me to the screen.
Right. I’m working.
I reach for the back of my shirt and rip it over my head, my skin prickling a little in the air. Sure, I’m just one of countless guys across America right now sitting alone and jacking it to a computer.
Except I’m going to get paid.
Customs make me most of my money and I’m proud of them. The internet’s full of hot people with no clothes on you can get off to for zero dollars, so it only stands to reason that people want somethingspecial. I don’t just mean niche, either. I know I’m not that special even amongst tattooed white boys in helmets. For most of my subscribers it was probably a coin toss whether they decided to give me their hard-earned $24.99 a month to me instead of BikerBaddie69420 or who-the-fuck-ever.
What makes me different is that I’m good. I deliver. If they come to me wanting more than the standard issue smut, if they’re willing to pay, then every part of me is for sale.
I stroke a hand down the front of my jeans, absent-minded, as I browse.
My system’s logical. Review the asks, calculate the effort and time required. Knock out the voice clips first, then video, starting with longest and ending with the messiest, unless someone’s requested a shower clip and then that’ll be last.
I chew my thumbnail—bad habit—and scan the usernames and request lines for any immediate red flags. I won’t doeverything,obviously: One 19-year-old-kid asked me to fuck his mom because he wanted a stepdad he could jerk off to. Pass. A lady in her 50s said my eyes reminded her of a student she taught in sophomore chemistry and wanted a classroom roleplay video. Also pass.
But I don’t see any of that here tonight, which is good. Because in general, the custom work? I love it.
I love being someone’s crush. Her obsession. Her favorite. Love knowing thatI’mthe one she’s thinking about, the only one. Not her loser boyfriend or lazy husband or shitty ex. Me. When the lights go off and her phone turns on, I’m the only image in their mind, the thing she’s most eager, most desperate, to see and hear. You could say I get off on that shit, no pun intended, but it’s more than just that. It’s the part that’s hardest to explain about my work. The actual pleasure of it, that I canfillsomeone like that, mind and body, breath and skin, blood and sweat.
I’ve got audios. Just two this time. One’s a regular, back for more instructions. Wants to know exactly what I want her to do to herself tonight, and how much I like it. Lots of detail, plenty of praise. Easy improv. I yank over my desktop mic, click my fingers twice before the pop screen to level it, and hitrecord.
