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I think once I have a taste of her, I won’t be letting her go.
CHAPTER2
Clara
I’ve been staringat the message in my inbox for hours. I saw it come through last night, but I didn’t have the balls to answer. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure anyone would be interested in what I was offering. I’ve only been doing this whole camgirl thing for a few months now, and my subscriber count is far less than those of my peers.
I knew it would be. It’s hard to market your porn when you don’t show your face. Not even in a mask. I won’t take the chance. Boston is a big city, and the internet is far-reaching. But the idea of running into someone in public who’s seen what my come face looks like? Yeah, no, thank you.
This one person, though, has taken a special interest in me. I’ve noticed they watch everything I put out. No matter what time of day I post, they’re there…watching. Even in the creator stats, I see them join every live showing. But they’re a shadow. Just a quiet party on the other side of the screen. They never comment, never like, never share. There have been zero interactions — until now.
And I want this. They are the only person who reached out after my live last night. I never had my hopes up, but I figured I’d get a few bites. But only one has come in so far, and they’ve gone as far as to tell me to name my price.
What’s my price? I hadn’t gotten this far in the plan.
This was never supposed to be a long-term solution. It was just going to be a little side gig to make a few extra bucks. I needed to do something. Working at a coffee shop was not paying all my bills. Boston is not a cheap city, and college is extortion. On top of that, I have over thirty thousand dollars in credit card debt.
My finances are circling the drain and have been for over a year now. I’d get paid, use all my money for paying minimums, and then have to turn right back around and use my credit cards for groceries. I was going to sleep at night thinking about debt and waking up crying about it. I was stressed. It was killing me.
So, I thought, what’s the harm in a little sex work? I have no tattoos, no piercings, and no scars. I don’t even have a beauty spot or a birthmark. Even my freckles are minimal. I figured it could be an easy way to make enough to cover groceries every month, maybe a sandwich from Pret every now and then.
And it has worked. The first month was slow, but I hit my stride two months in, having an Instagram post go a little crazy. It converted into enough money that I was able to buy things other than ramen and bologna from Walmart. For the first time in years, I could afford to get some ice cream and a few frozen pizzas. I still had to put some things on credit cards, but they weren’t maxed out. Last month was even better. I made enough to make minimum payments, buy groceries, and pay utilities. Not a single credit card was used.
This was just another way I was going to try and make some more money. It didn’t have to mean anything, and if I didn’t feel comfortable, I could just stop. If they got too clingy, I could block them. The site takes our safety very seriously, and I know that I could reach out if I had any issues.
So why am I still just staring at this message?
“Earth to Clara!”
I jump at the sound of Vanessa’s voice coming from the other side of the coffee shop.
“Have you been listening to a word I’ve said?”
Locking my phone, I shove it in my back pocket and give her my full attention as she stands next to a table, one hand on her hip while the other holds a damp cloth. She’s been wiping down tables in the lull, and I’ve used this time to completely zone out in my own little world.
“I’m sorry. What were you saying?”
“You look weird. Everything alright over there?”
Vanessa knows how to read me. She’s been my best friend since we roomed together in college. But when she met her now fiancé, she moved out of our tiny apartment and into his massive downtown high-rise. Lucky bitch. She only works here still because she gets bored too easily.
“Yeah, just work stuff.” I shrug and pray she lets it go. She knows all about my extracurricular activities and has offered many, many times to help me out of this rut I’ve dug myself into. But it’s my problem, and I have a strict rule. Do not mix friends and money. That never ends well.
“Ah,” she says, wagging her eyebrows. “Spicy stuff, eh?”
I can’t help but laugh as she saunters her way over to the register.
“Do tell, kitty cat.” I roll my eyes at the stupid nickname. I don’t even know how it stuck. When we met freshman year, we were both drunk, and for some reason, when I told her my name was Clara, she immediately started in on how she has to make up ways to remember people’s names.
“Clara. Cat. Kitty cat. Clara,” she had said, looking very serious as she held me by the shoulders. The next morning, she would only call me kitty cat, and it’s been that way ever since. I’ve given up on trying to change it.
“I may have done something stupid,” I admit. “I said I was going to start doing personal messaging and videos. They pay me extra money, and I do things just for them.”
“Brilliant. Love it.” I get a few short claps from her. “So why the long face? No one interested?”
“Someone is.” I bite the inside of my lip. There’s scar tissue from where I had it pierced in high school, and it makes the perfect anxiety reducer as I bite the shit out of it.
“Okay,” she drawls. “And?”
