“Excuse you for a nightcap?” he slurs
“Lead the way,” I say, gesturing grandly down the hallway. He looks surprised and starts walking down the hall to his apartment. Chump. I hightail it into the elevator and press the door close button frantically. I’ll bet he forgets all about me by the time he reaches his door. I’m sure the guy is harmless, but who needs the fucking hassle? Drunk frat guys hitting on me are not something I miss in my new, semi-reclusive lifestyle.
Sometimes I look at men and wonder if they’re WildCaptain. I wouldn’t recognize him, but he’d recognize me. In the early days it felt weird, exposing myself to this anonymous person, who could be literally anyone in the world. But now, after so many hours of sessions, I feel confident that he’s nothing like that guy. Or any other guy I run into on the street. I’ve sort of elevated him to the status of a God, and after our business relationship is over, I wonder if my standards will be unrealistically high for other men. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be a bad outcome.
The brisk air hits me as I open the lobby door and step onto the street. I shake my head scattering thoughts of Captain away. I shouldn’t get too attached and comfortable. For my sanity and my safety. As much of a gentleman as he’s always been, I have no idea who he is or what he’s capable of. My Sugar Girl contract strictly prohibits me from exchanging real names or identifying information with him. I only know him as WildCaptain, and he knows me by my Sugar Girl name, Echo. It’s for my safety and his privacy, and surely also to protect the company from any liability in case he dismembers me and feeds me to the fish in the Hudson River. Cheery thoughts, I have sometimes. This job is weird.
I walk the few short blocks to the twenty-four hour gourmet deli where I do almost all of my shopping. The little bell above the door rings to announce my arrival. Velma is behind the counter and puts down her Star magazine as soon as I walk in.
“Weaver! Thank Gott for the company. It’s been dead,” she greets me.
I’ll be honest, Velma is one of the reasons I come to this store. It is close to my apartment, but so are many others that don’t have exorbitant prices and favor food products from Bavaria. She’s in her sixties, speaks with a thick German accent, and when I first met her, she introduced herself by saying, “The name is Velma, like the hot little chippie from Scooby Dude.” I still haven’t determined if she’s confused Velma with Daphne, or if “Scooby Dude” is some weird German porn featuring a “hot little chippie” named Velma, but she’s a friendly and familiar face in my otherwise lonely days. Also, German sausage is a hearty meal and easy to prepare. Win/win.
“Hey Velma,” I say as I grab a basket. “Good morning.”
“Liebling, the sun’s not even up. Late night at work?” Velma asks.
“Oh, you know it,” I say, as I start loading rye crisps and imported bratwursts into my basket. Oooh…and those pferrernuesse cookies look good too. Sure, I could get a box of Chips Ahoy at the pharmacy, but would they really make me happy?
“I just got off a call with colleagues in Dubai,” I lie. “Their broadboard algorithm framework had a fifteen buggy-byte malfunction, and they’re losing their minds.” I decide I should get some typical American food for Kate, so I walk back to the refrigerated section and grab some milk and yoghurt. “But I was able to send them a decahedron code to their interfacement web and…voila! Problem fixed.”
In my desire to keep my webcam business secret, I’ve developed the most wonderful skill of making up tech terms that both dazzle and confuse people over the age of fifty. It really has become a hobby.
“Well I don’t know how you do it, but you must be doing very well,” Velma says, with a note of pride in her voice.
I fill my basket with a combination of delicious goodies and staples for Kate’s visit, and I unload them at Velma’s register. “Oh, I don’t know. Why would you say that?” A cambozola cheese catches my eye and I wander over to pick it up. $15 for a small wedge of cheese? Twist my arm, why don’t you.
“Well, when you first started making these middle of the night shopping trips, you’d only shop from that cooler,” she says, pointing to the stand-alone fridge with discounted foods that are nearing their expiration dates. “And these days, you seem to be living large.”
I survey the counter in front of me, and I see what she’s describing. She’s right. In the months since I started cam-girling, my life has really changed. Last year, every second of my waking days were devoted to worrying about money. Did I have enough to cover rent? Would my pay check clear in time to cover my electric bill? It was a constant worry, nagging at me and causing my stomach to roil several times a day. And now, look at me, wandering around this overpriced deli and choosing the yummiest, priciest treats without a single hesitation. And I owe it all to one man: WildCaptain.