The Billionaire's CamGirl

Preparing the guest room is energizing, so I tackle the kitchen next, wiping down every inch of counter space and secreting away all the junk that has accumulated there. I run the dishwasher for good measure and start a load of laundry. Man, it always feels great to be productive.

By nine o’clock, when I’m sure that most of my neighbors are on their way to work, I throw my swim bag over my shoulder and head out the door. The swimming pool is one of the best perks of this apartment building, and I rarely miss a day. After a month of doing my cam-girl work, and falling into a pretty sedentary lifestyle, I realized my usual fit body was going a bit, well, not so fit. Once I moved in here, I started swimming again, just like I did in high school, and now it’s a delicious luxury and habit.

As I walk down the hall, I see my drunk friend from earlier this morning. Oh boy, does he look rough. My heart picks up pace in my chest, really hoping to avoid any kind of confrontation. We arrive at the elevator at the same time, and both awkwardly reach for the call button knocking knuckles.

“Sorry about that,” he says, looking up at me with bloodshot eyes and not a hint of recognition. Poor buddy, I almost feel sorry for him.

The elevator doors part, and he gestures for me to enter first. We ride down in silence, and I say a silent prayer that he won’t puke in the small space. My man is looking green. He gets off at the lobby and says a soft goodbye, and I continue down another floor to the building’s pool.

Just as I expected, the pool is empty. the water in all four lanes’ is still and look like a sheet of mirrors reflecting the wood beamed ceiling above. I strip off my clothes and fold them neatly, placing them in my bag and hanging it on a hook. I dip a toe in the water and watch the ripples travel out, from my small toe to the middle of the pool. I don’t know why, but whenever I do that, it really sends a thrill through me.

I dive into the pool and swim underwater until I feel like my lungs are ready to burst. Breaking above the water’s surface, I take my first stroke, and feel my legs and arms warming up and energy flowing through my body. Everything around me is silent, even my mind, and I concentrate on every arm rotation, every kick. When I get close to the wall I speed up, gaining momentum so when I touch the slick tiles, I powerfully somersault, pushing my legs against the wall and heading back up the lane to do it all again. A neighbor once suggested I get special earbuds for the pool, so I could listen to music while I swim. But I prefer the silence. tuning into my body and my breathing. Like that, it feels like I could swim forever.

My mind wanders randomly. Sometimes I think about my business plan. I was swimming laps when I decided that my hostel should have a common room, like a cozy library, to foster friendships between travelers and offer them a space to hang out. Sometimes I think about my mother and I worry. Will I be able to take care of her when she’s older? I don’t want her taking the train into the city when she’s in her seventies. I want her to enjoy her senior years, as stress-free as possible. I can already see how the daily commute into the city and the long hours contribute to her arthritis flares. The sooner I can make money, the better off her health will be. Then there are times I think about Chris from Paris, and I imagine what he’s doing, what it would have been like if I’d left him my phone number that morning instead of sneaking away without even a goodbye. And lots of times I just shut off my brain, tuning into my body and my breathing.

After twenty laps I can’t go on. My limbs feel heavy and I think if I went upstairs, maybe I could actually take a little nap. I sit on the edge of the pool for a bit, catching my breath. I look down at my body and imagine I’m WildCaptain, slowly dragging his eyes over me, observing as he would. My chest is flushed with the exertion, pink creeping down my neck and visible on the top of my breasts. My thighs are trim, and strong, especially after the exercise, and I imagine how he’s seen those muscles, taut and trembling, the many times I’ve come on camera, giving him the show he so desperately craved. I pull my feet out of the water and stand, grabbing my towel and drying my hair. How many different ways has he seen my hair styled? In the early days of performing for him, I once tried wearing a ponytail and dressing up like a cheerleader. I’d read on one of the Sugar Girl forums it was important to keep your act fresh. Well, it wasn’t so fresh, it was humiliating in fact. He’d ever so gently told me that role play wasn’t his thing. If I wanted a cheerleader, I’d find a cheerleader. I prefer you. Perfectly, sexy, authentic you, he typed. And his words were kind, but they threw me off. If I were pretending to be a cheerleader, or a school mistress or flight attendant, it wouldn’t be so personal. But him, wanting me, well that was personal, and it made me wonder what he saw in me to spend so much money on what we did. I have so many questions about WildCaptain, and I doubt I’ll ever find out the answers.