Cammers With Benefits

My mind reels back to last night. Under Brice. On top of Brice. We’re no longer high school students. The term ‘friends’ no longer identifies us correctly, but what its proper replacement might be is still murky. Are we on our way towards a real relationship? Boyfriend and girlfriend? Have I finally pinned down the unpinnable Brice?

Or are we now somewhere between that commitment and the relationship title we held so long? Friends with benefits, perhaps? Will we continue this carnal relationship in the bedroom, while continuing to act like the goofy teenagers we used to be in the living room and beyond? Would that be enough for either of us? Or, worse, would it be too much?

This leads to my greatest fear. That last night broke something between us that can never be mended or molded into something new. It is simply destroyed. All the glue in the world might not be able to bring us back together. It would explain why he left instead of staying the night. It wouldn’t even have been the first time he stayed over, though those times he’d slept on the couch. Only once had we slept in my bed before, and that was purely innocent. I was ridiculously drunk and he fell asleep while trying to keep a bowl under my head to keep me from covering every square inch of my apartment with vomit. Hardly the romantic atmosphere. But tonight had been different. Maybe just a business transaction, but possibly something much, much more.

A distant rumble of thunder promises oncoming rain. I have nothing to do and no desire to head outside. So I pour myself an embarrassingly large bowl of cereal and milk. Eventually, I check my email only to find that I have a notification from the cam site. I almost put it off, sure it’s nothing but some dick pic from a viewer who doesn’t know where the boundaries ought to be. But after last night’s performance, I’m worried it’s from our generous benefactor, possibly pulling out of his side of the agreement. He could have lodged a formal complaint and gotten his money returned. After logging in though, I find that the complete opposite is true.

It’s him. The same guy. He’s not threatening me, but making an offer. He claims to own a studio that specializes in pornography. Last night was a sort of audition. He wants to meet Brice and me. He wants to discuss a business opportunity.

There’s a phone number and an address. My cereal sits on the side table, forgotten and growing soggy. The Princess Bride has ended and an infomercial advertising a miracle food container now drones on somewhere in the background while I read through the message again. This email throws one more complication into the mix. How can I ever explain to Brice that last night has become more to me than business and yet also say that there’s more money waiting for us if we wish to pursue it?

I lick my lips. Think about what I should do. I could simply erase the message and pretend I never saw it. There’s the chance that Brice regrets last night and doesn’t even want to see me. This offer could be the final straw that breaks his proverbial back. He might see me as nothing but a disgusting whore now and want nothing to do with me.

But Brice isn’t like that at all. And this might be the perfect opportunity for us to explore a little further. Maybe he’s actively ignoring me because he’s just as awkward as I am. Maybe he want’s to move forward but doesn’t know which foot to take the first step with. Of course, I’m not going to know the situation between us until I actually reach out to him.

When I finally begin typing out a text, I keep having to remind myself that this is Brice. So after agonizing for fifteen minutes over what exactly to say, I erase everything I’ve written and send a one-word message:

Hi.

His reply is instantaneous.

Hi yourself.

How’s life today? I ask.

Not bad, not bad.

Such a vague reply. How am I supposed to take this if I can’t hear the tone of his voice? I try to be a little more direct in my next message. But I don’t want to sound too serious, so I playfully say, So I heard you hooked up with a hottie last night.

His next message takes too long to come back. I can see that he’s typing, but I keep wondering if he’s planning to send a long message or if he keeps going back and erasing what he’s just written like I did earlier.

Finally it comes though.

Is that the rumor? Because I heard it was you who slept with the hot guy. Guess we both got lucky, huh?

A relived sigh falls from my mouth. Brice is teasing me, which means our relationship isn’t broken beyond repair. We’re okay. I don’t know exactly where we go from here, but we’re okay.

I text him the name of the restaurant where the guy wants to meet us for lunch, but I don’t tell him why I want to go there. In fact, I lie about it.

Just want to celebrate our little windfall. What do you say?

Sounds perfect. See you then!

A twinge of guilt wriggles around my brain. I’m effectively walking him into a trap. I’ve been doing this cam girl thing for six months, but I’ve never met one of my sponsors in real life. Now I’m forcing Brice into a lunch meeting with the man who paid us to have sex on camera. I almost call the whole thing off. In fact, I have the message halfway typed when I erase it all and put the phone down while I get dressed.

Brice might sound fine through text message, but there’s no way to read his true emotions. Our status as friends or lovers is still fuzzy. Taking this job might be the only way to keep us together. Of course, it also has the potential to tear us further apart, but I try not to think about that. Brice and I have been in each other’s lives forever. Sure, I’m blindsiding him here, but he’ll forgive me. It’s a good deal for both of us. And I know if I told him who we were meeting he wouldn’t show up. This is the only way. Right?

The restaurant is one of those hipster vegan places where they serve food on flat stones rather than plates. The prices are a little steep, but the atmosphere is worth it. They’ve got half a dozen old arcade games lined up along the back wall. Three have got customers playing on them, challenging the high score to Donkey Kong. That’s one of the first games that Brice and I played together. Neither of us could afford the newest games when we were kids, so we played on his older brother’s ancient Nintendo.

My benefactor is sitting at a table along the right wall, a retro poster of Star Wars hanging behind him. He’s wearing a blue Hawaiian shirt with a white floral imprint. This is how I’m supposed to identify him.

For one second, I regret agreeing to meet up. I’m sure that this was the wrong decision, not just for Brice’s sake, but for mine as well. This man has seen me at my most intimate. How am I supposed to sit and just have a conversation with him when I know he jerked off to Brice and me last night?

“Brightlights3249?” he asks as he stands and extends a hand. As soon as he voices my online handle, I whip around to make sure no one who could have heard it might recognize my name. It’s weird too because as many times as I’ve seen my online persona’s title written out on my computer screen, this is the first time I’ve ever heard anyone say it out loud. “I’m Greg.”

“Just call me Tess,” I say and sit without shaking his hand. I’m not ready for even that simplest of physical contact. Not with this man.

“And where is the male lead in this production? Ah,” he says, looking behind me towards the front door. “Here he comes now.” Greg waves at Brice, who’s staring in confusion until he recognizes me sitting at the same table. Brice’s expression goes from horrified recognition to something like disgust as he walks up behind me. His hands go to the back of my chair where I can feel them tense as he addresses Greg for the first time.