The Billionaire's CamGirl

There is another memory, my one-night stand. It’s still hard to believe how serendipitous and well, extremely fucking hot it was. I’d arrived on the Paris scene in typical Weaver fashion: toppling ass over kettle down the stairs to the metro. And there to help me up and witness my mortification was a sexy, clean-cut, I’m-in-another-country-and-everything-looks-better stranger, Chris. Coincidentally, he was a friend of a friend of Kate’s business partner, and we reconnected at the restaurant opening. Lots of champagne, the romantic Paris streets, and a run in with a street thug, led to a night of mind-blowing sex with Chris. When I snuck out the next morning, leaving him a note but no contact info, I knew he would be a very sexy memory for months, maybe years, to come. But staying in touch with him through this year was never a consideration. This cam-girl business excluded relationships. It’s just too much baggage. No guy wants his girlfriend masturbating on screen for random guys. I think about him from time to time, but mostly I try not to. It seems like just one more thing I’m missing out on.

Kate texts back Can’t wait, and I drag myself out of bed to my bathroom. It’s four o’clock in the morning, but since starting this cam-girl work, I don’t really keep regular hours. Captain wants to be respectful of my schedule, but I’m not going to turn down any work. The more money, the better, so I accommodate his janky schedule. Anyway, in New York City, pre-dawn is the best time to go to the market. No lines or judgey side eyes if my hair is in a messy bun or my sweatpants look like they’ve been slept in. (And they have.)

I stare at myself in the mirror, trying to see myself the way Kate will see me. Same me, I conclude. There’s no neon red C anywhere on my forehead that will give away my status as cam-girl. Pulling my strawberry blond hair up into a ponytail, I note that I could use a trim, and maybe I should make an appointment to have my eyebrows threaded. Lately, I don’t really interact with many people to warrant keeping up on those things. And Captain’s eyes are generally focused on other places, other intimate places that I do bother to maintain regularly. A girl has to have some standards. When I first started working on the Sugar Girl sight, I was planning on taking up another job during the day, but the money from Captain was too good, and I didn’t want to risk losing my exclusive deal with him if I wasn’t available when he was. So aside from a few shifts here and there to help out my uncle at his bar, I haven’t worked much aside from Sugar Girl. And when you don’t have an office to go into, well, one becomes a little anti-social. Aside from trips to visit my mom, and the meals she reluctantly allows me to treat her to here in the city, I’m kind of a recluse. I splash cold water on my face and decide I’m corner deli ready. That’s a few degrees away from red carpet ready.

I grab my keys and phone and wallet and head to the door. I make a note on the pad on my fridge to call the salon when they open. As I walk down the hallway, I do my usual marvel of my awesome apartment building. I had amazing luck landing this place. A friend had to break her lease because she’d been hired to open a restaurant in Los Angeles, and I got to take it over. I couldn’t have done it without my Sugar Girl money. It’s an old building but completely renovated. There’s a gym and an indoor pool in the basement, so I don’t even need to leave the building to work out. My apartment has one bedroom, but it’s enormous, with views of Riverside Park and the Hudson River beyond, and just blocks from the subway. I never imagined four months ago, when I’d checked into that roach motel near the airport, that I would ever live in a building like this, especially in just a matter of months. I couldn’t have done it without my Sugar Girl money. I couldn’t have done it without WildCaptain.

The elevator doors ding open and a guy my age staggers out. He blatantly looks me up and down, blocking my entrance through the elevator doors.

“Excuse me, please,” I say, hoping so badly that he’ll just leave and not say anything to me. A cloud of rank, stale air envelopes him, and it takes just a few seconds to know he’s coming home after last call and probably struck out with every woman in the bar.