Page 1 of White Noise

1

SAGA

GOING LIVE

By ten-thirty, my bedroom stops looking like somewhere I sleep and starts looking like somewhere men are willing to spend stupid amounts of money.

That probably sounds worse than it is, but people have a weird habit of deciding sex work becomes morally complicated the second there’s a camera involved.

Personally, I think getting paid from my own bed beats carrying plates for eight hours while some married asshole named Greg stares down my shirt and leaves four dollars on a seventy-dollar bill.

At least now, when men annoy me, I can charge them for it.

I’m sitting at my vanity finishing my eyeliner while a low playlist runs through the speaker beside the bed. The condo is already mostly ready for tonight’s stream, which really just means the lighting is right, the bed looks good on camera, and I’ve moved anything embarrassing out of frame.

The place is nicer than anything I thought I’d be living in a few years ago. Dark floors, black cabinets, floor-to-ceiling windows, violet lighting worked into the walls because apparently subtlety has never been my thing. It looks expensive and dramatic, which works for me because I’m only one of those things consistently.

Upstairs is where most of the actual work happens.

My bedroom is softer than the rest of the condo, mostly because violet light is flattering and men are predictable.

The bed is the main set, with black sheets, deep purple bedding, and enough lighting around it to make everything look intentional. My streaming desk sits off to the side with two monitors, a mounted camera, controls, and way too many cables hidden behind it.

The setup is built for camming, not gaming.

I keep another camera near the headboard for close angles, one on a tripod when I want a wider shot, and a small acrylic shelf beside the bed with the things I use often enough to keep within reach: toys, restraints, lube, wipes, remotes.

Everything visible on camera is there for a reason.

A toy shoved in a drawer makes nothing.

But the same toy sitting where everyone in the stream can see it has three men throwing money at me to be the one who picks it.

Men are really fucking simple when you stop pretending they aren’t.

My vanity is the only part of the room that looks like I actually live here.

Makeup brushes, lip liner, lashes, silver jewelry, empty vape pods, and a pile of wipes take up most of the surface because apparently all my organizational skills die the second I’m no longer being paid for them.

The closet is worse.

Mostly because of the television.

It’s an old CRT the previous owner left shoved against the back wall, thick black plastic, curved glass, and heavy enough that I gave up trying to move it after about ten seconds. I got it halfway out once, realized there was no fucking chance I was carrying it downstairs by myself, and shoved it right back where I found it.

So now it lives in the closet with old shoes, storage bins, and everything else I keep promising myself I’ll deal with later.

Every now and then, when the closet door is open, I catch what looks like a flicker across the glass. I’ve always blamed the LEDs, the city lights, or my own eyes because the thing isn’t even plugged in and I refuse to start inventing haunted-appliance problems when I already have enough real ones.

I turn back to the vanity and fix the outer corner of my eyeliner with one fingernail. My hair is straight tonight, black except for the thick platinum pieces framing my face. I started bleaching them a couple of years ago because I was bored, liked the contrast, and apparently made one decent beauty decision in my early twenties because now half my subscribers complain if I cover them with a wig.

The dark shadow makes my eyes look lighter, and the silver rings in my nose and lip catch the violet light whenever I move. Tattoos cover both arms and disappear beneath the straps of my top, with more ink along my thigh and ribs that only makes it on camera if somebody pays enough for the angle.

A few of them actually mean something. A few mean I was nineteen, drunk, and knew somebody with a tattoo machine, which is honestly just another kind of life experience.

Tonight I’m wearing a black cropped top with silver hardware, a pleated mini skirt, torn fishnets, and platform boots that probably won’t make it through the first half hour because Kev has a foot thing and absolutely zero fucking financial discipline.

I sit back and look at myself in the mirror.