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Weaver
Take down the straps of that camisole. I want to see them hanging down your shoulders.
The text appears in the bubble at the corner of the Sugar Girl website. It always amuses me, the things that turn a guy on. Wear this color, not that color. Put your hair in a high ponytail; now whip it around. Touch yourself, very, very slowly. Slower. Sometimes I feel more like a sociologist studying human sexuality than a cam-girl climbing her way out of debt.
It’s been four months of steady work on the Sugar Girl platform. After a year of waitressing jobs and the high cost of living in New York City, I’d decided to take the bull by the horns and start making some serious money. In college I’d had dreams of starting my own business, opening up a hip youth hostel, nothing too ambitious, just a sweet spot with a dozen rooms for bargain conscious tourists in Brooklyn. My business plan had been my culminating project in hospitality school, but after I graduated, I realized how completely naïve I had been. Despite putting in long hours at a SoHo hotel’s trendiest restaurant, contributing to its new (and successful, I might add) marketing campaign which went beyond my job description, it was clear I had no future there. I wouldn’t be moving up that corporate ladder. Unfortunately, I came to that conclusion after I was thousands of dollars in debt and on the verge of homelessness. Sure, I could have been thriftier. I was on my own for the first time and I did spend beyond my means, but mostly it was the high cost of city living and the awful pay from the restaurant that did me in. Oh, and the manager’s insistence that he get a cut of our tips.
So, when my lease was up, and the landlord had no intention of renewing it, I’d moved all my boxes into my mom’s basement. My mom wouldn’t have minded if I’d moved back in, but I knew she was barely able to keep on the lights herself, and I didn’t want to add my own financial issues to her stress. After all, part of my motivation is to help her, and I knew I couldn’t do it from my old childhood bedroom, eating her groceries, and most likely falling into the old habits of my teenage years. I decided I needed a plan. A plan to make money and make money quick. I wasn’t going to find another shitty apartment I could barely afford and hop from restaurant to bar suffering customers’ abuse to barely scrape by; I’d work my ass off for a year, pay down my debts, save, and then put my business plan in motion. It turned out the most effective way to earn lots of money quick was working my ass off by using my ass. And my tits. And my Oh baby, yes baby, right there baby face. Bonus: I didn’t even have to get out of bed to do it.
I applied to be a cam-girl on the most popular and lucrative webcam site on the internet, Sugar Girl. They only accept about five percent of applicants, so I was thrilled when they put me on their roster. It felt a little weird at first, accepting that this was who I’d be for a while. I mean, no little girl dreams about taking her clothes off for total strangers when she grows up, much less doing the things that I’ve been doing over the past few months. But I was backed into a corner and I had no choice but to take care of myself.
Take it off now. Pinch your nipples.
WildCaptain types. He’s been my client since day one. In fact, he’s my only client now. The first night I had access to my webcam page was pretty bizarre. After I moved out of my apartment and quit my job, I took a last-minute trip to Paris. It was mostly to support the opening of my best friend’s restaurant, but it was also my last hurrah before getting to hard work for a solid year. When I returned to New York and landed at JFK airport, I had no place to go, so I checked into a dirt-cheap room in a pretty unsavory motel. Everything I owned was in my mother’s house except for my bags from Paris and my laptop. I didn’t want to waste any time, so once my account was live, I thought, no time like the present. I tried my best to set the stage in the squalid room. I hung a scarf over the busted-up headboard and stripped the bed of its disgusting and tacky bedspread so I’d be displayed on the crisp(ish) white linens. I drank half a bottle of wine because, let’s face it, I needed a little bit of liquid courage, and I logged on. And I waited. And waited.
