DoctorPat92: can you see me?
“Yes. The video just came up. Hey!” I waved excitedly, like I’d been waiting all day to see him.
DoctorPat92: good. Sorry, can’t use audio. My wife is downstairs.
“It’s okay. Is that why you are dressed?”
DoctorPat92: yes
He seemed as if he was going to type more, so I waited.
DoctorPat92: plus
DoctorPat92: I’m not ready for u to see what I like to do
“Why?”
DoctorPat92: it’s weird
I laughed. “I assure you, it’s not weird. And weird isn’t necessarily a bad thing. I like weird.”
DoctorPat92: maybe another time
“Do you normally … touch yourself when we chat?” I ran my hand slowly down my naked body. I was lying on my side, atop my pink bedspread, the pattern specifically picked out because it looked young, innocent. Virginal. Men like that.
DoctorPat92: sometimes. if no one is around. i like to watch you. sometimes I think of you later.
“When you’re with your wife?”
DoctorPat92: yes. or when I’m pleasuring myself.
“Have you ever been with a patient?”
DoctorPat92: no.
His expression didn’t encourage that line of questioning, so I dropped it. “I know you aren’t ready to show me what you like, but will you tell me?”
He reached up and turned off the webcam. I waited, my expression relaxed. He was either about to end the chat, or about to tell me more. For some reason, men feel more comfortable divulging their secrets when they are invisible.
DoctorPat92: don’t think I’m weird.
I laughed. “I promise, I won’t think you’re weird. I swear.”
DoctorPat92: I like to put things inside of me.
I lowered my voice and used my you-are-a-bad-boy-but-I-think-its-hot voice. “You mean you like to get f**ked?”
A long pause. I bit my bottom lip and kept my eyes on the webcam.
DoctorPat92: yes
“That’s not weird. I think it’s hot. I like it when a man is kinky.” I slide my hand lower, ‘til it graces my bikini line.
DoctorPat92: do u think I’m g*y?
What’s so hard about reading typed words is not knowing how some questions are asked. I didn’t know if he was trying to figure out himself if he was g*y, or if he wanted me to think he was g*y, or if he was testing my reaction.
I tilted my head. “I guess it would depend on what you think about when you are being penetrated. You like chatting with me, right?”
DoctorPat92: yes
“You know this site has men, g*y men who wouldn’t blink twice at you being f**ked. Why aren’t you chatting with them?”
DoctorPat92: b/c I like you. You are funny and sweet. I think about you when I put things inside of me.
DoctorPat92: I think about you watching me.
I giggled. “Then let’s do it! Let’s set an appointment for sometime when you will be alone …” I moved my hand farther, rubbing the outside of my opening with my fingers. “And I can watch you. I want to watch you. I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
DoctorPat92: really?
“Yes!”
And that was the beginning of our relationship. We are now two years into our arrangement. An arrangement where I’ve watched this utterly average doctor ride thick plastic dildos, use anal beads, and—on one random occurrence—made a Budweiser beer bottle his personal ass toy. One webchat every other week for one prescription a month. I think half the reason DoctorPat writes me illegal prescriptions is because he worries about me blackmailing him. He has a wife and three teenage kids, a fact easily discovered after four minutes on Google. He doesn’t need to worry. What turns him on is his business, not mine or anyone else’s.
CHAPTER 5: Hap0942
Hap is in love with me, or rather JessReilly19. His real name is Paul. Paul something-or-other that is long and complicated. He lives in Alaska and works on an oil pipeline there. Oil pipeline workers either get paid really well, or he uses eighty percent of his income on me. I hope it’s the first possibility.
Paul is one of those nice guys destined for heartbreak—too nice to be sexy. We chat for at least an hour a day. Typically, he isn’t at his computer; just logs into my site, starts the clock, and then wanders around his house, talking to me on his cell. It’s the easiest part of my day.
I get heartburn about it sometimes. I feel like I’m stealing from him. But I know if I left him, if I refused to chat, he would find another cammer—one who might accept the gifts he always tries to push on me, the money he always offers to send. That’s how I justify it in my mind. I know he used to chat with a cammer named Brooke. He mentions her sometimes; I think he still has feelings for her.
He seems lonely in Alaska. The pictures he sends me are of whiteness: white snow, his white dog, and a polar bear that lumbered by his home one day. Out of the hundreds of photos that he has emailed me, I have gotten very few pictures of him. Two to be exact. Both of them were photos that hid his looks. In one, he had a hooded jacket with thick fur around the edges, pulled tightly closed, only his eyes and part of his nose visible. I think he is part Eskimo—from what I could see he has dark skin. Someone else took the second photo I received. It was taken in a blizzard, a faint outline of a person, barely perceptible behind a wall of white flurries. Maybe he is deformed. Whatever he looks like, he is nice, too nice. Too nice for me to love him back. I never fall for the nice guys.
We talk about everything, and I lie about everything. The bad thing about Paul is that he wants to know everything about me, everything about my day. Keeping up the facade to that degree is exhausting. And he doesn’t just ask questions; he really listens to and digests my answers. I have a calendar I keep just for Paul. It is one of those big desktop types, and I have it propped up to where I can see it from my fake bed. On it I have my fake class schedule, my fake professor’s names, and any fake events that I have mentioned on our calls. I am very creative when it comes to my daily activities. Sometimes I have to curb that creativity—too much detail breeds suspicion.
Paul likes to read. He has “gifted” at least twelve books to my Amazon account. They are all stacked beside my bed, and I am really, really trying to get through the first one, The Alchemist. I’ve been trying to read it for six months now, but just can’t get into it. I should probably give up on it and move to the next book in the stack. But Paul is patient. He doesn’t rush my reading; he just keeps ordering me more damn books.