I wish I had a dog. I need something to comfort me sometimes. I know I’m twenty-one, but at times I get homesick. Not homesick in that I wish I was at my childhood home, but homesick in that I want to crawl into someone’s arms and have them comfort me. I want them to rub my back and tell me that everything is going to be okay. You don’t realize how much you miss human interaction until it is removed from you life. Simple touches go a long way in providing comfort.
I’ve tried to get a dog online, but haven’t found a way to make that happen yet. You can order dogs through the Internet and have them shipped to you, but you always have to pick them up at the airport. I could find one through Craigslist and have the person leave it tied up in the hall, but that sounds sketchy, even to me. Besides, a dog needs to be walked, and that’s impossible for me. And I hate cats.
CHAPTER 6: Francis Anderson
I, or rather JessReilly19, am currently the number three model on Cams.com. Number one is Tonya222, a forty-year old semi-attractive woman with ginormous fake titties who talks in a baby voice all day and number two is JuneGirl, a Russian chick with an insane grasp of the English language, who can fit a Monster Energy Drink can into pretty much any hole in her body. Behind the three of us are about two million cam models, mostly Europeans, every shape, size, and sexual perversion represented. For every 110-pound she-male with a ten-inch cock, there are one hundred paying clients ready to part with their hard-earned money.
I have decided my popularity is based on a number of things, the first being my workload. The more you work, the more clients you will meet, therefore, the more money you will make. Duh. Second, my nationality plays a huge role. American girls seem to be living under a rock in regards to camming. Any town out there can wrangle up thirty strippers or forty Hooters waitresses, but there are less than a thousand American camgirls online. The fact that I am American, speak English, have a toll-free number, and know who the Yankees are, guarantees me about nine legs up on the other models. Or two legs up if you want to be witty about it. The third reason why I am popular? I’m hot, sexually adventurous, and always horny.
I have exploited my God-given talents to the nth degree in order to sell minutes, memberships, and gifts. But what’s funny is the one attribute that I have never used—a serious ace-in-the-hole that could guarantee me a whole new following of rabid fans—is the fact that I, the self-described horniest girl in America, am, in fact, a virgin.
I didn’t set out to be a virgin. It wasn’t due to my Christian upbringing, or the ridiculous chastity vow that my six best friends and I made back when WWJD was all the rage. It just sort of happened, thanks in large part to Francis Anderson.
Francis Anderson should have taken his parents outside and shot them, about three minutes before they made the ridiculous decision to name him something that would guarantee him ridicule and pain for the duration of his doomed-to-be-dorky life. He, unfortunately, didn’t have the ability to time travel, and therefore got stuck with the name Francis. Other than the horrid name, his parents also gifted him with a ridiculously high IQ and a random assortment of features that, in the right light, made him look fairly handsome.
I fell in and out of love with Francis three times during my high school career. During the ‘out’ phase, I would wonder what the hell I had ever found attractive about the boy. His feet were ridiculously big, he took out his retainer during lunch, and no matter what he wore or how he wore it, he couldn’t erase the GEEK vibe from seeping out every pore of his body. During the ‘in love’ phases, I would be certain that we were destined to be together—would find his quirks and stutters amusing, and would steadfastly decide that he was my one true love, and I would never, ever look at another man. Unluckily for Francis, a football jock, or homecoming king, or the hot flavor-of-the-week would invariably swoop in and snatch me away. And I’d always go, with barely a second glance back. And he would always wait.
When we were ‘dating’—it was something my mother would have approved of; intellectual dates with a chaste kiss at the end of the night. He never pushed, there was no tongue, his hands never traveled, and he always ‘respected’ me.
Nice guys occasionally do win. Francis is now a junior at Harvard and holds a patent for some refrigeration chip thingy that all the restaurants are using. I stalk him online and get Google alerts every time something about him is written. He’s worth about two hundred million dollars and is engaged to some perfect blue-blood blond who probably sucks his c**k three times a day. God was I stupid.
Despite my stupidity, the one thing that I did get out of my Francis infatuation was my virginity. His steadfast dedication to me, coupled with his constant presence as a friend when he wasn’t my boyfriend, allowed me to be firm with my dates and gave me the confidence to not be swayed or pressured by insistent hands or smooth words.
At first my virginity was a hindrance when it came to camming. My familiarity with f**king and mast***ation was elementary at best. I had given head in high school, was familiar enough with a cock, balls, and hand jobs, but I had serious homework in front of me when I decided to pursue camming as a full-time occupation.
Porn ended up being my education: Jenna Jameson, Nina Hartley, and Peter North my professors. For a two-week period, I watched ten to twelve hours of f**king a day, read how-to seduction books, and let Carmen Electra teach me the art of the strip tease. I was a dedicated student and, after more than a hundred hours of study, I felt ready.
My first session was a disaster; uncomfortable dialogue followed by a lot of nervous giggling on my part. I looked awkward on camera, arching my body into odd angles, my limbs uncoordinatedly moving in ways they shouldn’t, my own vagina scaring the crap out of me when displayed on screen. But things eventually clicked, with patient clients holding my virtual hand until I became the virginal Internet vixen I am today.
But, am I still a virgin? What is the technical definition? If I’ve had a seven inch dildo inside of me, is that any different than a real cock?
CHAPTER 7: RalphMA35
10:45pm. I think about logging out early, brushing my teeth and crawling into bed. It’s been a long day, full of seven and eight minute private sessions—the guys who have fifty bucks to spend and want to make sure to get off during that time. So they jack off until they are close, and then take me to a private chat where I do nothing but rip off my clothes, spread my legs, touch myself and moan for the next five minutes. They don’t want to chat. They don’t want anything special. They just want a standard result from an unorthodox source. But that’s what I get on Wednesdays. Fridays are the big-spender days, when clients just got paid and are ready for some one-on-one personalized attention. Fridays pass quickly.