Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (3 page)

THE LIGHTS SHUT
off, an automatic setting that occurs at the end of a chat. I roll over and lie still for a moment, allowing my naked body to cool now that the heat from the lamps is gone. I stare up at the vaulted ceilings, my eyes following the lines of the exposed ductwork.

My apartment is one large, open space. I have a strong suspicion that the entire sixth floor was an afterthought—attic space closed up in some last-minute decision. Half of my space is unusable, the slant of ceiling making entire sections of wall only three feet tall. The kitchen, composed of one short row of cabinets and appliances, lies in the middle of the back wall. I use it as a divider mark, keeping half of the apartment as my personal living space and half the apartment as my cam studio. The layout is funky, the roofline guarantees me one knock on the head monthly, but it was one of the few units with a washer/dryer, and for that reason alone, I jumped all over it. Late night laundry sessions in the complex’s community laundry room would have pretty much guaranteed a break in my I-haven’t-killed-anyone-in-years streak.

I understand that for the normal individual, my life is strange. But I have accepted it as it is. I am okay with this life because I know that there is not another option available. If I want to keep others safe, I need to be contained. Would I like to run free through life, have friends, fall in love, feel the sun on my face? Yes. But that is no longer an option for me; there is no point in dwelling on and torturing myself over it.

I used to keep a scrapbook of my future life. I subscribed to magazines and cut and pasted onto square pages all of the elements that would make up my future life. It was
my
Pinterest, before Pinterest. My shrink said it was detrimental to my progress and happiness, and in retrospect, I think he was right. It wasn’t healthy, how I pored over those pages, my daydreams before sleep involving girls nights and romance. I didn’t want to throw away the scrapbook, I held on to it like an alcoholic’s last drink, my conversations with Dr. Derek leading to arguments that ended with me slamming down the phone, my fingers running with reverence over my scrapbook, my obsession growing stronger with every order from him to let it go.

I spent over a year with that book before I stacked it, and all of my magazines, into a big black trash bag and set it into the hall. Then I sat, with my back against the front door, listening for Simon’s steps, fighting the urge to open the door and reclaim my hopes and dreams.

He came, he took, and my scrapbook joined a tangle of life’s castoffs in the dumpster behind our complex. I envisioned it lying alongside old banana peels, baby diapers, and condoms, my treasured future dying a pauper’s death.

It took a few days, a few days where I didn’t speak to my shrink and didn’t cam, days where I lay in bed and mourned the life I didn’t have. But then time marched on. Deliveries arrived, bills needed paying, and my in-box cluttered with e-mails. I called Dr. Derek and, for the first time in months, really listened to what he had to say. That was the day I stopped thinking about the life I don’t have. That was the turning point that allowed me to recognize my situation as what it was. This is my reality, and that was the day I finally accepted it.

THERE ARE THREE
presents wrapped on the table. Annie already knows what two of them are. Last Sunday, after church, she snuck into her mother’s room, pulled back her winter coats, and looked for presents. Her mother always hid her presents there. Behind the big, fluffy black coat with the hole in the bottom hem was a plastic bag. She reached in the bag as quietly as possible and pulled out the two items inside. One was a dark gray My Little Pony horse, the plastic package slightly dented, the cardboard colors faded. The other was a zippered pouch with sixty-four colored pencils. She squealed excitedly—before remembering where she was—quickly stuffed the items back inside the bag, and left the room before she was caught and punished.

She now examines the third brightly wrapped package with interest: poking, lifting, and shaking it to try to figure out what is inside. It is a box, large and square, about the size of a basketball. It feels heavier than a basketball. Her mind burns through the possibilities, the thought of waiting an entire day to open it torturous. She hears her mother call and turns, quickly setting down the wrapped gift and sprinting through the house, her tennis shoes making squeaking sounds on the cheap floor.

I, OR RATHER
JessReilly19, am currently the number three model on Cams.com. Number one is Tonya222, a forty-year-old semiattractive woman with ginormous fake titties who talks in a baby voice all day. 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 with regard to camming. Any town out there can wrangle up thirty strippers or forty Hooters waitresses, but there are fewer 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 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: 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. Unfortunately, he didn’t have the ability to time travel and therefore got stuck with the name Francis. 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 a 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 in grad school 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 $200 million and is engaged to some perfect blue-blooded blonde who probably sucks his cock 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 fucking and masturbation was elementary at best. I had given head in high school, was anatomically familiar enough with a cock, balls, and the process of a hand job, 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 were my professors. For a two-week period, I watched ten to twelve hours of fucking a day, read how-to seduction books, and let Carmen Electra teach me the art of the striptease. 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 uncoordinated on camera, arching my body into odd angles, my limbs moving awkwardly in ways they shouldn’t, my own vagina scaring the crap out of me when displayed in high-definition 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 from a real cock?

At the rate I’m going, physical sex doesn’t seem to be in the cards for me, not unless I develop an affection for necrophilia. So I don’t think my sexual classification really matters anymore. The only people who seem to care are potential suitors, and I don’t have any of them lurking in the crowded corners of my apartment.

A virgin is defined as someone pure, innocent. It is also described as “not yet explored or exploited by man.” By those definitions, I am mostly definitely not a virgin. And even if you got technical, divided my body into quadrants and analyzed them separately, whether or not my vagina is “pure” is of small consequence when the rest of me is anything but.

THE MAN WATCHES
the girls play. Their happy smiles, their youthful innocence. He moves from his place at the window, walking to the cashier, pulling out his wallet, and fighting the urge to glance backward. This is a small town, a town where people notice things and odd behavior stands out. A town where everyone knows and has known everyone else, since the day that they themselves were kids. A shriek of pleasure hits his ears and he focuses on the woman before him, on her lips, which are forming words he should respond to.

“That it?”

He swallows. “Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Ethel.”

“No problem at all. I’ll see you on Tuesday, and will let Bud know you stopped in.” She beams at him, passing him the bag of groceries, and then turns to the next person in line.

He breathes hard, walking past the girls, his eyes locked forward on the handle of his truck. One step before another, three steps away, now two, now one.
Don’t look over, don’t listen to their laughter, don’t think about what lies under the thin cotton of their dresses.
Then he is inside the truck, the radio turned to loud, and puts the truck in drive, the tires skipping slightly as he gives the truck more gas than is necessary.

He needs to get home. To get in front of the computer and find a girl. Just for a quick release. Without a release, his thoughts will wander, and lately they are wandering to the place they shouldn’t go. To the one little girl that he should stay away from more than any of the rest, the one who is too close to home, the connection too strong—the chance of capture too great. He shakes his head, focusing on the road, focusing on step one.

Step 1: Get Home.

Step 2: Get Online.

JEREMY DELIVERS A
package midmorning, one I ignore until lunch, when I sit down to eat. I examine the package before opening it, the bright bubble-wrapper mailer and mail-forwarding sticker indicating that it is from a client. While I wait for the microwave to heat vegetarian lasagna, I shake it, trying to guess what is inside. No rattle, and the package is soft. Probably clothing—a sexy outfit of some sort.

The return address will normally tell me if the client is married. Married men don’t put a return address or use a work address. Married men skip over the hearts drawn next to my name or smiley faces on the box. Married men don’t want a returned package biting them in the ass. This package, with its pink mailer and a Maine return address, is probably from a single guy. One who has high hopes of stealing my heart and convincing me to be his, forever and ever.

The microwave dings and I press the button, stopping the timer from shrieking incessantly at me. I open a drawer, pull out children’s scissors, and cut open the package.

Hand towels.
That’s different. I hold them up, my eyes examining the embroidered roses on the front, something that is more appropriate for an elderly woman than for me, but pretty just the same. I dig through the tissue paper for a card, find a white envelope, and pull it out.

Hand towels are not normal gifts. Jewelry, lingerie, pajamas, stationery, porn videos, personal porn videos, sex toys, costumes, sports paraphernalia…those are the norm. I rip open the envelope and pull out a card with a golden retriever on the front, then open it to find handwriting in a neat script.

Lillian. I look at the return address, which has “L. Baker” as the sender. The hand towels suddenly make more sense.

I don’t have many female clients, but they are there, and they do—in some ways—take up more time than my male clientele. Women require more nurturing, personal attention. They write longer e-mails, spend more time chatting and less time masturbating, ask personal questions, and expect me to remember personal details about their preferences, life, and stories.

For women, our chats are more relationship building. Some are established lesbians, some are bisexual, some are curious. Some just seem to be lonely, while others want the physical exploration that can occur via cam. Some, like Lillian, are old enough to be my grandmother, while others are college students looking to experiment.

I’ve “known” Lillian for about a year now. We chat about once a month, a friendly conversation where she occasionally asks me to remove my shirt or pull up my dress and show her the lace of my panties. We have never done sexually explicit activities, but she subscribes to my website and I have watched her web traffic. The older woman watches at least an hour of my feed per day.

She is a very kind woman, always pleasant and curious about my day, my life, my general happiness level. Hand towels seem right up her alley, as does embroidery. I pull out some stationery and write her a quick thank-you card, the smell of lasagna reminding me of my lunch.

After sealing the envelope, I address the front and stick it into the large envelope that gets sent back to the mail-forwarding company. Then I rip the plastic off my lunch and dig in.