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.
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.