Cam Girl – Strawberry Trellis

I was slow to learn the rhythm, to connect to my body in any meaningful way, like knowing which angle makes my ass look its juiciest. The fact is that for a while, my body meant nothing to me. The first few months, I was alone in my room. No noise. No good lighting. I just took my clothes off, took a couple pics, pressed send. I felt nothing. Not panic, fear, not empowerment or excitement. My body was all of ours! For everyone! I knew it was like that the first time something bad happened to me. All girl bodies are communal bodies. Later, I learned to listen to music. I made the perfect playlist that transformed me into a goddess. I always play Electric Prunes “Holy Are You” before I shove something up my hole.

When someone sent a video of me in the shower to my mom she told me I should be ashamed. The girls online told me I should get that money.

I put on a pair of netted tights and a pink metallic bikini. The tag says, Elegant Moments. My ass jiggles in the netting and I prop my webcam on a set of books and shake it. I shake it and imagine I’m standing over a man and he’s waiting for me to drop my ass down, but I never will. I’ll never give it to him. Keep him begging and waiting. The bad things, they keep happening and I become someone new each time. Further away from someone who was born and had parents and was raised. Just birthed from the air, unreal and not a part of life. I think of it like this: I am the woods during open season, baby. I am not the deer during open season. That implies that I can be caught. That I can be defiled and roughed up and killed. That’s not true. I can’t be defeated, baby. I pull at the strings holding my bikini top together. I wet my fingers and pinch my nipples.

These bitches online don’t stop trying to defeat me, though. They’ve got this plan. This plan to take down every bitch that’s happier than them. I think a lot of moms are like that with their daughters, too, so I feel bad for all these girls’ daughters. They all had babies right out of high school. They screenshot my page and send it to my mom. They harass her with my body. They keep it for later. To try and humiliate me. I like to pretend they’re all alone at night and scrolling through my pictures. I imagine their bodies getting hot all over with rage.

I wanted to be rid of all potential weaknesses. There will be no leverage over me when my parents are dead.

When I finish, I hold the toy up to the camera so the viewer can see what a messy little girl I was. I crop the video down to eight seconds with all my parts blurred and post it online. Spend on a brat for the full video. My private messages ping. One is from a man who has followed me from account to account, fake name to fake wig. He always sends money, saying he can’t buy nudes, but this time, he caves. I tell him I’m nervous, this is our first time. He says, Hey, I’m a man, too. In his bio he says he’s a husband, a dad, a researcher. I send him the video and he sends me a gift card and a tip. He messages me after watching it, like an old man: Wow. you really are lovely. I have always imagined your breasts. This is the intimate part. The part where my body really means something to them. When beauty is more than just titties on a screen. Who wouldn’t want this? He says he has a weird request. Not sure if I’ll do it. He wants to know if I’ll put a ziploc bag over my head and hyperventilate so it looks like not a lot of air is left and then masturbate. He’ll pay extra if my face is covered in vaseline.

We set a time to Skype. He doesn’t show his face. Only the zipper of his blue jeans and part of a puffy grey chair, in the dark. I put the vaseline on my face. I smear it in like the time I threw up in the motel parking lot and the wind sprayed the puke back on my face. I get dirty, impure. I am wearing a fishnet g-string and fishnet top. I wipe my greasy hands over my body so he groans, and then wipe my hands on the carpet. I dance around. My body mutates and adapts into these spaces and forms. I can be anything. I can be anything so I put the bag over my face and breathe in slowly so my lips suction to the bag, accentuating the gaping hole of my mouth. And then I pick up the pace. I breathe fast and hard and his hand is jerking himself off. We’re in a beautiful harmony. I can hear his belt jingling, his quick inhales. I can hear the wetness of his cock. We come together because I’m good at squeezing one out when I need to and he looked like he was about to burst.

Nothing can hurt me. I used to dream of all the bitches mocking me blowing up in a big explosion, now I dream of all men standing in a line waiting for me to breastfeed them. It’s transference, sure, but that’s just good business. I think of it like adult animals eating their young, like polar bears and prairie dogs eat the babies but that all implies that I’m weak to begin with. That I’m the baby to begin with.