I broadcast my webcam show until 10 or 11 p.m., then rolled into bed exhausted, exhilarated and up to 0 richer.
After only a week of moonlighting as a camgirl, earning twice the wages of my desk job in half of the time, I handed in my notice.
* * * The men I meet online rarely fall into the category of “anonymous assholes who have abandoned all social etiquette,” nor do they resemble the pasty, calculator-wristwatch-wearing forebears of chat rooms past.
Riding the N train back to Queens, I quietly wept upon the sympathetic cashmere shoulder of Ann Taylor and brainstormed responses to my imminent dismissal. For the first time, my intellect and perfectionist work ethic had failed me. It’s super easy – most guys aren’t looking for some airbrushed Barbie. I paused, looking down at my austere gray cardigan.
Now that’s a perfectly respectable excuse not to pursue a career! While I’m not unattractive, my waxen face, sturdy brown glasses and easily detectable baggage (both under-eye and emotional) hardly suggest that I’m someone you might want to see naked.
And while most camgirls are veritable social butterflies, fluttering from one flirtatious conversation to the next, I am more like a moth, perched in the shadows for fear of crashing and burning into a floor lamp. Deep down, I also felt that I was “above” sex work.
Much like waitressing or washing floors, professional masturbation was simply incommensurate with my educational background and perceived level of dignity.
So I did what any reasonable young professional would do: I purchased a high-definition Web camera, excavated a cache of lingerie from the basement and submitted photocopies of my driver’s license to become an adult webcam model.