The Billionaire’s CamGirl

by Wylder, Penny

  After twenty laps I can’t go on. My limbs feel heavy and I think if I went upstairs, maybe I could actually take a little nap. I sit on the edge of the pool for a bit, catching my breath. I look down at my body and imagine I’m WildCaptain, slowly dragging his eyes over me, observing as he would. My chest is flushed with the exertion, pink creeping down my neck and visible on the top of my breasts. My thighs are trim, and strong, especially after the exercise, and I imagine how he’s seen those muscles, taut and trembling, the many times I’ve come on camera, giving him the show he so desperately craved. I pull my feet out of the water and stand, grabbing my towel and drying my hair. How many different ways has he seen my hair styled? In the early days of performing for him, I once tried wearing a ponytail and dressing up like a cheerleader. I’d read on one of the Sugar Girl forums it was important to keep your act fresh. Well, it wasn’t so fresh, it was humiliating in fact. He’d ever so gently told me that role play wasn’t his thing. If I wanted a cheerleader, I’d find a cheerleader. I prefer you. Perfectly, sexy, authentic you, he typed. And his words were kind, but they threw me off. If I were pretending to be a cheerleader, or a school mistress or flight attendant, it wouldn’t be so personal. But him, wanting me, well that was personal, and it made me wonder what he saw in me to spend so much money on what we did. I have so many questions about WildCaptain, and I doubt I’ll ever find out the answers.

  Back upstairs I close the blackout curtains in my bedroom and snuggle under my covers. Just as I’m about to put my cell phone in my nightstand drawer, I see a notification from WildCaptain pop up. Without thinking, I click it open.

  Are you awake, Echo?

  Aye aye Captain! But not for long. I’m in bed. I type back. How was your flight?

  You mean the flight I almost missed because I was watching you come, naked on your bed? It shouldn’t, but things like that make my breath hitch. To think of him, thinking of me. And ultimately a big waste of time because my meeting lasted under an hour and I’m already waiting on standby for a flight home.

  Poor baby. It must be so hard to fly business class, being waited on hand and foot, all the while collecting a fat paycheck. Will you survive, Captain? I tease.

  Thank you for understanding. That’s why I like you. You can empathize with the common man. Oh WildCaptain, he could always give as good as he got.

  What are you up to, Echo? Any exciting plans this weekend?

  Actaully I have big plans. My best friend from Paris is visiting me. I got to put my hospitality skills to use and set up the guest room for her.

  Let me guess, he types. There’s a small carafe by the bedside.

  I smile reading that. He’s heard me talk at length about all the little details I find essential in an overnight stay. We really do talk a lot, I realize.

  Observant and sexy. You are the full package, Captain. Speaking of my weekend plans, I’m not going to be able to have any sessions starting tomorrow night. Kate will be here through the weekend and I won’t have the time. I’m also not that keen for her to see what I’ve been doing for money.

  Have a great time with your friend, Captain replies. Doesn’t Kate know what you do, though? You said she’s your best friend. Are you ashamed?

  I hate that word: ashamed. Just because you don’t want to broadcast something to the whole world doesn’t mean it’s shame stopping you. I value my privacy. I don’t want this single gig to define me. And we all know how people are, cam-girl would not be something I could live down.

  Not ashamed, I type. But not everyone can be so open minded like us, so it’s something I prefer to be secret.

  Well even though you consider me “open minded,” Echo, I want to assure you there’s nothing wrong with what you do.

  I consider that for a beat, and I believe him, but there’s a caveat in there.

  Would you feel the same if you weren’t my exclusive client? If I were performing for dozens of strangers a day? Wouldn’t that change your mind?

  If you’re asking me if I prefer you have an exclusive arrangement with me, well the answer is FUCK yes. As for other arrangements and other women on Sugar Girl, I reserve judgement. Not my business. I’m happy and I want you to be happy.

  I giggle. I literally giggle. Oh God I’m like an idiot school girl.

  Good. So, it’s our little secret, Captain.

  He takes a while to reply, and I’m holding my breath. I don’t want him harking on this shame business and the ethics and morality of cam-girls. Finally, the little bubbles start flashing, indicating he’s typing.

  I do like having secrets with you, Echo. Want to hear one of mine?

  Relief washes over me, and anticipation. What will he write?

  I do. Tell me.

  The secret, Echo, is that texting with you, I’m imagining you in bed, remembering the way you were touching yourself last night. I’m sitting here in the business lounge with my briefcase on my lap because I’m completely hard. Can you keep that secret?

  It isn’t right, but I’m instantly wet.

  I can keep that secret. In fact, I’m going to say goodbye now and take that secret with me off to dreamland. It’s a good one. Bon voyage Captain.

  Night night, Echo.

  I’m lying here staring up at the ceiling, hugging my phone to my chest. “Night night, Echo,” he wrote. When I’m chatting with him and performing for him, I am Echo. I feel like Echo. But the real me, well I’m Weaver, and he doesn’t even know that’s my name. As I fall asleep, clutching my phone and the memory of our chat, I can’t shake the cozy and warm feelings that WildCaptain gives me. Despite not knowing my name, I kind of believe he really does know me.

  4

  Weaver

  “Pull over! Right there, I see her!” I lean forward into the front seat, practically screaming in the Lyft driver’s ear. I see Kate standing at the side of the terminal, squinting her eyes and looking at all the cars, scanning for me.

  The car slows down to a roll, pulling up to the terminal, but I can’t wait for the driver to put the car in park before I open the door and jump out.

  “Kaaaate!” I squeal, running to my best friend.

  Kate catches my eye and her smile matches mine. It has been too long, way too long, since we’ve seen each other. She drops her bag and opens her arms, crushing me in an enormous hug. It feels so good to be held, and with a little sadness, I realize it’s been months since I felt this kind of intimacy with anyone other than my mother.

  “Holy shit, Kate! You look amazing,” I tell her, taking in her impeccable travel outfit that’s a far cry from my usual of sweats and a tank top. She’s wearing a pencil skirt (how does one sit for sit for almost seven hours in a skirt like that and avoid a single wrinkle?), a chic white blouse with a red pussy collar, and red heels that I immediately identify as the jacquard Prada shoes I’d been ogling in Elle the other day. How is this is my best friend? “Did you just step off an eight-hour flight or the Paris runway?” I ask. “And please don’t be too sad when those shoes stay here with me in New York.”

  “You’ll need to pry them off my cold, lifeless feet,” she says, handing her suitcase to the driver and sliding into the backseat.

  “Never underestimate a girl with expensive taste and limited funds, Kate,” I warn, but I can’t hold a straight face and I break out laughing and grab her for another hug.

  We settle in the back seat next to each other for the traficky ride back to the city. “Seriously, Kate, how are you? The restaurant business clearly agrees with you.”

  “I have been working my ass off, but it’s worth it. The restaurant started turning a profit in its second month and we’ve had a few really great write ups. I don’t want to jinx myself, but I think we could be in the Michelin Red Guide by next year. I knew hard work would pay off, and I’m passionate, Weaver, really passionate about this restaurant, but I’m still stunned. It’s crazy!”

  “Wow, talk about a meteoric rise!” I can feel my eyes getting misty. “I wouldn’t choose j
ust anyone to be my best friend. I knew you were going places, honey. Remember when we met? In that cramped dorm kitchen, when you offered me half of your salted caramel cake that you microwaved in an old mug.”

  Kate laughs at the memory and I feel the laugh on my lips slipping into an ugly cry. Oh man, I can feel it coming, my friend, and this is not the time or the place for about a thousand emotions to explode in a crying fit. Actually, I’m sure the Lyft driver has seen worse. Waaaay worse. I am proud of her. I am also slightly jealous. Hard work. Passion. I mean, I’m technically working hard, toward my dream, but not in the same way she is. Passion, well check for that. There is lots of passion in my work, but not directed to the hotel industry, directed at more, well, passionate things. I look at her. I look at me. I feel that familiar floor dropping out from under me feeling.

  I’m squeezing my eyes shut and rubbing them with balled up fists. Pull it together, Weaver. Pull it together! I take a few deep breaths and open my eyes. Kate is looking at me with concern, and a touch of bemusement.

  “What the fuck, Weaver? Are you okay?” she asks, as the smile fades from her face and turns into a look of concern.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing out a little laugh to lighten up the mood. “I’m just feeling really overwhelmed to finally see you, and I guess I’m a little sleep deprived too.”

  As we zip down the parkway, Kate tells me all about life in Paris and the challenges of running her restaurant. We gossip about old friends and catch each other up on the comings and goings of our families. As the car slows down in traffic on the Queensboro Bridge, Kate shifts in her seat nervously.

  “Look, Weaver,” she says, “I really want to spend every available minute here with you, but it’s been a long flight, and despite how I look– damn good, we’ve established that– I’m wrecked. I just feel like I’ll be more fun if I slept at my aunt’s instead of on our old futon mattress from college at your place. And you don’t want me taking up all your space. You may remember that I’m a terrible roommate.”

  “That’s ridiculous. That futon’s history. And you were never a truly terrible roommate, just a little…fussy, let’s say. I have plenty of room for you, too. You won’t be in my way at all,” I say.

  And then I realize Kate has no idea that I’ve moved. The last time she saw me, before she moved to Paris, I’d been staying in a fourth-floor walkup in a rather unsavory part of the city. I could reach my kitchen sink from bed, it was that tight. The only way that apartment could accommodate her was if she slept on top of me.

  “I guess we haven’t had time for a proper talk in a long time. I moved,” I say, trying to sound casual, like it’s no big deal. “I’m on the Upper West now.”

  Kate squints at me, puzzled. “Back up, lady! I think I missed something. When I left the city for Paris, you were juggling jobs and barely making rent. Do you have a sugar daddy or something?”

  I lean toward the driver’s seat and direct him. “Take a left up here. It’s the building on the right.”

  As we pull up to my building, Kate’s eyes go wide as saucers. I look out the window, seeing what she’s seeing for the first time. The building is ten stories, brick, with wrought iron balconies all around the fifth floor. There are lovely potted red geraniums hanging from them. The entrance has all the markings of “fancy Manhattan building:” a classy red and white striped awning extending all the way across the sidewalk, and a doorman, standing sentry at the door, in a pressed uniform and at the ready to help you with your most trivial or important needs.

  The driver gets out of the car and opens the trunk. Kate doesn’t move. She’s still staring.

  “Earth to Kate. You have to open the door to get out,” I joke, trying to ignore what she’s obviously thinking: How the hell can Weaver afford this?

  Kate gives a little shake of her head and opens the door. As she stands and stretches, she turns to me and says, “Girl, we have a lot to talk about, don’t we?”

  We do, and I’m really not looking forward to it.

  It was fifteen minutes before I could even get Kate into the guest room to show her where she’d be staying. She’s stunned by my new apartment. I admit, it is pretty fantastic. The floors are shiny hardwood, and the lack of rugs or carpeting make the apartment appear even bigger than it is. She takes in the views of the river from my bedroom and the living room, even pointing out her aunt’s apartment and noting it is smaller than mine. She spends the most amount of time in my kitchen, turning on the burners of my six-burner chef’s stove (I barely use it) and remarking that this kitchen opens up a whole new world for this weekend because she intends to cook me three meals a day. I think my mouth starts to water when she says that. When I show her the small guest room, she puts her hands to her chest and squeals with delight. Bingo! That is just the reaction I was going for.

  “Oh Weaver, this is perfect. Would it be too weird to ask you to tuck me in right now? Because the cozy level of this room is off the charts.”

  “Thanks, Kate,” I say, a little embarrassed by how pleased I feel. “But no, there will be no tucking in because we have to pack in a lot of girlfriend time. What should we do now? I wrote out a list of about a dozen things we have to do this weekend.”

  “Oh honey, there’s only one thing we have to do right now, and that’s sit down in that gorgeous kitchen, have a cup of tea, and you tell me what the fuck is going on? How can you afford this apartment?”

  “Oh, it’s just a place to sleep,” I say to Kate, who is already filling the kettle and poking around for mugs and teabags. I need to start and finish this conversation fast. I don’t want to lie to Kate, but I don’t want to spill everything to her either. Once Kate sits down with a mug of tea, we’ll be in it for the long haul. There is nothing my best friend loves more than a hot cup of tea and a thorough analysis of her friend’s feelings, life events, and decisions. Kate is someone who likes to process. A lot. And with tea.

  “No, Weaver,” Kate says, closing the cabinet. “Your fourth-floor walk-up was “just a place to sleep” because you literally couldn’t do anything else in there. I didn’t even like to pee in that bathroom because my knees knocked into the door. This is a luxury, pre-war, upper west side apartment building. It is way more than a place to sleep. It’s heads and shoulders above your last place, so I want to know, how’d it happen?”

  The tea kettle whistles buying me some time to think of an answer. I guess I should start with the truth, and work from there.

  “Well, I kind of got thrown out of my other apartment,” I begin. “I couldn’t cover the rent anymore. Like you knew, I was struggling, so the landlord wouldn’t renew my lease. I left my things in Long Island with mom and flew out to you, for your restaurant opening.”

  Kate puts down the kettle, a little aggressively, I notice.

  “Hold up. Hold up,” she says, her hands making a T for time-out. “Are you telling me that when we were together in Paris, celebrating my restaurant opening, you were coming back here homeless?”

  “Technically, yes, but…” I trail off.

  “I feel sick,” she says.

  “I know, I know. It wasn’t your fault. You didn’t know,” I say, soothingly.

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. “I know it wasn’t my fault, dummy. I feel sick because friends are supposed to share things with each other, like, you know, being homeless!”

  “I could have moved into my childhood bedroom if worst came to worst,” I say, quickly trying to do damage control. “My mom even left my Backstreet Boy posters on the wall. But that felt like moving backwards, and I didn’t want to burden Mom. I was never without a bed. Of my own. I slept in a motel for a week before I got some cash to crash with Molly. Remember Molly? She was a year ahead of us. She had a room available, well, more like a walk-in closet with a mattress, but it was private. And then in a month or so, I’d saved enough for this place, which really just fell into my lap because a friend needed to break her lease. So as you can see, technically I wasn’t homel
ess, and while it may seem like it was all very dramatic, it really wasn’t.” I dip my tea bag into my mug a few times, hoping my charade of nonchalance will move us away from the topic of my finances and apartment.

  “So how’d you do it?” she asks, scrutinizing me.

  “I told you, a friend had to get out of the lease,” I say. “Oh, you’ll like this story. You see she had an opportunity to move to Los Angeles for…”

  “The money, Weaver,” she interrupts. “How’d you get the money? Taking over a lease still requires mo-ney! Moola. Dough. So where are you working and how’d you get so much, so fast? Don’t play dumb blonde with me.”

  I’m pretty sure a lie about clients in Dubai overheating their hairports with deciduous routers wouldn’t fly with Kate.

  “Freelancing, mostly,” I say. Dunk, dunk went my tea bag. Totally casual, I am.

  “At what?” Kate say, staring at me as if I’d just walked in hours after curfew.

  “Mostly techie things on various apps for travel and leisure. You know, the gig economy. There’s lots of…uhm, gigs…out there these days.”

  There are those squinty eyes again; the slight shake of her head while she looks at me. She doesn’t believe a word I’m saying.

  “Lady, I’m exhausted,” she says. “You exhaust me. If I have any chance of going out tonight, I need a little nap. So we’ll pick up this conversation later. Okay Weaver?”

  “Sure. I’m happy to,” I say, way too jovially.

  As she walks past me and into the guest room, she looks over her shoulder and says, “And Weaver. You’re over-steeping you’re tea. I’ve known you too long not to know that’s your tell when you’re hiding something.”

  She closes the door behind her, and I slump into my kitchen chair. I sip my tea. She was right. It’s completely bitter.