Cam Girl

by Leah Raeder

  SoBlue: i thought so.

  It felt oddly thrilling, to get it out. To him especially. I swept a hand through my hair, my tension draining.

  SoBlue: tell me about her.

  SoBlue: what is she like?

  “Worried about your competition?”

  SoBlue: didn’t realize it was a contest.

  SoBlue: i just want to know you.

  SoBlue: and she’s an important part of you.

  I pressed a knuckle to my mouth, mulling. From the water came the eerie, mournful call of a loon, rising and bending into a haunting shriek at the stars. The call they made when searching for their mate.

  “Be right back,” I said.

  I left the bed and pawed through a box beside my desk. When I returned I started to say something, then simply flipped open the sketchbook.

  This was the last one from before the accident. Figure studies, but of only one figure. One pair of hands repeating again and again and consuming the book, an obsession, hazy sketches coalescing around them: a thin body draped in a bedsheet, the avian vertebrae, the slender crane neck. That rake of hair catching and burning the light in a thousand angel-fine fuses.

  I flipped the pages slowly. When I reached the end and the furious scribbles tearing the paper, I looked into the lens and said, “This is what I did, Blue. This is how I hurt myself. I lost this.”

  SoBlue: the art, or the girl?

  “Both.” I lowered the book. My style was on the masculine side—bold lines digging into the paper, aggressive, unhesitating—and when I drew Ellis, it brought out her androgyny. “How do you know that’s a girl?”

  SoBlue: from context.

  SoBlue: she must be red.

  SoBlue: your obsession.

  SoBlue: the way you’re mine.

  “I’m not—”

  Footsteps thudded up the stairs, then a cursory knock followed by my door banging open.

  “I just cracked Ryan’s password,” Elle said, bounding in. “You told me to get you as soon as—”

  She cut off when I leaped from the bed and lunged at her.

  “Oh my god. I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were doing a—”

  I grabbed her and cupped a hand over her mouth. Shook my head and pointed at the laptop. Her cheeks bloomed carnation pink.

  Sorry! she mouthed when I released her.

  I mimed walking downstairs. Five minutes.

  Elle nodded, chagrined, and crept out of the room. I shut the door behind her and locked it, let out a sigh like I’d been punched.

  There were messages waiting when I returned to the laptop.

  SoBlue: where did you go?

  SoBlue: is everything okay?

  For a moment I stood there, my heart throbbing in my fingertips. A frisson of realization glided up my spine.

  I sat down and typed.

  Morgan: sorry

  Morgan: I’m fine

  Morgan: you know what?

  Morgan: you just answered a question I didn’t even know I was asking

  SoBlue: what question?

  So easy to talk to. So comfortable, familiar. I felt like I’d known him years, not weeks. In the back of my mind I’d wondered if—sometimes almost hoped that—Blue was Elle.

  Strange, how it came as both relief and disappointment.

  “Nothing,” I said. “Something dumb.”

  SoBlue: who was that?

  Fuck. “What?”

  SoBlue: i heard a voice. not yours.

  “Really. And what do you think you heard her say?”

  SoBlue: things that didn’t sound very legal.

  “No idea what you’re talking about. But I need to log off now, Blue. Thanks for—”

  SoBlue: that was her.

  SoBlue: my archnemesis.

  SoBlue: red.

  I had to laugh. “She can’t be your archnemesis, Mr. Superhero. She doesn’t even know you exist.”

  SoBlue: you never mentioned me to her?

  “You’re my little secret.”

  SoBlue: not sure how i feel about that.

  SoBlue: but you can tell her about me.

  SoBlue: it’s only fair, now that i’ve seen her naked.

  I made a face. “Those were artistic nudes. There was no frontal.”

  SoBlue: they felt intimate.

  SoBlue: private.

  SoBlue: the way you look at her . . .

  SoBlue: it’s not something anyone else was meant to see.

  “Well then, welcome to our sordid little relationship. Want to be the third point in a completely twisted love triangle?”

  SoBlue: i’ll think about it.

  SoBlue: morgan.

  “Blue.”

  SoBlue: your art is excellent.

  SoBlue: not just technically, but stylistically.

  SoBlue: you have such panache, and you’re still so young.

  SoBlue: it’s raw talent.

  I waved a hand in dismissal, but his words set off a small thermonuclear blast in my chest.

  SoBlue: you’re gifted.

  SoBlue: life threw you into the race miles ahead of everyone.

  SoBlue: you never struggled to be competent.

  SoBlue: you got a head start so you could be a pioneer.

  SoBlue: you’re special.

  SoBlue: and you know all of this already.

  “Look, if you’re going to tell me I’m still an artist even though I can’t make art—”

  SoBlue: no.

  SoBlue: but an artist makes art however she can.

  SoBlue: have you read charles bukowski?

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  SoBlue: he has a poem, “air and light and time and space.”

  SoBlue: about a young artist who’s simplified his life.

  SoBlue: sold his house, bought a studio with great natural light.

  SoBlue: and now he’s ready to Create.

  SoBlue: with a capital C.

  SoBlue: (see? i’m not allergic to the shift key.)

  “Still a hipster. Liking Bukowski confirms it.”

  SoBlue: i’ll let that slide.

  SoBlue: so, charles says, art doesn’t work that way.

  SoBlue: if you’re going to Create, you’ll do it no matter what.

  SoBlue: you don’t need the studio. you don’t need natural light.

  SoBlue: you’ll do it while you’re chipping away in a coal mine.

  SoBlue: you’ll do it as a single mother on welfare.

  SoBlue: you’ll do it with half your body blown away.

  SoBlue: you’ll do it because you can’t not do it.

  SoBlue: the studio isn’t really a studio.

  SoBlue: it’s the idea of readiness.

  SoBlue: of preparedness.

  SoBlue: it’s an illusion.

  In my cam I could see my frown, the reflexive resistance to what he was saying.

  It has to be real, Ellis had said. And you’re not ready.

  I felt perpetually unready for my life.

  Maybe that was the trick: accepting that readiness wasn’t real, wasn’t ever going to happen, and living anyway.

  SoBlue: something changed tonight.

  SoBlue: you showed me a piece of your true self.

  SoBlue: i want to show you who i am, too.

  My heart played a glitchy beat in my chest. “Send me a pic, Blue. I want to see you.”

  SoBlue: it’ll change things.

  SoBlue: right now you see me in a pure way.

  SoBlue: no preconceptions.

  “Show me something. Some part of you. God, send me a fucking dick pic if you want, I don’t care. I just want to see you.” I stared into the tiny cam lens. “I showed you my real self tonight. Show me you’re real, too.”

  SoBlue: those eyes, morgan.

  SoBlue: i can’t say no to those eyes.

  SoBlue: all right. one sec.

  Calm the fuck down, heart. This could be anything. This could be a massive letdown. Maybe there’s something that’ll ruin it, maybe
he’s older than your dad, maybe he’s Max, maybe—

  A photo popped on-screen: a table covered with small wooden figurines. Carved animals. Striped tomcat, pop-eyed frog, pig with a curly tail made from a single wispy wood shaving.

  “What is this?” I said.

  SoBlue: something real.

  Another photo popped up, with more animals: pony, owl, rabbit. All chibi style, round-bodied and doe-eyed.

  “Blue,” I said, my voice dangerously saccharine, “these are painfully cute.”

  More photos followed, figurines in various stages of whittling. A whole menagerie.

  “This is so fucking adorable. Shit, you’re good. You have a sweet side. The cuteness is killing me.”

  Then I went still.

  His hands.

  In the final photo, he held a hunk of wood in one palm, a Buck knife in the other. Fair skin, braids of blue veins cording in his wrists. Long slim fingers, elegant and strong. Beautiful hands.

  “Holy shit,” I breathed. “Hi.”

  SoBlue: hi.

  SoBlue: i’m real.

  I ran a fingertip across his palm, ridiculously, before I remembered he could see me. Then I clicked SAVE IMAGE AS.

  SoBlue: are you saving that?

  “What do you think?”

  SoBlue: i think you’re going to get off to it later.

  “Good guess, Freud.” I glanced at the clock, remembering Elle waiting downstairs. “Shit. Blue, I have to go. I’ll be back.”

  SoBlue: listen.

  SoBlue: before you leave.

  SoBlue: there’s something i’ve been thinking about.

  “Tell me.”

  SoBlue: i’m getting attached to you, morgan.

  He’d said silly shit about love before, just like a hundred other guys, but this time felt different. It felt real.

  “Guess what, Blue? I’m getting attached to you, too.”

  SoBlue: when we talk, i feel . . .

  SoBlue: awake.

  SoBlue: aware of the blood in my veins.

  SoBlue: the breath in my lungs.

  SoBlue: as if i was dead before.

  SoBlue: it’s all i look forward to anymore.

  SoBlue: these pieces of you.

  SoBlue: and it maddens me, to think of sharing them with anyone else.

  “If you mean Red, she’s not up for discussion.”

  SoBlue: not her.

  SoBlue: we can share.

  SoBlue: but the others have to go.

  “What?”

  SoBlue: i’ll pay the same amount every night.

  SoBlue: and you can do whatever you like.

  SoBlue: spend your time as you wish.

  SoBlue: on one condition.

  I knew what it was, but still I said, “What condition?”

  SoBlue: you don’t cam for anyone else.

  SoBlue: only me.

  * * *

  When I went downstairs, the dining room was empty. On a napkin, Elle’s neat, angular handwriting:

  I’m tired. Let’s meet tomorrow. Sorry again.

  Great. Now I didn’t have Red or Blue.

  I returned to my room and aimlessly browsed erotic Tumblrs, black-and-white photos with the heads and faces cropped. Skinny arms and lean torsos, grasping hands. Anonymous. Genderless. Desire reduced to its most elemental lines. My mind wandered.

  I browsed my messages on social media.

  we miss u bb

  are you doing a show tonight?

  I slung a tie around my neck and took some selfies, classed them up in Photoshop, but then I thought:

  you don’t cam for anyone else.

  I deleted the photos. I crossed and uncrossed my legs. I got up and paced.

  Finally I opened a new tab and joined Ariel’s chat room.

  She sprawled on her bed in bikini bottoms and striped knee socks, one hand inside her panties. Her glasses were white mirrors reflecting her laptop. She smiled lazily.

  “Hello, Sweet. Nice to see you again.”

  sweet_ophelia has tipped Ariel 100 tokens.

  Dahlz: Thank you for tipping.

  young_rae-z: ass kisser

  Dahlz: Pretty sure we’d all love to kiss her ass.

  I slumped in the window frame, my head thudding on the glass. Wind stirred the treetops and made them toss and roll like a dark sea. In five minutes I could run through the woods and be at Elle’s door.

  “You want to take me private tonight, Sweet?”

  I could pin her against the wall. I could kiss her till her reserve melted, till she pushed back, tore my shirt off, licked the rivulet of nectar running between my breasts, my sweat.

  I brushed my belly. Popped the button of my jean shorts.

  sweet_ophelia has tipped Ariel 500 tokens.

  Dahlz: Sweet lord.

  young_rae-z: ha

  dizneeprinz: see how much we luv u Ari ;)

  Ariel leaned toward the cam. Dark roots showed through her auburn hair dye. “You are being very sweet. It makes me so wet, baby.”

  Wildness tilted inside me. One part nausea, one part lust. This was how my viewers probably felt: ashamed to pay for this, but too horny to care. Loneliness would hit later. Now there was just the hot ache spreading between my legs, the chafe of stiff nipples against my shirt.

  sweet_ophelia has tipped Ariel 1,000 tokens.

  [MOD]Sebastian: Congratulations, sweet_ophelia. You have set a NEW RECORD!

  I understood why wealthy people did this. Tipping a thousand bucks felt incredible. Like a good hard thrust midfuck. Like I was the one with the dick, and when Ariel’s eyes widened and her mouth made a small O I thought, You like that, baby? Want me to fuck you harder?

  I sat back, breathing fast.

  What the fuck.

  This was not her.

  This was not the same.

  What the fuck was I doing?

  I X’ed the tab and was about to slap the laptop shut when a notification popped up. I’d left my cam app idling.

  Incoming video call from TrueBlue.

  Guess he couldn’t sleep, either. But why change his screenname?

  ACCEPT.

  I sat bolt upright in bed.

  There was a video feed from Blue this time.

  Dark room. Red leather couch against a black wall. Some framed geometric print above it, maybe an Escher. Subsonic bass pumped in the background like depth charges firing. The couch was empty.

  My heart filled my throat and swelled, huge, choking.

  A man walked on-screen and sat down.

  Blond, he was blond, lean, shirtless, barefoot in jeans—

  Dane.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” I blurted. “You?”

  “Happy to see me?”

  I felt like my picture of reality had gone all Cubist, things not lining up anymore.

  Dane hooked his arms over the backrest. Violet veins spidered up the insides of his biceps.

  “This is impossible,” I said.

  “Yeah, I can finally afford to take you private.”

  “No, I mean, you. Being him.” My mouth hung open. “You didn’t have to spend all this money. You could’ve just told me. Why’d you mess with me?”

  His jauntiness fizzled. “I feel like I’m missing something here.”

  “Why did you do this to me, Dane?”

  “I’m sure I did something wrong, but you’re gonna have to tell me what.”

  It couldn’t be him.

  It couldn’t be.

  They were too different. Blue was quick-witted, articulate, observant; Dane was a cute dumb puppy. Blue got off on words; Dane’s interest in me was, for the most part, nonverbal. He wouldn’t fork over a grand each night to talk about Charles Bukowski and Frida Kahlo. He’d want to talk dirty, jerk off, and log off.

  “Why did you pick this screenname?” I demanded.

  He leaned in and his eyes grew cartoonishly wide. Baby blue.

  “Jesus.” I sank back onto my bed. “Wait, why did you take me private? What is th
is?”

  Dane flexed his chest, his pecs tightening. A sheen of peach fuzz shimmered over his skin. “Missed you.”

  “You missed your mirror. How’s Boston?”

  “Way less fun than it should be. What’s all this stuff about money and screennames?”

  “I thought you were him. My anonymous patron. He calls himself Blue.”

  “That’s still going on?”

  “Yes. Which you’d know if you ever read your fucking texts.”

  “Sorry, baby. I’m juggling a lot of balls right now.”

  “Gross.”

  “It’s a metaphor. Am I doing it wrong?” Dane grinned. “How are you, really?”

  “Losing my mind. Everything’s getting crazier and crazier.”

  “Want me to come back?”

  “And do what, flutter your eyelashes and charm my pants off? I’ll survive.”

  “How’s Ellis? You two enjoying that sweet pad with the sick nature views?”

  I laughed. “Only you would call a shack made of matchsticks and gum a ‘sweet pad with sick nature views.’ ”

  “I can sell anything, baby.”

  “Sell me on believing things will be okay, Dane.”

  “Things’ll be okay.” His tone turned mischievous. “Listen to your girlfriend. She told me she’s your voice of reason. Then she got this twinkle in her eye, like I do when I undress you in my head.”

  “You are so stupid.”

  “Are you denying it? I heard you have a denial problem.”

  “Shut up.”

  The word felt weird, but Ellis was pretty much my on-again, off-again girlfriend. We’d spent five years of our lives together, and even when we hooked up with other people, when we were more platonic than romantic, the only face I wanted to see before I slept each night was hers. I’d toss myself on her bed and tell her about my classes: the douchebags who smuggled tracings into Life Drawing; the girl who was legally blind and drew based on memory of where she’d touched the paper. When I was frustrated, uninspired, Elle taught me things. Once she told me about golden spirals, spirals that could turn inward infinitely, twisting tighter and tighter and always fitting perfectly inside themselves, never collapsing. Golden spirals were found all over nature, she said. In nautilus shells and the cups of rose petals and—she leaned close, her fingertip tracing the whorl of my ear—in us.

  (—Bergen, Vada. Every Time You Touch Me. Watercolor and ink on paper.)

  “Anyway,” I said. “It’s nice to see your stupid face again.”

  “Mm-hmm.” Dane’s eyes flickered over me. “You’ve got that sex glow. Just finish a show?”