Only Fan
She first met Jay when she was a fresher at uni. He worked in a bar in town and after a few weekends, he asked her if she wanted to go to the movies. He had a romantic streak and when they met, he gave her flowers and a poem he'd written about her.
Over the next couple weeks, they spent pretty much every day with each other, naked, smoking hand-rolled cigarettes in bed. Instead of going to class, she held his head on her chest and stroked his hair while he told her everything that was fucked up with today's modern society built on the backs of digital slaves.
Everyone's chained to their phones, he said while she inspected his ear. Nobody's free. What is freedom? He seemed pleased with the impossibility of answering such a fine q-
To be rich, she said.
Look, it's all good you saying fuck the system but the only way to do it's by getting rich enough to say fuck you and mean it. I've been thinking now my dad's not giving me any more money and he's cancelled my credit cards and I don't have next month's rent I was wondering what you thought about me doing some camming? Us, I mean. Together.
As she was talking, she got out of bed and pulled her laptop open and adjusted the webcam perched on top like a single-eyed spider.
What?
For the next hour they fucked. Every now and then a comment appeared in the right-hand corner encouraging them, suggesting something new. Their rewards ticked up slowly in red. They fell back on the sheets, spent and sopping with sweat.
What did we just do? He said.
Paid rent, motherfucker. Now get ready cause we’re going again.
She was ruthless, often putting in 5 or 6 performances a night with editing and social media in between. He went round in a daze, not entirely sure what was happening, apart from the fact he was richer than he’d ever been in his life.
He bought a chihuahua and ate cereal in the afternoon while she thumbed her phone like a crazy person. And it worked. At least for a while. They paid rent and then some for about a year and a half. Then their audience plateaued and in less than 72 hours it fell off a cliff.
She tried everything to keep their audience, descending into the darkest categories of porn. It was gradual but it felt like no time at all before she was fucking him with a strap-on while a random junky ate her ass.
On the second anniversary of their wrong turn, they had just one subscriber, a guy who paid them 69 pounds a month, said nothing, and called himself PB&J. After their third performance that evening, she was sitting up in bed, scrolling on her phone. Jay rolled over.
Mm-mmm? He said, undoing his gimp mask and pulling it off. She was absorbed in her phone. He flicked her toe. Happy? He said and flicked her again. She let out an exasperated sigh.
What came next was by far the worst fight they'd ever had. Naked, flapping and flailing they fell around the bed, on top of each other rolling and switching positions. They bit, clawed and scratched like cats, howled and grunted like chimps.
They were both pretty strong from fucking and it grew heated. Jay landed an elbow and her world wobbled. She stuck a thumb in his eye and scratched a howl out of him. Finally, he threw her against the wall and they both collapsed on the covers, totally spent, their breathing ragged. Their chests heaved up and down. Pain and pleasure chemicals flooded through them and her body felt like it glowed.
After a while she sat up. She looked at the laptop, the little red numbers. Her mouth fell open as she counted the zeroes.
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