Page 2 of The Devil Wears Nada

The live button is no longer flashing. Now, it's solid green. And by God, the box in the upper-left side has the number two in it.

As in, I've got two viewers.

Then, two becomes four. Well, three-and-a-half since one of them is shooting messages at me that scroll down the left-hand side of my screen, that I need to buy crypto. From them. As soon as possible.

I shift around to get my circulation going, since kneeling for any length of time is not something I typically do, and hang onto the front of my robe like a subway pole, trying to remember one thing from the nine forums I read about cam-girling, while I was at my full-time job, using a hidden browser.

Talk to them. They type, you talk.

Like a late-night radio host, if the host were dressed like me, overly lipsticked, and slightly nauseous.

"So," I blurt, trying to lower my voice. "Come here often?"

Ugh. Idiot.

first time. u?

"Oh, hey, first timer." Shit. Am I supposed to sound spunky? Seductive? Innocent? "We have something in common, don't we? Ask me anything about this website, because I know none of it."

I force a little laugh I'm hoping doesn't come off as batshit crazy.

And a sound goes off, a cheery little cha-ching, and I flinch like someone hit me. Then I realize a little gold crown floats up the chat like a bubble in a beer.

why so jumpy, baby? that sound is money, new girl. ur welcome.

Five bucks. Because I said I don't know shit? A thing I have done, for free, expertly, my entire life? I sit with that for a moment. What else have I been giving away?

The site cheerfully informs me I've just knighted my first knight. He gets a tiny sword next to his name now. Five dollars to razz a website with me. We're both clearly killing it.

Viewer six shows up and opens with, show ur feet n shut up.

I'd love to say I stayed classy. But it's after midnight, I'm named after a killer chihuahua, my hands won't stop shaking, and somewhere, my sister is sleeping like a baby while a loan shark makes plans to break our legs.

Something in me flips.

"Wow." I lean at the lens, mouth-first. "With game like that, the restraining orders must just find you."

Take that, bitch.

Cha-ching. Ten dollars. DO HIM AGAIN.

Feet guy, undeterred: cmon baby, show me somethin.

"Sure, hon," I snap. "Here's something to suck on. How 'bout no?"

Cha-ching.

I continue. "No name."

Cha-ching.

"No face."

Cha-ching.

"And nothing—" I pull the robe all the way up to my neck like a shy substitute teacher, "—for free."

Big emphasis on free.