Now Eat Your Cum

I don’t have any desire to get back into camming, and yet the future of in-person sex work is currently in question. I don’t typically bother myself with internet minions thirsting after me, only able to pay $100 or $200 for my time, even if they’re not asking for anything more than digital contact. I think of this Gucci/Young Dolph bop I used to dance to back when I was working at Deja Vu: “Stunting Ain’t Nuthin’”. Stunting ain’t nothing to me. Pimping ain’t nothing to me. Balling ain’t nothing to me. Money wasn’t anything to me, but now I’m scared that with our economy dangling tenuously from the precipice of collapse due to perhaps the greatest threat of our time, money may soon be a lot less abundant.

Further exacerbating my sense of instability, my father texted me in his typical, petty way. It’s incredible that this negro is able to love me while simultaneously resenting me for everything I represent-- for my freedom; financial stability; intimate relationships with our shared family; my grandmother’s love; the degree of access and possibility that I’ve had in my life that he could never attain-- I often can’t tell if he loves me or hates me. He promises it’s love, but I suppose one can love and hate someone in equal parts. Anyway, “The Blamb” as we teasing call him, texted me:

The Blamb: Hi [omitted], how’s it going? I’m guessing the stripping industry is hurting as much as everyone else. What are ya doing in your spare time? How’s Hassan? Is he still able to work?

It was cordial, but knowing my father, I knew there was a thinly veiled layer of antagonism lying just below the surface. I knew he got a slight joy from me being out of work. Or maybe I was just reading into it. The be fair, I was primed for a conflict after discussing an earlier conversation he had had with my sister that ended in him sending this long text block:

The Blamb: I’ve never played it safe or feared the unknown in my life. I’ve taken chances and have been rewarded for doing so. If you live life in a bubble, then this life as we live it is not fully enjoyed. “You can’t cage a free bird,” is my saying. I’m not going to stop taking risks or fear the unknown just because we are told to do so by the media. I absolutely love what I do and enjoy the stupidity of people and the strength of the positive within. We will all survive this and look back on how most over reacted to it. I’ve laughed so much at the panic and hysteria brought on by the media. I choose to look at the positive and not dwell on the negative. If you’re caught up in the negative, it leads to this hysteria and eventually depression. We will all overcome this “second in time” and laugh. At the moment, to some, and perhaps you, fear has consumed you and you’re not acting rational. We have 7.7 billion people globally, and the odds are in your favor to perhaps never come…

And on and on. This was his message to my sister who is likely immunocompromised like our mother, who had been sick for two weeks straight and only recovered a few days ago. My sister summed it up eloquently:

Sissy: He’s like, “Dumbass, lol. Dying from a stupid virus. Weak haha. Mind over matter.”

Over seven-hundred people had died in Italy alone the day prior, and yet somehow “we will all survive this”???

I’ve been short-fused today. Impatient and restless. I’m coping with a growing sense of isolation by accepting a string of FaceTime and Zoom chats. Everyone is checking in. Exes are texting me; friends who faded away; family I speak to annually; drug dealers looking to take advantage of the situation: we’re all checking in because we’re all losing it and hoping to find anyone with a definitive answer as to when all of this will end. When will we get to return to our lives?

I agreed to softcore femdom someone I graduated college with. We hadn’t really talked during our four years at MICA, and to be completely honest, at first I had no idea who he was when he contacted me years ago when I came out as a sex worker. He wanted to purchase my services, but at the time couldn’t afford anything aside from my disdain. This happens a lot, actually. Men who I’ve peripherally been aware of in my vanilla life slide into my DM’s looking to purchase the attention I denied them. Ex-coworkers, friends of friends from smoking sessions, a guy who worked at the restaurant where I cocktail waitressed when I turned eighteen, distant cousins even. It’s too personal to consider most of the time. I like to keep my lives separate, but sometimes worlds collide. I gave another MICA alum a few lap dances ages ago. I hadn’t recognized him when he came into the club. It was only after chatting that we realized we shared an alma mater. The dances were fun and playful, and he took it to mean that I was interested in taking things beyond the club. But I wasn’t. He was the kind of normcore whiteboy art bro I talked shit about. I wasn’t about to give him access to the pussy.

I’ve never fully taken the dive into professional domming. I’ve been told I should try it, that I have a naturally dominant personality. And I’ve strip-club-dommed and done bits of tease and denial through the years, but I’ve never been especially confident in my ability to improvise commands. I think the most successful doms have style. They have something that they want out of the arrangement as much as their clients do. They want to teach a lesson; affirm their sub’s lower status compared to their own; or assume their rightful position as goddess. Maybe they simply enjoy watching someone squirm. Or maybe I’m completely wrong.

Roger wanted jerk off instructions (joi), and I’d blown him off for years until this weekend when on a whim, I agreed to the session. I made him schedule an appointment with me. I don’t take spur of the moment calls. I took the job because I wouldn’t have to get naked or take pictures. I could simply give him typed instruction for how to jerk off; open his pictures and videos; and give him a “cum countdown” voice message. And in between I could insult him and call him my “bitch boy”. I hadn’t had the willpower to do anything as far as my appearance was concerned that day. I’d showered and let my hair air dry. I was in my ugly, at home yoga clothes. I also haven’t waxed my asshole in several weeks. I was not about to get in front of the camera.

Roger’s always bugging me for anal play. He wants more than anything to see something penetrate my ass, and at times his persistence annoys me, but on the other hand it reinforces that I can make him do whatever I want and he’ll more or less comply according to his abilities.

But I truly couldn’t fathom a way to make jerking off interesting. I mean, there’s only so much the average man can physically do without implements, and even with implements there are limitations when you’re working solo. I felt like I lacked the imagination to facilitate this situation, but I figured I might as well give it a try, considering the minimal effort.

I started off by having him tell me exactly what he was looking for.

Roger: I like being told what to do; being a play toy for you to command me to do filthy things with myself; I like entertaining you so I genuinely want you to tell me what you like to see. I loveee edging, orgasm control, cum play, multiple forced orgasms, anal, piss play… and I like being pushed a bit as well.

It was relatively clear cut. The issue was inspiration. I was using him with no lust for the sport of it. His pittance of a budget wasn’t even getting me hard. The other issue was that I didn’t know what degree of degradation and verbal humiliation he was comfortable with. I wanted to be completely brutal and tell him how utterly meaningless he was in my life beside being a tool I could use and break for my pleasure. But it wasn’t quite something I could lead with, and I was tired. I had planned to split my attention between domming him on Instagram while editing my podcast. I wasn’t in the position to be creative, and frankly, he couldn’t afford my creativity. I had an earpod in one ear connected to my phone, and over the earpod I had my headphones playing the latest podcast episode while I took notes.

Me: Okay, perf. Venmo me $100 and label it for “art lessons”.

Roger: Yes ma’am. Sent.

Me: Excellent. Send me a picture of yourself where you are now and a picture of all the tools you have at your disposal.

He sent me a picture of himself sitting on a towel that was laid out as a protective barrier for any wet play we might get into. On the towel was a kind of Nerf rocket, a cucumber, a bottle of lubricant, and some white rope.

Roger: In the process of getting real toys, but this is what I have for now.

Me: Interesting. Take off your boxers and send me a picture.

It was surprisingly exciting giving orders to him, even though I was simultaneously repulsed by his invasive presence in my DM’s. But you never know who might be useful. He sent me a picture of his erection. It was a decent, surprisingly hairless, penis.

Me: Cover your cock in lube and tie the rope around your shaft and under your balls. Pick a picture of me that you like and describe it to me while you tighten the rope.

I figured this would take a few minutes, which would give me time to grab my computer charger in the living room and change out of my yoga clothes into something slightly less washing machine eaten.

Him: Do you want me to type the description?

Having an Instagram full of partially nude pictures made the job of providing material much more accessible. I didn’t have to light my room and find the perfect angle to create fresh masturbatory material for him. He had plenty to choose from according to his tastes.

Me: You can send me a voice message or video.

He sent me three videos and a photo to prove that he was following my orders.

Me: Beautiful work. Tell me what you wish you were doing to me right now.

He described wanting to rim me. I could have guessed, but it was one more exercise for him to perform and draw out the session.

Me: I want you to pour the lube over your asshole and draw circles around your anal opening with your little rocket toy. And send me a video.

It was strangely intimate, even though it was a one sided exchange. I watched him pour the lube onto his hairless asshole. If you’d told me I would be seeing this much of my former classmate, I wouldn’t have believed you. Or maybe I would have, I’m not one to doubt the endless possibilities of the world around me.

Me: I want you to open your blinds or curtains and continue playing with yourself near the window. I want you to touch yourself and moan louder and then bend over and insert the tip of the rocket into your ass.

Roger: The fact that someone walking their dog could see me fucking my ass…

He sent a drooling emoji.

Me: Stroke your cock as quickly as possible without coming. Tighten the rope to keep yourself from reaching the edge.

He was clearly close, which meant it was time to extort him.

Me: Now you need to send me $50 to continue.

Roger: Can I get a photo of your beautiful asshole along with it…?

I did not want to send him a picture of my asshole. I decided to see if I could get more out of him.

Me: Only if you send me $100.

Roger: $100 for a photo, not a video?

Me: Yep. Don’t haggle me, bitch boy.

Roger: I can only afford $50 ma’am.

That’s what I’d thought. He sent me $50, at which point I decided it was time to wrap up these shenanigans. I had played back most of the podcast episode already, and was ready for a break.

Me: Take yourself to the bathroom. Lie down in your shower.You’re going to piss on yourself.

Roger sent me a video of himself reclined in his tub. I hadn’t asked him to lap up his own urine, but he was already enthusiastically lapping at it as he angled his stream toward his open mouth.

Roger: I wish it was yours ma’am.

Me: Continue stroking yourself. When you reach the edge, I want you to beg me to let you cum while apologizing for being a little perv.

I recorded a brief cum countdown voice message for him to enjoy. It was almost too generous a gift. I didn’t like that he could replay it whenever he wanted a cum countdown. That’s the problem with digital content: it lives on too long and you can’t continue profiting from it after a point.

Me: Now eat your cum.

I hadn’t wanted to watch that video, but I accidentally clicked into it and watched his little pink tongue dip into the translucent pool of his own ejaculate. I hate to yuck someone’s yum, but I’ve never been into drinking cum. I love it inside of me, on my body, and in my mouth to some degree, but not down my throat. Hard limit.

I felt disappointed in myself, not for doing it, but for how uninspired the scene had been. I’ve probed a number of dominatrixes for insight into their craft, but when it came time to put their wealth of information to use, I struggled to find motivation. But I suppose it wasn’t as if Roger felt like his experience was mediocre. He came, he saw, he came. And he’d been anticipating this moment for years, literally. I could have said anything, and it still would have been fine, because the point was me witnessing and participating in his erotic moment. It was fine. I’d gotten work done, made a little money, and dipped my toes into the pool of digital domming. It was fine. Just fine.