DineroDaddy:You ever think about settling down? Have the online persona and the romantic partner? Someone who respects and celebrates every part of you?
I blink at the question. My throat tightens a little. It’s not that I’ve never thought about it. Of course I have. But finding a partner that will accept this part of my life seems impossible. I refuse to choose between my work and a man. Perhaps that makes me selfish, but I don’t care. I crave the thrill and validation cam life brings me. It’s addictive in its own right. Not to mention how empowered I feel. Plus, this is my own creative outlet, and for now, it’s where I want to put my energy into.
But no one’s ever asked me that. Not like this. Not like they actually cared about the answer.
CurvyBabe:Sometimes.But this life gives me freedom. I don’t owe anyone shit. I get to feel sexually fulfilled.
The dots appear again. Typing… stop… typing. My leg bounces with anticipation, a nervous habit I’ve never grown out of.
DineroDaddy:And is that enough for you?
My stomach twists as a mix of confusion and despair wash through me. I don’t know why his question hits so hard. Maybe because no one’s ever asked before. I love my job. But…is it enough?
Deep down, I’m not certain it is because part of me wants this life, but the other part of me wants a life with a partner to cuddle up with at night. And I can’t fathom having both.
I lean back in my chair, eyes scanning over his message again and again, like it might mean something more than it says. Like he knows something about me I haven’t told him.
And maybe that’s what unsettles me most. How seen I feel. Fuck this bastard.
CurvyBabe:You talk like a man who’s got answers.
DineroDaddy:Maybe I’ve lived a little. Loved enough women to know they deserve better.
CurvyBabe:Sounds like player behavior.
DineroDaddy:Touché. But I meant it. I see you, mi reina. Not just the performance.You.
My breath hitches. My fingers glide over the keyboard, at a loss of what to say next.
I should end the chat. Log off. Tell him I’m tired, make up an excuse—hell, even pretend my Wi-Fi dropped. But I don’t, because I can’t. I don’t want to. Instead, I type something that feels a little too raw.
CurvyBabe:Sometimes I wish I could run away to a cabin and be in my own little world. Just me and someone I love. You keep saying you see me, but I don’t even know what you look like. Or anything about you.
It’s my version of fishing. A way to pull back the curtain without fully yanking it down. It’s wrong and opens up far too much shit that I’m not prepared to face yet. Or ever.
His reply comes slower this time.
DineroDaddy:Does it matter?
CurvyBabe:It might.
It doesn’t. But in that same breath, it does, because I want to know more about this man who has me spilling my deepest desires and secrets tonight.
Silence stretches. Too long. I imagine him on the other side of the screen, weighing every word, or realizing I’m not worth the effort. The reality is, no matter how good he makes me feel, I still don’t know who he is, and he’s just some high-paying client.
Butheknows me. Kind of. He knows what I wear, what I sound like when I come, what I hide behind the mask. He knows what I read, and my little confessions. That imbalance has always been there. I just didn’tfeelit until now.
Finally, the screen lights up again.
DineroDaddy:Let’s just say I’m closer than you think.
My skin prickles. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end. Is this threatening or something else entirely?
CurvyBabe:What’s that supposed to mean?
No reply.
Not right away.
