I haven’t felt very… sexy in the past little while. And I haven’t done a video recently, so it hasn’t been a problem. But… it’s kind of difficult being a camboy when I can’t get it up.
Yeah, that’s right. Not only are you crazy, you’re also defective.
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Santino adds when I take too long to respond.
“No, sorry. I mean.” I shake my head, trying to dislodge the voice, and take a deep breath. “I grew up in New Jersey.” I’m not sure why I started there. It has nothing to do with why I started camming. But my normal response to the question doesn’t feel quite right. “My family was pretty poor. My dad was a truck driver, so he was never around. My mom had a drinking problem, so when she wasn’t working at the grocery store, she was usually passed out somewhere. My sister ran off with her boyfriend when she was seventeen. I wanted to get out of there too.”
I pinch some grass between my fingers and yank. The tension and release of the blades ripping is strangely calming, like I can somehow channel the chaos of my emotions into that smallest act of destruction.
“Camming was your way out?” Santino asks when I don’t continue.
“I tried going to community college.” I shrug. “It wasn’t for me. But I was in class one day and I overheard someone else talking about camming. How they were paying their tuition from what they earned. So I figured I’d check it out, give it a shot.”
Santino casts me a sideways, amused half-cringe. “How old were you?”
I pause and give him a sheepish look. “Legally or…?”
Santino laughs, throwing his head back as the sound rings through the air. It’s bubbly and bright, sending tingles down myarms. The dappled sunlight coming through the tree’s foliage dances over his face and the distinct bump of his Adam’s apple.
He looks like he’s glowing. The air around him seems to sparkle. He’s got a dark complexion, but it feels like there’s a brightness coming from inside him, lighting him up from the inside out. I feel like I can breathe more easily when he’s next to me. I feel less like I’m drowning when I’m next to him.
I would love to do a video with Santino. I’d love to see how he responds when I touch him, what kinds of noises he makes. Will he be aggressive and take the lead? Or would he rather be manhandled?
Santino lies down on the grass, folding one hand behind his head and planting the opposite foot on the ground. He sighs contentedly, gazing up through the tree’s canopy. Shifting, I turn toward him and lean back on one hand, tucking my legs under me so my knees aren’t in the way.
“Do you like your job?” he asks, glancing over at me. “Would you rather do something else?”
I don’t answer right away. Even a few months ago, it would’ve been a no-brainer. But now, I’m not so sure. Theoretically, I love my job. There isn’t anything else in the world I’d rather do for a living. But how can I love my job when I’m so miserable all the time? How can I say I love it when the thought of having sex with someone as hot as Santino gets absolutely no response between my legs?
“I like it,” I say, trying to lie without really lying.
“What do you like most about it?”
I rip another handful of grass. At the moment? I have no freaking clue. It used to be fun. I got to have sex with a bunch of hot guys and get paid for it. I got to work with my best friends. The company we started took off and I got to do so many cool things I never would’ve thought were possible.
But now… none of that’s appealing. But it’s not just camming—nothing feels appealing at the moment. Not the documentary or going to see Rhys perform at The Bronzed Rail. Not even cooking or reading or playing video games or working out. These are all things I supposedly love to do… so why don’t I want to do any of them?
“It pays really well?” I can’t stop my voice from going up at the end like I’m asking a question. It’s not an answer I ever would’ve given before, but it’s the most common one in the industry.
“Is that why you do it? For the money?” There’s no judgment in Santino’s voice, more like confusion, like that wasn’t what he expected me to say.
“No, it’s not for the money. I…” I don’t know how to have this conversation. I don’t know how to reconcile what I used to feel with what I feel now. I don’t know how to give the answers I know are true, but feel like a lie.
“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me.” Santino’s smile is carefree and relaxed. Understanding and earnest. His eyes drift shut. His free hand lies on his stomach, lifting and lowering with his every breath. “I shouldn’t be prying anyway.”
“You’re not prying. It’s just… I’m…”
A fucked-up loser who can’t even answer a simple question.
The voice is so loud, I swear to god it sounds like someone is standing right behind me, shouting in my ear. I flinch, grateful that Santino has his eyes closed and doesn’t see. But then the ache in my chest hits hard and fast, eating through me like it’s trying to hollow me out. I turn away, hoping Santino doesn’t notice, and struggle to breathe through the vise around my chest.
“Hayden? You okay?”
Fuck. No. Not now. I have nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. I nod frantically, but it feels like my entire body is shaking with the movement. “Yeah,” I gasp. “Sorry, I’m just?—”
A. Fucked. Up. Loser.
Every dumb thing I’ve ever done comes flooding into my mind. Every time I’ve said something stupid or made a joke nobody laughed at. Every time I didn’t understand what the guys were talking about and needed someone to explain it to me. The weight of all the memories comes crashing down on me like they’re trying to grind me into pieces.
