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I stand and take it with me down the short hall to the spare bedroom.

Calling it a spare bedroom is generous. It has a futon Becca’s cousin gave us, a plastic storage shelf, the old vacuum with the broken hose, and my cam setup shoved into the corner near the only outlet that doesn’t make the ring light flicker.

Nothing in here says sex until I turn on the lights. Until I angle the camera. Until I drag the chair into the right spot, clear the crap off the desk, and become the guy on-screen.

Open the laptop. Ring light, on. Cheap webcam clipped to the top of the monitor. Roll of paper towels under the desk.

I open the desk drawer and take out the lube. The bottle is half-empty. Half-empty means I’ve already done more than I used to. More than I would have admitted a few months ago.

I sit in the cam chair, towel still wrapped around me, knees spread. My skin has dried all the way now. The apartment is quiet except for the refrigerator kicking on down the hall.

I pick up the plug again and try to imagine it like any other piece of gear. Pizza peel. Bench scraper. Oven mitt.

The laugh comes, small and stupid.

I could still not do this. I could shut the laptop, put the plug in the bottom drawer, crawl into bed, and tell myself I made the mature choice. Tomorrow I could go to work, make another weird pizza, come home, kiss Becca if she wants kissing, and keep being the version of myself everybody already knows how to handle.

My finger taps the trackpad.

The login screen appears.

Username: HotnReddy.

I thought it was funny when I made it. Better than Pizza Dude, which sounded like I should be delivering weed to a dorm.

There’s my profile picture. Shirtless, half-smiling, looking like I’ve never had an anxious thought in my life. There are the messages I haven’t answered. The tip history. The viewer count from last time. The little button that says Go Live.

My stomach tightens.

The plug sits beside my wrist.

I move it out of frame. Then, after a second, I move it back.

I check the camera preview. The man on-screen is clean now. Hair still freshly buzzed. Scruff, shoulders, towel hiding the token-getter. The light makes my skin warmer and my eyes darker. My body looks like it knows what it’s doing.

I lean closer and lower my voice once, testing.

“Hey.”

Too normal. I clear my throat and try again.

“Hey, guys.”

Better.

The apartment is quiet. Becca is gone. The restaurant is closed. The box is open. Nothing is going to fix me in the next five minutes.

Might as well get paid.

I click Go Live.

The little live icon appears in the corner. The preview holds steady. My own face looks back at me from the screen, calm enough to piss me off. The chat window sits empty, white and waiting, like maybe tonight the whole internet got together and decided to leave me alone.

Then the first username pops in.

Another name appears. Then three more.

The viewer count ticks up, and then there’s that little jump inside me.