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I dress in gray sweatpants and no shirt—my cam uniform—and go to the spare room.

Laptop closed. Ring light dark. Chair pushed in. Futon folded wrong because I never fixed it after the last show. The desk holds the things I pretend not to notice until I need them. Lube. Plug. Foot lotion.

I sit in the chair and open the laptop.

The screen wakes. The site loads. My reflection hovers in the black before the dashboard appears. Buzzed hair. Bare chest. Towel-damp skin.

HotnReddy on duty.

I check the messages again before I go live.

BigDog469 sits on unread.

Bentley84 waits.

Good luck at the park today. Hope Zane behaves himself.

I shouldn’t answer. Boundaries.

I answer anyway.

Zane is incapable of behaving.

Three dots appear almost immediately.

My pulse kicks, and then they vanish.

No reply.

I set the phone facedown beside the laptop and turn on the light.

Going live never feels like stepping through a door. It’s like opening one and standing there while strangers decide whether to come in.

BigDog469 arrives first.

Of course he does.

BigDog469: there he is

MouthyMike: pizza man!

MNTopDad: looking good tonight

I lean back in the chair and let the sweatpants ride low.

“Hey, guys.”

The chat starts doing its fake-casual thing.

how was your day

look hot bro

work tonight?

he biiiiig

I know the rhythm by now. The first few minutes pretend to be small talk, as if these same dudes won’t be asking me to spread myself open before the room hits fifty viewers.