I have exploited my God-given talents to the nth degree in order to sell minutes, memberships, and gifts. But what’s funny is the one attribute that I have never used—a serious ace-in-the-hole that could guarantee me a whole new following of rabid fans—is the fact that I, the self-described horniest girl in America, am, in fact, a virgin.
I didn’t set out to be a virgin. It wasn’t due to my Christian upbringing, or the ridiculous chastity vow that my six best friends and I made back when WWJD was all the rage. It just sort of happened, thanks in large part to Francis Anderson.
Francis Anderson should have taken his parents outside and shot them, about three minutes before they made the ridiculous decision to name him something that would guarantee him ridicule and pain for the duration of his doomed-to-be-dorky life. He, unfortunately, didn’t have the ability to time travel, and therefore got stuck with the name Francis. Other than the horrid name, his parents also gifted him with a ridiculously high IQ and a random assortment of features that, in the right light, made him look fairly handsome.
I fell in and out of love with Francis three times during my high school career. During the ‘out’ phase, I would wonder what the hell I had ever found attractive about the boy. His feet were ridiculously big, he took out his retainer during lunch, and no matter what he wore or how he wore it, he couldn’t erase the GEEK vibe from seeping out every pore of his body. During the ‘in love’ phases, I would be certain that we were destined to be together—would find his quirks and stutters amusing, and would steadfastly decide that he was my one true love, and I would never, ever look at another man. Unluckily for Francis, a football jock, or homecoming king, or the hot flavor-of-the-week would invariably swoop in and snatch me away. And I’d always go, with barely a second glance back. And he would always wait.
When we were ‘dating’—it was something my mother would have approved of; intellectual dates with a chaste kiss at the end of the night. He never pushed, there was no tongue, his hands never traveled, and he always ‘respected’ me.
Nice guys occasionally do win. Francis is now a junior at Harvard and holds a patent for some refrigeration chip thingy that all the restaurants are using. I stalk him online and get Google alerts every time something about him is written. He’s worth about two hundred million dollars and is engaged to some perfect blue-blood blond who probably sucks his c**k three times a day. God was I stupid.
Despite my stupidity, the one thing that I did get out of my Francis infatuation was my virginity. His steadfast dedication to me, coupled with his constant presence as a friend when he wasn’t my boyfriend, allowed me to be firm with my dates and gave me the confidence to not be swayed or pressured by insistent hands or smooth words.
At first my virginity was a hindrance when it came to camming. My familiarity with f**king and mast***ation was elementary at best. I had given head in high school, was familiar enough with a cock, balls, and hand jobs, but I had serious homework in front of me when I decided to pursue camming as a full-time occupation.
Porn ended up being my education: Jenna Jameson, Nina Hartley, and Peter North my professors. For a two-week period, I watched ten to twelve hours of f**king a day, read how-to seduction books, and let Carmen Electra teach me the art of the strip tease. I was a dedicated student and, after more than a hundred hours of study, I felt ready.
My first session was a disaster; uncomfortable dialogue followed by a lot of nervous giggling on my part. I looked awkward on camera, arching my body into odd angles, my limbs uncoordinatedly moving in ways they shouldn’t, my own vagina scaring the crap out of me when displayed on screen. But things eventually clicked, with patient clients holding my virtual hand until I became the virginal Internet vixen I am today.
But, am I still a virgin? What is the technical definition? If I’ve had a seven inch dildo inside of me, is that any different than a real cock?
CHAPTER 7: RalphMA35
10:45pm. I think about logging out early, brushing my teeth and crawling into bed. It’s been a long day, full of seven and eight minute private sessions—the guys who have fifty bucks to spend and want to make sure to get off during that time. So they jack off until they are close, and then take me to a private chat where I do nothing but rip off my clothes, spread my legs, touch myself and moan for the next five minutes. They don’t want to chat. They don’t want anything special. They just want a standard result from an unorthodox source. But that’s what I get on Wednesdays. Fridays are the big-spender days, when clients just got paid and are ready for some one-on-one personalized attention. Fridays pass quickly.
I don’t log out early; my OCD not allowing for the slightest variation from my schedule. I log back into free chat and wait. Barely a minute of flirting passes, then I am taken private, this time by RalphMA35. I don’t know it–but my OCD just changed my entire life.
CHAPTER 8: From QuackAttack to Derek
I have two shrinks. I don’t really know why, except that I can’t seem to tell one of them things that I can tell the other, and vice versa. I actually pay both shrinks, which is an oddity for me, since I normally try to exchange goods for services. Sex, even Internet sex, seems to be a universal currency. I tried using a client as a shrink once, and it was disastrous. Of course, with a username like QuackAttack, I probably should have known from the beginning that it wouldn’t work out. That was the guy with the little dick.
Dr. Derek Vanderbilt has been my shrink for eighteen months. He’s the closest thing to a friend I have had for the last three years. I can’t find a photo of him online, which irks me to no end. For some reason, knowing what the person on the other end of the line looks like makes me feel like I have the upper hand … at least in my mind. We talk once a week, on Mondays at 2:00 p.m. He has strongly suggested that I increase my sessions to twice weekly, but I have ignored that suggestion. He doesn’t know I have a second shrink. If he did, he might not worry about my psychological health so much. I talk to Derek about my murderous inclinations, and the effects of my isolation. I don’t mind being killer-crazy, but I don’t want to be loony-bin-crazy. That would probably be bad for business—a bit of a turnoff.