The guys mostly just wanted straightforward tits and ass; I learned how to pull my pussy lips open, how to use camera tricks so it looked like I was shoving four fingers in my asshole.As porn work goes, it was incredibly low maintenance.I moved to the San Fernando Valley at the worst possible time.Right after the financial crisis hit at the beginning of 2009, Los Angeles was probably running at about 50% unemployment.Sometimes I got strange requests: put a can of hairspray in your pussy. One guy wanted me to pee in a cup and pour it on my chest. Jason walked back and forth through the house as I worked on the living-room sofa. I found out he was a real professor — he taught at a small liberal-arts college, which is why he was online all day, grading papers. NEXT: "He'd say something that would have me biting my lip while I worked, so the guy on the other end wouldn't see me cracking up for no apparent reason…" Then we started emailing back and forth, long, gloriously in-depth emails of feelings and thoughts and background and history.I'd wave at him over the top of the camera, while showing close-ups of my ass cheeks to some unseen guy jerking it in his darkened office. He showed up one day and immediately made me laugh — really laugh, not the fake "tee hee" that actually meant "Just click the button, asshole, time is money." His repartee was witty, and his vocabulary was huge. The pattern continued: he'd come in almost every day and message me for hours, throwing out comments about the other guys that they couldn't see, sometimes taking me to a private room when he could afford it. I found out he was occasionally cranky, often bitter, but always receptive to banter. I mentioned Jason, which, since I pretended to be single online, was another slice of my real self. I wrote him a long email from my personal email account, the real one, told him my real name, and said I couldn't keep our interactions financial. He told me about his early twenties doing dangerous and illegal things on the beaches of Hawaii.We started to grow apart a little bit — it was hard to keep up the stream of constant communication with the different time zone.He told me his wife had been offered a job in Europe; it would mean losing contact with his child and probably hamstringing his own career.
I got half of the money for each minute, and grew quite adept at stripping slowly.
The counseling center I volunteered at started to fill up with clients who had been unemployed for a year and were deeply depressed, considering suicide. I was sending out ten resumes a day to Craigslist jobs, with no responses.
I assumed that the moment they clicked "Post," HR directors were immediately inundated with resumes and panicked, choosing new employees at random.
But he sustained me, a light in the seedy darkness.
He said I did the same for him, and that he would love me forever. He texted me throughout my packing crises, and his was the last text I got at the airport before switching off my phone at boarding.
"This guy wants me to spray whipped cream in my ass," I'd type, and he'd say something back that would have me biting my lip while I worked, so the guy on the other end wouldn't see me cracking up for no apparent reason. We began texting each other, slowly at first and then ramping up to dozens of messages a day. But I still took my clothes off for him, watched him stroke himself as he listened to me whisper what I wanted to do to him.