“Because I don’t do that?”
“You don’t even do nudes. I’ve been a VIP subscriber for months. How does that business model work? People really keep paying you a monthly fee for lingerie shots?”
“We call them boudoir shots.” She shifted in her seat, and as she did so, the sloping neck of her sweater drooped, exposing smooth skin and a hint of decolletage. Fully aware of where my attention fell, she teased me with a soft knowing smile.
“But I keep thinking you’re going to show your breasts. Or play with a vibrator or something.”
“Maybe that’s why you keep paying?” She ran an index finger over the rim of her water glass, and I considered her statement. Yes, I could see it. The expectation of more was inherent in her posts, and then over time, I could see strangers equating her as a friend. Business intrigued me, and I wanted to understand hers, even if it was a nontraditional one. So, I probed.
“Who is taking those photographs? Do you have a friend who follows you around?” I’d wondered that so many times. Especially the ones in her bedroom and of her in her lace and tantalizing thigh highs.
“It’s all me. I have three different stands. I set it up and mostly have it go on auto, then edit. The short videos, those are popular. It’s the Tik Tok world nowadays. Some of those short videos, like the ones of me doing my eyeliner and mascara or playing with different shades?”
I nodded. I’d watched every single one.
“Well, those bring in VIP accounts. And I’ll be honest. I’ve expected people to cancel in droves once they realized my more intimate paid for channel still didn’t get dirty, but no. I’d say about fifty percent of my new subscribers cancel after the first month. But I’ve been holding pretty steady on subscribers. Or, at least, I was. This past year has been brutal. I suspect as competition intensifies it’ll be harder to maintain my income.”
“You get it all from subscribers?”
“No. Tips add to subscriber income.” She paused. “Wait, do you tip me?”
Her tone indicated the idea of me tipping would offend her. I tipped her all the time, but I shook my head.
“Well, I make about five percent of my monthly income from tips. Another twenty percent from special requests.”
“What kind of special requests?” This was something I’d wondered about. As a VIP subscriber, I couldn’t see what other sick pervs were requesting of her. I only knew what I’d like to request.
“Oh, you know. Birthday requests.” She toddled her head back and forth, explaining with animation. “Special outfits while I sing happy birthday, writing some guy’s name on my belly with shaving cream. There’s one guy who pays me—and I am not kidding you—two hundred and fifty dollars to send him photos of my feet with my nails painted in his requested colors. Two hundred and fifty dollars! That pays for my pedicure, polish, and then some. Oh, and I don’t count this as income, but there’s an Amazon wish list I fill out, and people buy me shit. Strangest fucking thing.”
While I found it fascinating, I didn’t care for men from random computers writing her with requests. I recognized my cognitive thought process as being primitive, but I didn’t like it. Yes, everything she did was largely innocent…but I still didn’t like it.
“But once you get your restaurant going, you’ll probably stop, right?”
“Yeah…” She trailed off, thoughtful.
“Give me your updated restaurant pitch. I might want to invest.”
“Thad didn’t share it with you?” I hadn’t heard anything from that company.
“Nope. I want the pitch from the woman herself.”
“No.” She sucked on the tip of her thumb, and I could swear I felt it in my cock. “I’ve already relied on you too much. I wouldn’t feel comfortable with you being an investor, taking your money.”
“No one in this world makes it completely on their own. If you stop to study anyone’s path to success, at some point they leveraged a friend or at least a business connection. It’s how the world works.”
She sipped her wine, clearly mulling over the idea. I thought we were in for an entertaining debate, but she twisted the tables and asked, “So, tell me about your business and this whole leave of absence from your firm. Any updates?”
I explained in detail the ins and the outs of my life in limbo. She paid rapt attention.
“You can’t wait to go back, can you?”
“No, I can’t. I’m doing some work here, but it’s not the same. I miss the energy of people working on my floor. My assistant right outside my office. Conversations at the elevator. More than that, I miss the city in a way I didn’t think possible. Still can’t sleep. It’s too fucking quiet.”
“So, it’s the city you miss?”
A lone boat, probably a fisherman headed out for a nightly trawl, headed out, the green and white lights twinkling over the Cape Fear as it passed. A bird squawked in the distance.
“It’s the energy. I miss the energy. There’s no energy out here. So, I guess you could say I miss both. My office. Trading buzz. Not having to deal with the garbage cans. Do you know the guy who takes my garbage refuses to put my garbage cans back in that little shed and I have to do it myself?” She giggled. I smiled. My frustration flowed out. “I miss people. People in and out and around me. I miss going out at night, any time of night, three a.m., and seeing other people. A few nights ago, I couldn’t sleep, and I went out on my deck at three a.m. Do you know what I saw?”
“The moon?”
“Exactly. Waves, sand, the moon. I’m sure I would’ve seen sand crabs if I’d walked out onto the empty beach. Empty being the key word. No. One. Anywhere. No light on. Nothing. Deathly quiet. I never gave much thought to the phrase deathly quiet. Now it has new meaning. It’s. Killing.
