Mid cam session last week, sirens blasted down my street, drowning out sound for what seemed like precious seconds. The next comment on my screen reads “We better start tipping and get baby girl out the ghetto.” I could only laugh. It is true that my street facing Oakland studio is not the most conducive to a webcamming career.
On any given day I can hear my neighbor yelling at her boyfriend, or the squeal of tires as someone does donuts in a car blasting music so loud that the rattle of the frame drowns out the bass.
Yesterday I heard shouting and scuffling I couldn’t help but peek through the blinds mid show. Two girls were holding each other by the hair and throwing wild swinging punches that rarely landed. They migrated up the block past the liquor store, tailed by a sizeable group of spectators and instigators.
I can’t help but juxtapose this image next to the text scrolling on my screen ‘show us some tits mami,’ or ‘hey sexy can you turn around and spread your ass cheeks?’ from visitors hoping to plead their way into a free show.
My recently acquired manager assures me that in a couple weeks I will get the hang of it. Soon I will figure out how to encourage tipping and extend my private cam sessions. It’s a new practice for me, selling and teasing.
In film it’s a lot easier because I will have already agreed to a price and role prior to filming. The sale has been made I just have to deliver the goods. On cam one day I could be attempting to portray a cheating girlfriend or jerking off a dildo with my feet. Visitors may tip $60 in the first half our or pepper $2 tips over six hours. Each day its a new job.
Don’t get me wrong: webcamming can be exciting, the unexpected, the thrill of being tipped for being sexy. The exhibitionist in me enjoys teasing and playing with new people every night. It’s interesting reading dirty talk in various incarnations of English and Spanish. The mini community of horny strangers and the myriad of ways in which they get off.
Every night a new person dominates attention in the room, informing the other viewers of the snip-its of information that he has learned about me. I no longer have to repeat my breast size or where I am from. Like a hype man he posts links to the porn I am in or heckles bullies out of the room. He’s my faux husband, boyfriend, lover or bodyguard.
I look into the rooms of top rated models. Girls with baby voices and girlish giggles tease dildos and pinch nipples through sheer fabric. I wonder what they do in private session, what are their secrets. In my room at one moment I may be talking to visitors about making art or dancing naked covered in oil. I tow the fine line between selling out and staying true to myself. I wear a straight long wig over my naturally curly hair, but I refuse to use a fake baby voice, or put other women down to make myself seem better.
I can’t help but wonder what happens if I do become a moderate success. How much will it change me as a person? It’s been a handful of days and I can see myself being less timid, and less insecure. I’m not affected by the viewers that get off on insults and humiliation. I don’t see my body in terms of imperfection, but rather in terms of fiscal value.
I’m getting used to noting the responses to the types of lingerie I am wearing or lipstick color. I’m can be the nice down to earth girl next door or an undercover freak. Either way I am slowly relaxing into the high of performing in front of an anonymous sea of lusting strangers.
Editor’s Note: FYI, you can have your own private cam show with Betty Blac!