Confessions of a Camgirl

First Person

Confessions of a Camgirl

Illustration: Namaah

I’

m sitting on my bed, legs spread, naked, waiting for whatever comes next. The request might involve anything from talking like a baby to touching myself or playing with a sex toy. The man on the other end of the computer screen looks on and you can tell by the movement of his upper torso and shoulders that he’s jerking off, quite furiously, if I may say so.

But there’s something about his face that is unsettling. He reminds me of the man I almost married. Suddenly, what is routine, becomes awkward. Fortunately, the buzzer on my cellphone goes off. His time is up; his erection resuscitated.

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I think I might need a shower; I seldom feel dirty after a performance. But this time was different. I shower quickly – I’ve got another man to please in about 15 minutes. If I hurry, I might use the hoary “got out of the shower, but I’m still wet” trick.

Ramesh2kool sounds like the kind of guy who might just fall for it.

***

My name is RiyaHot69 and I’m a camgirl. Think of it as virtual sex, with virtually no hassles. No STDs, no contraception, no danger of getting caught, and none of the awkwardness that follows analogue sex.

I don’t think of myself as a “prostitute” (although the world does). The idea of actually touching any of these men repulses me.

Back in Karnal, I was always admired by women and ogled at by men for my above-average looks (5’9”, B-cup and enormous eyes). My parents paraded me for a plethora of suitors who examined, ogled, questioned, and pondered over me. All this while I was in the second year of a three-year commerce degree.

Aroras, Chatwals, Longewals, and Walias. All of them came and went but I didn’t want any of it. My eyes were set on Chandigarh. But my father, a PWD clerk, didn’t agree. He wasn’t getting any younger. He palmed me off to Gurnal Singh, an MBA from Lovely Professional University, with a strong American accent that he didn’t get from America. We were to be married as soon as my final-year degree examinations were done, not a second later.

Mr and Mrs Singh seemed okay, but Singh junior was a specimen. He began sexting me the second the rishta was confirmed. He made me sick.

It took a whole lot of convincing, and a lot more begging, pleading, and crying before my father agreed to let me leave home and go to Chandigarh to begin a job that I had bagged during campus placements. The condition was that I had six months to decide whether I really wanted this.

That was four years ago.

***

On the day of my first gig as a camgirl, I had a rough idea of what to expect. A friend of my roommate had told me that all I needed to do was strip in front of the camera in a small room in some nondescript office building on the outskirts of the city. I’d be paid 2,000 bucks for the day.

When it was finally done, I got dressed hastily, went home to shower, and fall into bed, disgusted and afraid.

I was making ₹12,000 a month as a payroll and admin associate at an IT firm and I was tired of constantly being strapped for cash. So tired that I was almost ready to pack up and give in to Gurnal.

I sat in that white room that smelt like phenyl and I performed for the first time as IndianNymph. I was “trained” in the use of chat functions by another camgirl and without much ado, I was off. I sat there for eight hours in a little black dress, while strange men called me names and asked me questions about my body that made me blush and at times cringe.

Then it began: As soon as the men paid tokens, I was instructed by a moderator to begin the show. I began shedding my clothes with the same hesitation that one has while knowingly venturing into a burning building. There I was, stark naked, in an air-conditioned room. It was cold and I got goosebumps. I wanted it to be over but it was about to get worse.

To end the show, I was expected to play with myself. I looked at my friend in horror. I’d never done anything like that before. Looking back at this day, I can’t help but chuckle at that poor girl who went through those eight hours in a state of suspended disbelief. When it was finally done, I got dressed hastily, went home to shower, and fall into bed, disgusted and afraid. What if someone found out? What if my younger brother logged on to such a site? What if I went to jail? Surely this was illegal. I didn’t sleep that night.

But the next morning, my roommate gave me ₹2,000; crisp 20 notes of ₹100 each. That did it. My mind was made up. I would perform until I saved enough to return home and live life on my terms. So what if I felt awful for a few hours a day? But soon the horror subsided. That’s the way life goes on – we all adapt. No matter how shocking an incident might be, it becomes normal after a few days. Sitting naked in front of my laptop soon became the new normal for me.

I soon established a routine. My performances usually begin at 11 am, after which I break for lunch. But I continue sexting my chat clients. They’re the tame ones, usually the lonely middle-class, sometimes middle-aged men who take time to graduate to “live” shows. These men just want to talk for the first two days. We talk about life and about sex. Then the next three days are spent asking me to strip, touch myself, and talk dirty. The last days are usually spent in a flurry of masturbation and dirty talk.

I’ve also had my share of creeps. Such men begin by immediately demanding that I strip and they start calling me names. The more disgusting the names, the harder they get. Others get off on being talked down to – one particular guy with serious self-esteem issues asked me to play with a cucumber. I told him to shove the cucumber up his own ass and stuck to my dildo until we both were done. Then there was a guy who wanted to hear me fart and another, who went by the name Kamasutrastud20, wanted to watch me pee. I can’t forget the man who Skyped with me while having sex with his wife/girlfriend. It was technically my first threesome and kinda fun.

What I really do enjoy though, is the company of women. I’ve had just two women customers. Both polite and soft-spoken; they appeared like they were in their early 30s. These women, who were a little confused about their sexuality, were content with merely talking to me via Skype, in the buff. These conversations brought a sense of normalcy to my weird world. It was like having a female colleague at work in a way. These conversations always ended with the obligatory rub down and just because they didn’t call me “randi”, I gave them 30 minutes instead of the usual 20.

Apart from my clients, only a few friends are privy to my secret. I don’t let anyone open my wardrobe – the baby-dolls, garters, lacy chemises, trap doors, and dildos will give me away. My family back home thinks I work at a private company in Chandigarh as a manager. Six months after I started camming, I told my parents I was pursuing a part-time master’s degree. As long as I keep wiring ₹20,000 to my father’s account, I doubt any flags will be raised.

I plan to do this as long as I can. After that I want to buy two cars that will join the Ola or Uber fleet, so that I have a regular income. A lot of girls traded up to an escort service for more money, but that’s where I drew the line.

Like I said, I’m not a whore.

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