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“I’m not going to judge,” she assured me upon learning of my new activities, “But ? ” While it is true that my mother used to have to physically pry the threadbare notebooks and Vivaldi CDs out of my hands to get me to “go play” with the neighborhood kids, money changes everything.
Still, I doubt she ever considered “amateur porn peddler” as even a remote possibility.
Much like cannabis use supposedly opens doors to heroin and coke, it was only a matter of time before I’d be turning tricks on the Bowery for some drugged-out pimp, who might as well be wearing a purple suit with leopard-skin lapels.
“This was your idea,” my father railed against my mother, who once worked in the sex industry herself.
Even if my employers discovered this sack-worthy secret, it was empowering to know that I was deliberately sabotaging my own career, as opposed to letting it deteriorate organically.
The first time that I logged on as “Marina,” I wore a tight black tank top and a comfortable pair of shorts, figuring that if the camming thing didn’t work out, I would at least be dressed for consolation pastries afterward.
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Much like waitressing or washing floors, professional masturbation was simply incommensurate with my educational background and perceived level of dignity.