Chatter

Subscriber count 41,329

Look at us.

The way things are tonight, it’s me and my pet hamster running quality control together, right here in my makeshift office that used to be a broom closet under the stairs.

Sort of like Harry Potter, but in a different universe, where he had much sexier hair and his magical powers ended up being limited to making strangers blow their load from across the room.

I hold up my shirt and spritz both sides with distilled water. Never a bad idea to keep a jug of it handy, specifically for this purpose. It’s best to avoid your everyday tap water, as it’s too rich with minerals.

“I feel like I’ve known you my whole life…” says FaptainJack.

Don’t get me wrong here.

The faucet will always work in a pinch, but using sink water on a regular basis causes calcium and magnesium to build in your spray nozzle, eventually leading to chalky white grit getting blasted out onto your garments when you use the built-in mister.

Not good.

That grit will get heat sealed into the material as you work your magic, at which point it’s there to stay and you look like a fucking bum.

Spread a sleeve flat with the cuff opened and aimed towards the tapered end of the board, then I type, “gettin vibes 2… :)”

Be me.

A malicious actor playing the part.

Set the iron to 300*F, the lowest temperature. Used for polyesters, wools, or in this case, silk. If you’re not sure what fabric you’re working with, check the label.

Ironing’s all about heat and pressure, and proper prep work’s the key to success, my friend.

The iron beeps twice, beginning the warm up cycle.

My stomach seizes, bending back and forth, begging me for sustenance.

I dig into a ripped corner of a baggy and fish out a little tooter on the end of my house key, give her a rip.

Good to go.

And hey, aside from the cramped workspace, the property itself is plenty spacious for the lot of us.

The house is an American Tudor-style five bedroom, three and half bath, tucked away in its own sandy little corner of an upper-middle class, desert suburb.

It’s the newest model of track home for this area, fitted with the cream colored stucco package, decorative stone trim-work, and back-lit wall mounted dildo-display cabinets in both master suites.

We even have our own room, the girls and I.

You see, our humble abode here has been serving dual functions lately, acting as the base of operations during the business day and a place of residence otherwise.

And that’s all she wrote.

Just four up-and-coming adult content creators and little ole me, cohabitating together while we crank out high-def 4K spank bait to every corner of the goddamn planet.

The American dream.

“Ur ass gets my dick harddd lulz,” says YungHungStud.

Here we are.

Getting along swell.

So where do I come into play, you may ask. And the short answer’s the facilitation of all the day-to-day back and forth between subscribers and those whom the subscribers believe to be the girls on the other end of the camera.

We’re talking full control of all Socials. Private chats, DM’s, Snaps, and all the spectrums of depravity that flow from within.

My primary responsibilities include noting special requests and preferences, as well as categorizing turn-ons and deal-breakers for each and every individual loser who’s forking over the necessary dough.

Whether it’s your dick or your ego that needs the stroking, you gotta pay to play, baby.

Trust me.

In this arena, the shortest distance between two points is a platinum charge card.

Now, when you’re ironing sleeve cuffs, start from the outside moving in towards the center, otherwise you’ll end up with wrinkles by the stitching. Particularly if the shirt has a sewn interlining.

Not the biggest deal if you tend to roll your sleeves up anyway. Or you plan on exclusively dating the blind.

Take the time and do it right. The Devil’s in the details, folks.

Big time.

There on the screen, BildoBaggins says he needs to be punished.

You’re looking at my life.

The filter at the bottom of a thirst trap.

Grampa_Grapist58 wants to know if I use tampons or pads.

All hail me.

King of the neckbeards.

Validating the endless demands of basement-bound simps and fat bodied fuckboys.

I set the iron down, check my hair in the mirror and type, “yeaaaa you do bad boyy :}.” and in the next box, “air dry;>.”

You tell yourself you’re providing an experience, above all else.

And honestly, it’s the terms of service that dictates a majority of the dialog taking place between users and creators.

On most of the popular platforms like the one we’re using now, there’s a lengthy list of do’s and don’ts when it comes to appropriate discourse.

In other words, things you can and can’t say.

For instance, imagine you’re into BDSM or hardcore kinks or what have you. Take my advice and get creative with your sexting game.

Learn to lean towards subtlety and subtext, over forthrightness and verboseness, because words like whip or choke will get your account flagged lickety split.

Same goes for fisting or scat-play.

Flogging.

Wet jobs.

Likewise, saying slave, abduct, kidnap, force, and pretty much anything alluding to non-consensual sex acts, will most definitely draw some unwanted attention your way.

Which means my way.

Not cool, bro.

Not cool.

My hamster’s racing full speed up his little wheel so I light a joint and blow smoke at him.

A great time to point out that you can’t talk about drug and alcohol use on most of the popular platforms either. So save the date rape jokes for your nephew’s birthday party, wise guy.

And for the love of God, avoid mentioning anything age related. Not even as a joke. Not even once.

Just don’t.

In fact, one would be wise to shy away from numbers altogether if you can manage.

See, on top of likely getting flagged for sex predator shit, any kind of discussions or negotiations pertaining to real life liaisons or in-person meet and greets will get your shit promptly shut down for solicitation. Meaning, if you send messages in the realm of meet me behind Red Lobster so we can bump uglies, you bow legged bitch, or, twenty bucks for a half and half if I pay for dinner and the movie? You can bet your bottom dollar that your days are numbered, partner.

But try not to overthink it.

It’s A-Okay to say, I love your new haircut.

I want to use your fat tits as a pillow, is also kosher. All day, every day.

So, relax.

You can still talk dirty, people.

When all’s said and done, most users are just your regular type guys who have no problem waving their freak flag a tad lower until we can switch to another, more suitable venue.

But on occasion, you’ll run into an absolute legend, like our ex number-one subscriber, sir GentleBenderOver himself, blasting out straight bangers like, Hello there, miss. Beautiful day, isn’t it? Adored your pics earlier. Lovely, indeed. My, my… Say. If you’re free this evening, I was wondering if perhaps we could get together for a wee bit after tea, so I can piss all over your face you drunken preteen toilet-slag.

That’s a no-no.

Though it did brighten my day.

After you get your cuffs up to par, you’ll move on to the sleeves themselves. If you’re working with a run of the mill setup and you don’t have a sleeve board, it’s best to lay the entire sleeve flat so you can iron two sides at once, beginning with the backside before flipping to the front and repeating the process.

Efficiency is the name of the game, Amigo.

And I know what you’re thinking.

Seems counterintuitive to church up pillow talk. Or sanitize selling sex.

And you’re right.

But these are the rules set in place to keep things legal, not civil.

This isn’t so much courting as it is commerce.

“I love you.” says so and so.

It’s a simple process, really. One party’s in the market for a dopamine hit. The other, a payday.

This was the genesis of grifting.

And honestly, I’d be willing to wager not much has changed since day one. Only the way things are now, we’ve micro- engineered our methods of deception and synthesized the entire process into little more than a sterile transfer of wealth between two consenting adults.

In our particular case, the girls are creating the content, I am fostering the fantasies and the suckers are footing the bill for everyone.

Boom.

The circle of life.

Think of me like a farmer. And these are my paypigs.

Thing is, you put a dude against another dude, but give one of them a female avatar, it’s game over. Done deal. Lights out. Better luck next time, babydick.

I win.

You could call me Rembrandt, and here’s the art of the curve.

It’s almost not fair.

Almost.

Keeping these sad, pathetic freaks hooked on the line, but never fully reeling them in.

A subtle prospect here, some precise keywords there.

Half cup of non-fat ego stroke, coupled with a hefty handful of vine-ripened fibs.

Violá.

We’re ready to set it, forget it, and revel in the fruits of our labor. Occasionally reapplying some gas-lighting for those signature flavor profiles that are often sought after, but rarely realized into fruition.

This, just one of many coding sequences for master manipulation.

Strategic prefrontal malware.

“I feel like we have a connection,” says what’s his face. 

Before long, I’ll have you falling head over heels.

After a while, selling the house.

Depleting your savings.

Eventually, you find yourself taking out loans to keep coming back to me.

And you will come back.

Convinced we’re going to meet some day and live happily ever after. But we can never meet.

That ruins everything.

Starting from the corner of the armpit area, drive the iron down the center of the sleeve using short controlled bursts, rather than broad sweeping motions, mindful to avoid the edges, so as not to leave a crease.

And please don’t get the wrong idea. It’s not like this was my plan from the get go. I didn’t create this market. It’s the nature of society.

What sells, sells.

We can’t take your money if you don’t have any to take.

We aren’t preying on the destitute, after all.

Just the weak.

And if I remove myself from the situation, all of this will still be happening.

So what the hell?

If they like it, I fucking love it.

I relight the spliff and type, “how much do u luv me$$$:),” and in the next box, “bet ur girl doesn’t do this...” Attach a pay-to-view pic of a hairbrush buried to the bristles inside a fleshy pink dugout and click send.

People seem to think success gets determined by how many subs a model has, but in reality, the lion's share of profits funnel through all the one on one communication, where A-la-carte services can be ordered, and illusions can be cultivated.

Delusional fever dreams, where legions of desperate douchebags convince themselves that they and they alone are getting exclusive access to their favorite creator in the DMs. And that they are the sole recipient of the video featuring their favorite starlet fingerblasting herself in the shower.

When in reality, Joey, Johnny and Jimmy Everyman are getting served up the same exact dish and calling it their own.

It’s a one size fits all, sort of deal.

Call it homogenized affection, if you’d prefer.

Best part’s that it doesn’t matter what they ask for.

We’ve got terabytes of provocative poses on demand. Stacks of external hard drives, stuffed to the brim with caches full of objects inserted into every orifice imaginable.

Steam rises up into my face, I inhale, lean over, snort a baby bump off the key tip, rub what’s left on my gums.

We’re golden.

“Hi purrrty… can daddy see that pretty kitty of yours,” says BigPoppajohnDoe.

Pump the brakes, Romeo. 

This guy’s grown quite fond of Miss PurrrCattt, aka, Ash. That’s understandable. She’s a stone cold knockout.

But if you want the monkey to dance you have to throw quarters at it.

Kitty needs a new ball of yarn, I type, blowing another puff at the hamster, who has slowed his stride significantly.

$$$-BigPoppajohnDoe tipped $100.00

Good boy.

Open the photos file and type pussy-pics/purrrcattt/ into the search bar and bam. Just like that. A digital buffet of close up crotch shots is front and center on screen. 

Hoo-haws partially covered by panties are color coded as such, just as those crammed with varying amounts of digits are numbered in accordance.

Some are bald, while others have pubic hair shaved into landing strips or arrows or lightning bolts.

You’ve got your gaping and your gushing. The “under the table in public places,” and the, “stuck in traffic stinkfinger,” folders.

There’s a holiday themed section.

You get the picture.

A veritable cornucopia of cooz, primed and ready for launch.

Settle on the tried and true, “up the skirt peekaboo.” Click, drag and Bob’s your fucking uncle, boys.

Making magic.

Then somewhere out there on the ass end of a virtual expanse, another satisfied customer makes a mad scramble for the Vaseline, drooling like a pedo at a jungle gym.

This here’s what passes for a date these days.

They love you until they come. Then you can be switched off.

Discarded.

Thrown away like the gummed up Kleenex wads piling up in a trash can beside some strangers bed, thanks in part to yours truly.

But at least I get a cut of the profits.

Not a bad deal, all things considered.

My hamster’s laying on his back in his fruit bowl, inhaling a honeydew melon. My stomach groans.

Check my hair again and type “BRB” into eleven different chat boxes.

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