Page 133 of The Influencer

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jade

I still can’t tell if the feelings are mutual. I live with two Ashers. One of them can’t get enough of me, and the other can’t seem to wait to give me away.

He manages to work my OnlyFans into eighty percent of the conversations we have. Sometimes it’s just to remind me that he’s totally fine with it. Other times, he’s more persistent for me to “get back on that horse” so to speak, saying things like “I thought the whole point of influencing and whatever else you do is staying relevant and popular.”

Don’t get me wrong, I like both Ashers. I fucking love the first one. Like heart-thumping, all-consuming love, and the second Asher I find interesting, if a little annoying. Or maybe I mean frustrating. Or also, I could mean that the second Asher makes me want to punch him in the face for all his good intentions that I’m a hundred percent sure he really means.

I get that I’m a sex worker, and he knew what he signed up for when he decided he wanted to get involved with me. I also really used to enjoy doing it—filming sexual encounters with hot strangers, or almost strangers. But I also used to like Grindr hook-ups and the occasional blow job in a men’s room. I’m twenty-three, and I live in a perpetual state of horniness or near horniness. But it’s not like I used to fuck all day every day.

Now, with Asher around, my sexual satisfaction has gone from a six on a scale of one to ten to a twenty-five. I am supremely well cared for on the orgasm side of things. And he’s the only person I want giving me orgasms, which puts me in a bind in terms of my OF. I’ve been keeping the account afloat by posting previously recorded content, but now I’m running out of footage to share with my fans.

Because look, there’s no way they get to see Asher fucking me in a cheerleader costume. I only recorded those little scenes to get good performances out of him, and maybe, just maybe to have them available if I ever need to “remember” him when I go back on tour.

Point being—I don’t want to reach out to some internet stranger and request a collaboration. I don’t want some other man in my home—in the bedroom I currently share with Asher—kissing me or touching me or wrenching an orgasm out of me. But I also don’t want to tell Asher that. My whole life right now has turned into a scramble to keep him as close to me as possible, as often as possible, for as long as possible.

It’s exhausting, and truly, I don’t know how long I can go on like this. I wouldn’t say he’s putting pressure on me—just that I feel pressured. And I want to have an honest conversation with him about it, but I don’t want him to feel pressured, too. The way I see a talk like that going in my head is if I tell him he’s the only person I want touching me or sucking me or fucking me, then he’ll freak out the way I’m freaking out, and—worst-case scenario—he’ll back out of what we have because he’s a good man who doesn’t want to fuck up my life. That’s who he is, and I love him for it as much as I want to punch him.

Because he’s not fucking up my life. He’s the actual best thing that’s ever happened to me, so I would be crazy—wouldn’t I?—if I told him I wanted to put a huge part of my life on pause for as long as we’re together. But I can’t keep avoiding the conversation, either.

It’s been two weeks since he moved out of his apartment—and what a scene that had been. I could barely believe he’d kicked out his brother and Jax and asked me to be with him instead. I also couldn’t believe how different he seemed that day from the man I first met. Like he’d finally taken control of his life—in full possession of his confidence. It was fucking amazing, and he’d wanted me there to support him. Me.

It had absolutely felt like he was in love with me that day. Like he needed me as much as I was growing to need him.

Tonight is Adam and Sawyer’s engagement party. It’s August fifteenth, and I haven’t been with anyone besides Asher for three weeks. My latest round of test results all came back negative—again—and I was so smugly triumphant about it that I forwarded the email from the lab to Asher while he was at work. If he still insists on using condoms after this, I may literally cry. Not that I don’t cry half the times he’s fucking me, but at least now I would have an actual reason. Normally when I cry during sex with him it’s because I’m so totally overwhelmed by everything about him and also by the sense of impending doom.

Aven comes over to help me get ready for the party. They’re the actual best at doing my nails, and I don’t take care of my cuticles nearly as well as I should. But when I was jerking Asher off this morning, I noticed the state of my hands and left a panicked message for Aven.

We’re at the dining table, and the sun is so bright this morning, I have to squint. “Are you biting these?” Aven asks, holding up my right hand and inspecting it with a critical eye.

“Maybe.”

“Why?”

“I’ve just been a little stressed.”

They laugh. “You? Stressed? What kind of party is this?”

“It’s my boyfriend’s—I mean, my friend’s brother’s engagement party.”

“I’m sorry—I missed that first part, would you mind repeating that?”

I glare at them. “I would mind. Let’s talk about these new bangs of yours. I have feelings.”

“Oh, no you don’t. You said boyfriend, and then you corrected yourself, and your nails look like shit. What’s up?”

“I’ve been seeing someone. Happy?”

“Are you?” they ask, raising a purple brow.

“Sometimes,” I mumble.

“Jade, we have at least an hour. Your hands are atrocious, so you might as well spill.”

“If you must know, I’m in love. And it’s awful.”

Aven puts my hand in a soaking dish and tilts their head, violet bangs parting on a cowlick I want to fix immediately. “Why is it awful?” they ask.

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