Page 40 of Tips and Trysts

And then I realized: This kind of desire made sense. The shit we say to each other is straight up vitriolic sometimes, but we say it because we both like the causticity. Of course there would be space for filthy words between us.

I tried again tonight, tentative but clear:Such a perfect little slut. Needy, slutty holes.

She came when she saw it.

In the elevator, Cora told me that our desires are a manifestation of how we perceive ourselves. Desire feeds us what we need.

…I think my princess needs to be degraded. Badly.

Being Cora, she takes my silence as distaste. “You don’t like that word, Everett? Because let me be clear: If you ever get the honor, you better be prepared to fuck me like I’m your whore.”

I take in her resolute stare. I’ve never called a woman a whore before, but if she needs it, I’ll give it to her. I’ll give her everything.

Frankly, I can’t imagine a guy out there who could degrade Cora Flores better than I could.

I lean in, putting our noses close. “I’ll fuck you however you want. You want to be my whore? I’ll make you my whore.”

A gentle smirk arises on her lips, but her raised eyebrow is a challenge.

Fine. I’ll prove it.

Keeping my eyes locked on hers, I take out my wallet. I count out three one-hundred-dollar bills and hold them out to her. “This is how it works, right? When you do a good job, you get a tip? Well, you did averygood job.”

The corner of her lip rises higher, and Cora takes the cash, folding the stack of bills in half and flattening a crease with her pinched fingers. Then she splits the bottom of her robe open, revealing the tiny black panties she wore earlier. They’rewet.

Slowly, she places the money under the band of her thong, dragging the bills against her skin before she tucks them in place.

The money looks unreal against her skin. God, I need a fucking taste.

I step forward, hand out—

She drops the silk fabric and winks. “Thanks for the tip, congressman,” she murmurs before she retreats and closes the door, leaving me standing in the hallway alone with my arm outstretched.

Disappointing, but it’s probably for the best. After all, I now have years of streams to catch up on.

Twelve

CORA

There’s a coffeehouse inAdams Morgan called Tryst. It’s one of my favorite places in DC, not because the coffee is particularly special, but because two and a half years ago, I met Valeria and Essie here.

The three of us had orbited each other in camming circles for months, but it was Essie who made the connection. Tentative and sweet, she’d messaged, asking if we’d be interested in discussing a collaboration. We ended up talking for seven hours straight until Tryst closed, and then went to the bar next door and drunk-danced for three more. Now, the way I love those two makes most marriages look like casual pen pals. I would kill for them, die for them…

…actually, I need a better way of putting it, seeing as I would also die for a guy I hate (sort of).

But there’s friendship, there’s sisterhood, and then there’sthis. Before I dropped out of my PhD program and went no-contact with my parents, I had a gigantic family, lots of friends, and a few exes, but none of those relationships ever comparedto Valeria and Essie. I know our friendship is baffling to some people. Unconventional. After all, most people haven’t fucked their best friends and livestreamed it for an audience. But we’re sex workers; nothing in our lives is conventional.

Plus, convention is just athing—like an elegant way of calling something normal.

And ironically, “normal” is such a weird concept. Take this morning, for example. In what may be my most sacred place in DC, I’m seated across from a fifth-generation politician at a table by the window, and aside from being preternaturally handsome, he seems entirely normal. He’s dressed in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled above his forearms. His slacks are cream-colored and pressed. His boat shoes are pristine. All in all, he’s the epitome of a privileged, DC politics wonk.

And yet this guy isn’t normal at all. He’s far from it, I know, because last night, he tipped me three hundred dollars cash after he watched me masturbate one-handed.

Practice like a good girl. Prep for me. Because you know whatever that toy does for you, I’ll do it better.

I thought about Everett’s words all night. Fixated on them. Reread them. Came to them when I couldn’t sleep.

…I am so utterly fucked.

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