Page 37 of Ripple Effect

When I first started, I craved the independence, the ability to make my own money doing something that, on the surface, seemed relatively harmless. The temptation of the unknown, the adrenaline rush of stepping in front of the camera, the power that came from knowing that people wanted me enough—found me attractive enough—to watch me fuck.

It was a different kind of intoxication.

But three years down the line, it’s turned into something else. Something that fuels my restless nights and fills my days with anxiety. It’s like living in a constant state of dread, waiting for the next shoot, the next web chat, the next payment to go through.

And it’s not just the role-play—the forced persona of Everett—or the sexual acts that bother me. It’s the constant reminder that to these people, I’m just a screen name, an object of desire.

It’s the lack of real human connection, the isolation.

As a sex worker, we deserve our rights, our safety, our dignity just like anyone else. A job’s a job, and I respect anyone who’s out there hustling. But it’s not all sunshine and roses. Burnout, dissociation, dehumanizing messages, the pressure of keeping up a persona—it all takes a toll.

And no matter who you are, it’s impossible not to feel it, not to be affected by it.

My subscribers are good, fine, for the most part. They’ve supported me, monetarily and otherwise. But none of these people know the real me, and none of them are people I can call on when I’m having a hard day.

I feel detached, jaded. I know that it’s fucking embarrassing, but I’ve never even had sex without being paid for it, without it technically being a performance. And that’s why I feel so disconnected from the act itself.

Sex, for me, has become nothing more than a job. And over the last three years, I haven’t felt much desire or sexual attraction to anyone outside of what I do for work.

I don’t know if I can rewire that part of myself once all this is over. Despite craving a real relationship, wanting intimacy, I don’t even know how it all might work.

All I know is that I’m tired. Tired of pretending, of putting on a show, of maintaining a façade.

But again, I’m not in a position to quit. My income is tied up to this site, to the persona I’ve created.

And now, my heart’s fucked-up, too. This unexpected health issue has eliminated all my partner scenes for the last month. So, I’m left with the lower-earning tasks for the time being—solo scenes, web chats, photo shoots—and it’s all so time-consuming.

The pressure, the uncertainty, the loneliness. None of this can be good for my health, either. But for now, I’m stuck. I need the money. I need to keep my head down until I finish school and secure my degree.

I need to keep going, to push through.

All I can do is hope that I’ll make it through. That I can find myself again—maybe for the first time—once all this is over.

* * *

After spendingsome time catching up on work, my attention is yanked away by a soft knock on my door. “Hey, you heading to campus soon?” Daisy’s voice rings out, muffled by the wooden barrier separating us.

“Yeah, just give me a minute,” I call back, already swiveling my chair around and standing up. Time has a funny way of slipping by when I’m holed up in my room.

Stepping into the bathroom, I splash some cold water on my face. It’s a poor attempt to wash away the remnants of the world I’ve just escaped from. With a sigh, I push my fingers through my hair, raking it back with a dollop of gel, and then change into a clean T-shirt.

When I open my bedroom door, I find Daisy standing in the hallway, cheeks flushed and eyes shining. As one of our established ground rules, we agreed to carpool to classes when it suits us. Of course, I volunteered to drive, given the fact she’s done so much for me already.

“I’m sorry I slept in,” she says, wrapping her arms around her middle. “I just ... I don’t know, I must have been really tired.”

“Don’t apologize,” I say, brushing her off. “You’ve been doing a lot lately. You deserve a break.”

A genuine smile lifts her lips, chasing away any lingering guilt. For a moment, I let myself bask in it. This girl, she came into my life like a whirlwind, all bright eyes and infectious laughter. And now she’s here, looking after me, caring for me, simply out of the goodness of her heart.

It’s new, different, and hard to accept. Aside from Kaia and my family, I’m not used to other people caring about me like this. And the last thing I want is for her to overwork herself, to spend all her time and energy focused on someone like me, and subsequently burn out.

After letting Bentley outside, we hop in my Jeep and head to campus together.

For some reason, I can’t help but sneak glances over to the passenger side, drinking in the sight of her every chance I get—the way her lips curve into a soft smile as she hums along with the radio, the glow of the setting sun lighting up her face, the innocent look in her eyes as she gazes out the window.

I’m starting to realize that I’m not just grateful for her help, but I also care about her, almost too much—as a person, a friend, a girl who just picked up the broken pieces of her heart and shared them with someone new.

By the time night falls and we’re back at our apartment, the stillness of the evening wraps around us like a cozy blanket. We’re tucked on the couch together, Bentley curled up between us. And Daisy, of course, is the first one to break the silence.

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