Page 9 of Sebastian

He’s splayed out on the armchair, sated and satisfied. He laughs, lazy and languid. His head lolls to one side. He looks straight into the camera and whispers, “I hope you enjoyed that as much as I did.”

In my mind, he tacks on my name at the end and one last shudder runs through me. “Fuck.”

That was really fucking good. And if all of his videos are like this one, it’s no wonder he’s got seventy thousand followers. This guy knows what he’s doing and he’s going to go far in the industry.

Which should have absolutely nothing to do with me.

Except there’s that feeling again, one that I haven’t felt in quite a while. It feels like a pebble in my shoe, digging into the arch of my foot, sharp and annoying. If I walk just right, sometimes I don’t feel it at all. Then there are times like this where it’s positioned itself right where I’m most sensitive.

I’m not going back to porn. I can’t. But sometimes, I really fucking want to. There isn’t any one thing that I miss about it. In fact, on the whole, my life is a lot better now than it was back then. Yet the lure is still there, reminding me of what I left behind, what I walked away from—of what could be if I go back.

I’ve been tempted in the past. People in the industry have begged me to do “just one last project” with them. I’ve always been able to say no. So why does it feel so much more difficult this time? Why does it feel kind of inevitable?

CHAPTER FIVE

SEBASTIAN

It’s Monday, and Mondays are admin day. I don’t shoot videos or take photos or post anything on admin days. Instead, I’m updating my finances, tracking analytics, and doing all the other not-fun stuff people don’t like doing.

Except I love it. I’m a data nerd. I love looking at numbers and trends and figuring out why this metric went up while another went down. I’d spend all week on admin if that was what actually generated income. But no. Apparently, fans don’t pay for me to talk nerd to them—at least, not my fans.

The guys think I’m obsessive when it comes to my data. But I doubt any of them know their year-over-year growth rates or returns on investments. Listen, I’m running my own business, okay? I’m a creative entrepreneur. A camboy-preneur, if you will. And businesses that don’t grow, die.

I log into my OnlyFans account and download the subscriber data for the past week. I don’t like the numbers I’m seeing. They’re down from last week and last week was down from the week before. In fact, there’s been a steady downward trend for almost two months now.

It doesn’t always mean anything. Sometimes there’s a dip in activity and that’s totally normal—nothing to get worried about. Except my numbers were going up at this time last year and if I remember correctly… I pull up my spreadsheets from a few years ago. Yup, these are usually my best months.

Still. There could be dozens of ways to explain this decline. No reason to jump to the worst-case scenario. Like I’m no longer relevant, no longer entertaining. Like there’s someone newer, younger, more exciting who is stealing everyone’s attention.

Pressure builds on my chest, sinking into me until it feels like I have a gaping hole right under my sternum. My fingers go a little numb and I curl them into fists, then my fists start trembling, and the more I try to hold them still, the more the rest of my body starts to shake.

I can’t breathe because if I breathe something bad will happen. I can’t move because something bad will happen then too. My heart is vibrating more than it’s beating and all I can do is sit there and stare at nothing. I might throw up.

It’s an anxiety attack. I’ve had them before—since high school actually—and I know what I need to do. That doesn’t make it any easier though, because the prescription medication I need is in the bathroom and the mere thought of getting up from the chair makes my stomach twist into knots.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I’m supposed to be over this. I’ve done all the therapy. I’ve been on medication. I know all the breathing techniques and mindfulness techniques and thinking exercises that are supposed to make these anxiety attacks go away. But no matter how far I think I’ve come, it still sneaks up on me when I’m least expecting it.

Like when I’m updating my favorite spreadsheet.

“Fuck!” Shouting the word out loud doesn’t make the anxiety any better, but it does get me breathing. I suck in a lungful of air as my heart thunders against my ribs.

I pitch forward and my laptop goes sliding off my lap, down my shins, and onto the floor. I shove it aside with my foot, then push myself to my feet. I pause for a moment because the room is spinning a little and my stomach does not appreciate the altitude change. When I don’t fall over or taste bile in my throat, I inch my way to the bathroom.

Whoever decided childproof caps were a good idea for medication used during anxiety attacks has obviously never had an anxiety attack before. My fingers don’t feel strong enough to grip the bottle, never mind do the press down and turn motion to open the damn thing. I’m lucky I don’t spill any onto the floor—or worse, down the sink.

I swallow the pill dry and brace my hands on the counter. It’s going to take at least an hour for the medication to kick in and until then, there’s not much I can do except try not to freak out any more than I already am.

Okay, I can do this. I just need to get to the bed, crawl under the covers, bury myself in pillows, and wait. Simple. Easy. I do that every night.

I wrap my arms around myself and half-stumble, half-stagger to my bed. The one benefit of living in a little studio apartment is that nothing is more than a few feet away. The bed is cold when I clamber onto it. I hug a pillow to my chest and curl up around it, burying my face into the soft fabric.

I breathe. In for a count of four. Hold for four. Out for four. Hold for four. I pick out five things I can see. Four things I can feel. Three things I can hear. Two things I can smell. And one thing I can taste.

I think about something happy, something calming. The first thing that comes to mind is Chris Preacher—no, Christian. The way he gently adjusted my posture during the one-on-one training session we had. The warmth of his hands and the firmness of his touch as he worked me through the stretches at the end. The way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

He’s nice. A perfectly normal guy. Not arrogant or egotistical like famous people are supposed to be. They say to never meet your heroes, so I was marginally afraid that he’d turn out to be a jerk, that this person I’ve idolized for so long wouldn’t be worth the pedestal I’d put him on. But I don’t think that’s the case with Christian. He seemed almost bashful when I asked about his previous career. He didn’t seem at all interested in reliving his glory days.

---