Web Whore Episode 1 | Moana Bee

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by Moana Bee

End of the year. My savings are almost used up and I simply can’t afford three months without an income, unless Christmas miracles really do happen.

Thus, Prof. h.c. of the Lost Sciences, your research skills are now required; how much money does a camgirl make per month on average? The question will be forwarded to our dear colleague Mr Google in roughly the same wording:

camming+monthly+cash. The first thing I come across are blog posts by digital sex workers who report unbelievable weekly sums of up to 1300 US$, without really making any special effort. A maximum of 20 or 30 hours a week - not overworking their toys anymore than that - whenever they feel like it, albeit with a certain regularity.

So, about 1100 Euros even after deducting all the fees to our implacable accountant wanker, the net amount is almost twice as much as the amount I used to get in the past working fulltime.

For my old job I had to prove that I had the qualifications, which I acquired after ambitiously swotting for years, but here merely the stamina of our toys is enough. The deeper my research went, the more pressing the question became; what in the devil’s name are we supposed to learn from the propagation of our values? Go to university, stuff yourself with specialist literature in three different languages whilst doing several unpaid internships and student jobs, obtain expensive additional certificates after graduation to qualify for your chosen field, then a hundred volunteer hours on top of that to gain enough professional experience to get your foot in the door, all of which is worth about 10 € per hour to your employer. But if a semi-illiterate blonde spreads her legs in front of the camera, twitching and gasping, her pay per minute will easily be a lot more than that.

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Welcome to the 21st century old lady - nowadays people drive to the grey areas where their hotels are located with Uber, pick out their ONS on their smartphones and then use it to remotely operate devices in pussies on the other side of the world, against instantly transferred crypto currency. It's called technology, and unlike your unworldly intellectual stuff, it's not meant to be understood just by a handful of self-proclaimed experts, but to make all of our daily lives easier in any sector. Values? They’re all well and good, though nobody would ever accept them as means of payment. Besides, surely you can’t betray them by removing your panties every now and then in front of some strangers who can't even touch you? I’d neither force them to do so, nor insult anyone, nor do I have any other ethically reprehensible intentions, and during my first semesters I already realized that idealists are not necessarily among the top earners, thus it's my own fault since I still wanted to continue studying this nonsense.

Another point in favor of this business: it would be compatible with my completely disturbed biorhythm due to the sleep disorders that have plagued me since childhood. The only ones who have remained loyal to me are those who, like myself, only go to sleep at dawn, like my ex and now close friend Niko who usually programs his most genius software during the vampire hours, or the few writers who occasionally honor me with their company until daybreak.

What would they say about my career in this particular sector of internet services? I already know what Niko's attitude towards cyber prostitution is, he thinks it's okay as long as no violence or coercion are involved, and would certainly support me in any technical matters, while the writers might well be curious about the things happening on these virtual sex platforms.

My own curiosity vanishes the moment I surf through the portals again to refresh my memory. Lots of skin, groans, fake spasms and those ever-present duck faces which look like they’ve been stung by swarms of wasps (isn't it all so exhausting, sweethearts?).

For now I could consider this matter purely dialecticall, i.e. thesis: through camming you get quick and easy money. Antithesis: Maybe, but it makes me sick. Synthesis: 628,15 Euro. That's all I have in my account at the moment.

New year, new luck. In my case, my luck carries the Logitech logo and I bought it with the cash Niko smuggled into my handbag along with the Parmesan cheese as I cleaned his house shortly after Christmas.

Niko also helped with a donation for a high resolution webcam, and recently he gave me extensive advice on choosing a powerful laptop, since my beloved second-hand Mac broke down after less than two years in my service. Heat exhaustion.

The expenses in order to start my new business amount to more than 1,000 Euros, and my piggy bank was the first to suffer. Even as a child I was in the habit of fattening one up with surplus coins, but yesterday I had to slaughter it in exchange for this Microsoft crap. Meanwhile, the necessary formalities for the creation of a profile as a freelancer in the field of adult entertainment are still waiting to be properly completed. All I’d have to do is upload a scan of my ID to prove I am of age, come up with an appealing nickname and then agree on the preferred payment method by ticking the appropriate box.

Since my new identity card had arrived by post weeks ago I have no more excuses for procrastinating, but I still have a few hurdles to overcome, especially with regards to my pseudonym and remuneration. The option of electronic payment is reserved for US citizens only, while we NATO tributaries have to be content with old-fashioned cheques that can be cashed only after a long flight over the Atlantic. Moreover, I still have to find a bank willing to provide such a service without charging criminally exorbitant amounts. The most brazen offer was exactly 48 € per cheque, a fee for a service that even an especially consulted employee wasn’t able to explain. Unfortunately that's the way it is, he said, speechless in view of the terms and conditions which he said he was reading for the first time on his screen. They had never had a case like mine before, nowadays everything is handled worldwide via e-banking.

There’s only one bank I haven’t asked yet, namely my own, out of fear that my adviser could trace back the origin of my transactions and therefore I’d fall even further from grace than I already have as a low-income customer.

I’ll give myself until 15:30 tomorrow at the latest to get this shit sorted, after which the employees knock off work due to exhaustion. If all goes according to plan, my alter ego should see the light of day this coming weekend.

I should baptize it. By no means with a name which sounds like you dialed any old typical sex hotline. Not Sabrina, Jessica, Lucy or Roxanne, but what? Herta? Waltraud? Ulrike? Not exactly what you’d want to moan loudly while jerking off. After a few hours of thinking I finally get the inspiration: Moana. That’s how this unwanted child should be named. It sounds so nicely round, and soft and warm, like of a South Sea islander. And ambiguous. Moan. I just have to figure out an additional nickname to distinguish myself from the Moana who already markets herself as such. Something which reveals a bit about my character without sounding vulgar. A bit sweet, a bit poisonous. Like a bee. Sweet pollen on its legs and nasty poison in its sting.

So now, Moanabee, I baptize you in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. But let's skip the innocent white dress and go straight to the sinful stuff: Red laced corset, red suspenders, red fishnet stockings, the ultra-tight denim mini skirt which I used to wear in the lecture hall to draw attention, a wide leather belt, a leopard print blouse with ruffles and - the best for last - my sinfully expensive platform shoes which I once snapped up in a sale despite the certainty that I would never dare to go out on the street in them. They are by no means vulgar, but striking just because of their color, lickable rich burgundy red from toe to heel, on virgin, dizzyingly high soles in the shape of a nuclear weapon. What a waste of money, I thought after purchasing them. But when it comes to shoes, we women are like Oscar Wilde: able to resist everything except temptation. In retrospect it was absolutely worth it, now I could pass for Salma Hayek playing a high-class hooker. I’m about the same size, also with dark hair only not nearly as curvy with my 42 kg - which I don't want to increase - our faces are both quite angular -unfortunately that’s where our similarities end. I wish I could afford him, the plastic surgeon who conjures up those fresh cheeks embedded in Botox on her face. Instead I’ll have to resort to cheaper methods, and the most professional way is to work in layers: layers of concealer to cover up any wrinkles and dark circles under my eyes, layers of my waterproof black eyeliner to make it last while I push my dildo deep down my throat and tears well up, layers of mascara on my lashes for an extra-dramatic look, layers of cherry red on a mouth that will soon forget how to kiss…

3rd episode "My first time"