Regarding the writer’s position, I eventually stopped putting as much time and effort in to my articles because I wasn’t getting credited properly, and frankly, I just got lazy. In the thick of my depression, the mounting stress I was under, and what felt like a fairy-tale romance that had completely lost it’s magic, I couldn’t summon up the words, meet the deadlines or come up with anything really relevant to the brief they’d given me (in all honesty, Children’s Party Planning pieces were never exactly my forte anyway) – needless to say my agent fired me… via email no less!
And so it came to be that I signed on at the dole office every Monday back in Monmouthshire, took solace, as before, in food, television and the internet, and generally sat around sullen and miserable in my 8 by 10 foot childhood bedroom. My thoughts would be drifting as I turned things over and over in my head, and wondered to myself where exactly it had all gone wrong, and what I could’ve, or should’ve done differently, if given the opportunity again.
I found myself growing increasingly nostalgic as the weeks and months passed by. Not for my relationship with Christos (I’d come to accept that that was over now) – but for London itself, a city that, for all its flaws, I was still in love with, mesmerised by.
I missed the hustle and bustle of city life, the ease of getting around, the sense of excitement and unpredictability that lingered in the air, and the sheer diversity of it all. I felt like the chance to experience everything London had to offer had been robbed from me, and I desperately yearned for another shot at it.
I was fed up of seeing fields upon fields of sheep, of rickety old buses that passed by every two hours and stopped running at 6 in the evening, and of access to a single corner shop that was vastly overpriced, and shut at 7pm, or even worse – 5 on a Sunday.
I simply couldn’t take it any more. I had to get away!
I still had a few friends of my own (or fuck buddies if you will) that I’d remained in contact with since leaving London and made plans to go and visit them.
I would save up my Jobseekers Allowance for a few weeks in advance so I had enough cash on me to make the trip, and some pocket money to blow through whilst I was there, and slowly I started to revisit London. Only this time around I found myself exploring a much darker side of what the city of opportunity had to offer…
It all began with small trips there and back, partying for a weekend or so and generally having pretty harmless fun. But before I knew it I was hooked on heavy duty drugs and spending longer and longer away from home, and more time with other users. Newly single, I slutted myself around an awful lot to any guy that showed the vaguest of an interest in me (mostly whilst high and usually always unprotected), but did manage to sustain a few short term relationships during this time. The last and most toxic being with a fairly big time drug dealer we’ll call Nick, who I moved in with within days of meeting, and who fed my insatiable habit for more, all the while pushing me towards getting invested and involved in the business side of drug dealing itself…
It all started rather innocently with “You don’t mind doing me a favour and dropping off this order (usually a few bags of weed or something) to a guy round the corner for me do you?”, to which I obliged. But as the chemicals quickly took a hold of me, both mentally and physically (a typical daily diet consisting of crystal meth, heroin, mephedrone and GBL), before I knew it he had me doing all his dirty deeds for him.
I recall feeling coerced into taking part in near cross country runs with suitcases full of money to exchange for drugs with Nick’s suppliers (seriously risky business!) and having to deal completely alone with some extremely unsavoury customers of his, while he’d nodded off peacefully in the bedroom.
I remember on countless occasions sitting in his kitchen shooting up middle aged men, who liked the rush but hadn’t the patience to learn how to properly inject themselves. By this point I’d fallen into the trap of IV drug use myself and was getting pretty skilled at it (not that that’s anything to be proud of). But I always shot up others with tremendous reluctance, thinking to myself time and time again ‘when the fuck did this become my responsibility?’
I dealt myself a little on the side (only ever class B or C drugs) but was a pretty bad, OK, a fucking awful small time dealer; more often than not blowing my way through the bags I’d been meaning to sell, sharing them around nonchalantly at parties or giving them away on ‘tick’ to hangers-on; – fellow addicts who always swore they were getting paid at midnight and would settle up then. Of course, the money never came…
Not making enough money alone from my dealing, and not feeling at all comfortable doing it in the first place, but still feeling the pressure to contribute towards continuing to live with Nick, I turned to what I figured was my only other option at the time for fast cash – escorting.
Nick and I, though we shared a bed in the evenings, weren’t even really having a sexual relationship by this point – I’d just slipped into the role of his drug mule run-around boy and that was that. He’d never suggested that I pimp myself out, that was solely my idea (I figured that I’d slept with enough guys in exchange for drugs in the past that doing the same for cash wasn’t all that different), though I made no secret of my pursuits and always made a point of slipping in a line or two to the clients that if they ever wanted chems I knew a great guy and could sort pretty much anything. That kept Nick somewhat happy, and me still somewhat on his leash.
I set up an online profile advertising my services and within days had my first out-call client booked. I advertised myself as a strict bottom (though in actuality I’m fairly versatile when it comes to sex – I feared my ability to maintain an erection, even with Viagra to hand, in the strung out, withered state my body was in) – and charged £50 per hour – though frequently got tipped considerably extra from men who must’ve either took pity on me, or simply had the cash to spend and found me endearing. For the most part, it was pretty easy money.
Most of my clients were men in their late 30’s or 40’s who wanted companionship and hadn’t had sex in a while, due mostly to recovering from health problems or having low self esteem, and were drawn I think mostly to my youth and willingness to try pretty much anything as far as sex went.
Sometimes I’d arrive, and they’d have me dress up as a school boy in shirt and tie and act out their role-playing fantasies. Other times they were dominants looking for some slave-master style play. I actually really liked exploring for the first time the kinkier/more alternative side of sex and got really involved with learning the in’s and out’s of things like bondage and sadomasochism. Half the time it didn’t even feel like work.
Those early experiences as an escort and my interests in BDSM have truly been invaluable in carving out my career as a cam boy…
Having been camming for a year, I’m fully aware there are many people out there online to whom I don’t appeal to in the slightest, but guess what? I’m absolutely fine with that.
The world of online webcamming is so vast, I genuinely mean it when I say there’s someone out there for everyone, and I do honestly believe that with the right amount of confidence, anybody has it in them to earn a decent wage. Hairless twinks, fat chicks, silver foxes, gym buffs, couples, transexuals and dominatrixes unite! – there’s room for each and every one of you to cam if you’re willing to put in the time to build a reliable fanbase and accept early on that you aren’t going to be everyone’s cup of tea. It can be a tough lesson at first, but you have to learn to be OK with it, brush it off and instead put all your focus into those that do keep coming back for more – not because of what you’re not but because of what you are.