Webcam Girl

by

Gaz

Tuesday June 19, 2006 - 1:17am-

At home trying hard to get completely drunk really fast.

Dear Diary,

Girl, it happened again.  I accidentally webcammed some of my disgusting personal habits to a near stranger on the internet.  This so-called "tiny glitch" is really starting to eat at my dirty panties.  Like any other normal, single, horny, modern young woman, with bad taste in men and low standards, I have been web-camming every single night for three and a half years, and never had a single problem until now.

A few hours ago, I was on-screen with a charming, but naughty-mouthed Garçon who grapples with the dreadful misfortune of having to live and work on the French Riviera.  (Breaks your heart doesn't it?) Pierre and I were supposed to be having some good old-fashioned cybersex, but the goddamn webcam refused to broadcast.  Since there is a mysteriously strong hotspot in the bathroom, I dragged my sorry-ass laptop into le toilette, so at least Monsieur De Dade could watch me take a shower.  Miraculously, it worked!  For a whole half minute!  But just as I seductively dropped my old Calvin Klein bathrobe to show off my brand new $7,543.76 titties, POOF!  The screen blinked to one hundred percent blackness.

Now you know my temper.

One, two, three...

I lost it big-time.  I was seized with an impulse to pulverize the frighteningly cognizant piece of shit and hurl it out the window. Yet, I yielded to an exercise in self control, because somehow, I intuitively knew something else really fucked up was about to happen.

Now kicked out of cyberspace, I decided to start my nightly white-girl routine.  This evening's girlie sanitizing repertoire included the delicate, dainty, ever-so-feminine acts of picking out toejam, scrapping out earwax, douching, shaving my legs, armpits, pussy, and surgically extracting the few infuriating hairs that grow with a kind of mocking defiance around my nipples.  I sneezed three times, farted twice, belched, and even took a dump.

And it was all web-cammed to Pierre! 

No shit, Shirley!  The little rat-bastard camera decided to work, all on its own. Monsieur Wonderful texted me right after I finished informing me that he and his roommate just witnessed every itsy-bitsy, teeny-weeny detail of my entire private hygiene ceremony. 

WHAT??? 

A really cute guy; whom I have been this-close to having awesome cyber-sex with just saw me pick buggers?  I flipped completely out of control.  I sprung out of bed and dashed like a madwoman to the bookshelf; desperate to get my hands on Confessions of an Heiress.  How-ev-eRRR, I tripped over my brand new Thigh-Master® and went crashing into the old kitchen counter.  This minor fender-bender provoked the refrigerator door to spring open and deposit a gallon of freshly squeezed wheat grass juice on my recently shampooed head.  I slipped and fell down three times before I was able to stand on my feet.  But as soon as I dared a step, I knocked over a five-pound box of Arrowroot flour that chose me as its target. 

I was entirely covered in a disgusting (yet healthy) emerald green slime.  Like a drenched puppy, I crawled on my hands and knees to the living room.  I was somehow able to drag my stark naked, fully saturated, unsightly ass onto the couch.  I sat there for a minute; wallowing in rage and humiliation. I grabbed the box of Sherman's that Vikki left, lit a cigarette and proceeded to pore through a book  I could lose friends over for owning.  She may be racist, butt-ugly, and as spoiled as she is stupid, but only Paris Hilton,  the Godmother of All Things Embarrassing, could possibly know what to do in a time like this.  I plowed through the entire contents of this literary tome, (which took all of two minutes) but found nothing.  I still can't believe it.  You mean this hasn't happened to Paris Hilton...(yet)?  I reached over and grabbed a half-full bottle of Merlot and guzzled the whole thing like some stupid frat boy inhaling a can of Miller. Over-priced, flat French wine was drooling down the sides of my face adding to the already unsightly mess that would be moi, and I didn't  care one goddamn lick. That is, until I heard a voice.

"Le fonctionnement de l'appareil-photo très bien maintenant mon cher!"

WHAT?

THE CAMERA'S WORKING FINE NOW???

I spun around in the chair and nearly died at what I saw. There was Pierre on the bloody computer screen looking like he just saw "Fright Night".  He sort of waved, but he was clearly shocked into impotency.  I ran over to type in something-anything, and then the whole cable connection went out. I swear to God.  Girl, if I wasn't completely shit-faced, I would have lost my fucking mind.

Okay, It was already three in the morning and there was nobody I could call.  So I was left ... to my own devices! You know how disastrous that always turns out!  Like the brainless girls I generally make fun of, I called his cell phone and left a long-winded, melodramatic, typical, pathetic-chick message; apologizing for being such an unrelenting, low-classed gross-out. 

Tuesday June 27th -

Dear Diary,  

It has been a whole week and Pierre still hasn't called, texted, or had his goddamn camera on.  Three emails boomeranged back to me however and his phone number has been changed.  Can you believe this shit?  I'm sure it's a pretty disgusting thing to witness, but to never call back a super-hot chick just because you saw her launder her pussy?  That's a little spineless if you ask me.  Can you imagine what he would have done if I was having my period? All the same; if he was so totally grossed out by seeing what I actually have to-do to look so drop-dead fine and irresistibly fuckable, then why the hell did he keep watching?  Huh? Why didn't the little weasel text me immediately and tell me he can see me wiping my ass? 

I have to remember to add that to my ever-growing list of reasons to become a lesbian.

Oh my drama!

Honestly, I'm more infuriated at this cheap-ass Japanese camera than this milquetoast Euro-trash loser. 

I'm supposed to be broadcasting my class live in three weeks and I still can't get this fucking thing to work right.  All the rehearsing in video chat rooms has turned into a nightmare and a joke in tandem.  I can see everyone else fine, but I never know if they can see me or not.  I may be a self confessed voyeur, but I'm not that much of a ho.

Dear Diary,

Location: The Plantation, a.k.a., The Gym...ya know, Work.

The Time: Oh, who cares anymore. I just know it happened right after teaching my fourth straight Spin® class.

The Event: A cute, but synthetic blonde walked right up to me and recommended a vibrator.

"I noticed you use the Kobe Tai Triple-High-Speed Remote-controlled Digitally Sensitive Model 1000-SXX," she said with an impressive Long Island/OC/Valley-Girl dialect. "I used to have one, like a gazillion years ago. But honestly Jessic-aaaah, the Stephanie Swift Single Speed Multi-Fit 1000 is like, way more enjoyable.  Not nearly as pretty as the Kobe, but you'll swear you're having sex with Peter North, or Mark Davis, or..."  

Then the sweetheart mannequin-brained teenybopper sang a soliloquy of  a dozen male porn stars she evidently fantasizes about. 

"How on God's green earth do you know what kind of dildo I use?" I asked bracing my shaky central nervous system.

"Cause, we like, totally saw you playing with yourself on the Internet last night."

"WHAT?" 

I turned redder than a well-paddled ass.  How on earth could little Buffy, Tiffany, Becca,   whatever her name is, know...  then I thought for a second.

 I was video-chatting with a guy form Sicily.  How-everrr, that was strictly work related.  The dude owns a dozen gyms in Italy and wants to distribute my Ironbooty® exercise videos.  There was nothing sexual...wait a minute.  Maybe I left the camera on.  No I didn't.  I distinctly remember turning it off because I didn't want to push my luck (or karma) with it working.  Therefore, the malignity-machine turned on by itself and now an unknown number of out-and-out strangers are watching me masturbate myself to sleep...for free much less.  That is it!  I gotta call Vikki the second she and Amelia get back in town. Nobody knows more about computer problems and shit than her.

Dear Diary,

Tonight I went by Vikki's to off-load my backstabbing computer and the demonic webcam.  As usual my big-hearted lipstick-lesbian girlfriend flirted with me like a sailor during Fleet Week.  Being the gorgeous, yet insecure chick that I am, I freakin loved it.  My hot Czechoslovakian girlfriend has grappled with the fact that I'm not gay.  Yet she also knows about the all-weekend booty call I had last summer with Mistress Heidi.  And we both know I am irresistible to her mischievous advances and coquettish lust for me.  If any other chick persistently hit on me like this, okay, I would be flattered.  But when this little clit-teaser flirts, it makes me feel like a real woman.  I gave up trying to figure this out, all I know is Vikki is the most loyal girlfriend I have ever had. 

We popped open a bottle of Coppola and wasted a little time updating each other on gossip about some people who think they are our friends.  She put down her glass and snuggled up next to me and subsequently hit me with a question I never expected:

"Jessica sweetheart, What brand of razor do you use to shave your pussy?"

You know why she asked that question?

Because she saw me whacking the pubic jungle on the internet.

She, however, didn't find my personal grooming gross at all.  This is what I think they mean by ‘Sisterhood Is Powerful'. Another chick knows just how much elbow grease goes into looking marvelous.  A man just wants the finished product. And guys wonder why we have so much suppressed animosity toward them.

She kept my ailing heap of PC-crap, loaned me a working PowerBook® and new a Webcam she won in a muff-diving contest. In the mean time I'm just praying for the miracle of mechanical resurrection, least I take the dad-blame thing out to the backyard and pump lead into it.

Dear Diary,

You are so not going to believe what happened.  I hooked up Vikki's machine to the camera to test it out. Everything was working fine, so  I opened my home page and started doing some exercises on-screen to see how it looked.  I wasn't on-line with anyone, but a few minutes into it I started getting AOL instant messages from some high school chick in Thunder Bay asking me to repeat the moves because she was having trouble keeping up. 

Duh! Huh? What? 

I was flattered on one hand, but the thang is, I was only logged-in...to myself.    She claims she Googled "exercise videos" and jessiesironbooty.com came up.  She saw me exercising and thought she was taking the online course.  She swore up and down she tried to pay for it, but the site wouldn't let her.

Okay, this freaked me right out of my already unstable senses.  Never mind that I wasn't even connected, but the site isn't even set up for broadcast yet.  I gotta go call Vikki... now!

Dear Diary,

The world is coming to an end.  Last night I phoned-up Vikki and she was a crying, hysterical mess.  Amelia, out of the clear blue sky, waltzed into the house, packed everything she owns, and moved out. Vikki's ho-bitch girlfriend of eight years, overnight, decides she no longer wants to eat pussy, and drop-kicks gorgeous, sweet, brilliant Vikki to the curb like yesterday's used Tampons. Vikki said she pleaded with the ungrateful wench to reconsider. But all Amelia said was: "Don't beg Victoria. It's over. You may think I'm coming back, but I'm not. It's over." Then she and two body-building, steroid-fueled, bulldyke mover-chicks took all of her shit out to a truck. Can you believe the fuckin nerve of this, this, this ...you see, chicks like her are one of the reason men call us bitches.

Anyway, I went over to check in on her since she was completely blindsided by this little slut. What was once a warm, comfortable, inviting home now looked like an apartment that had been freshly burglarized.

But the truth is, the backstabbing, pseudo-intellectual, counterfeit lesbian slut actually did Vikki a huge favor.  Poor Vikki can't see that...yet.  So she was up crying all night long.  I didn't have the heart to ask her about the camera.  Instead, I stayed the night. We climbed into cozy, flannel pajamas, made hot chocolate spiked with extremely generous amounts of Grand Marnier, and yada, yada, yada, ...I wound up having pity-sex with her.  I know, I know; it's wrong.  But she begged me.  More than anything, I love the girl too much not to.  Besides, it was the most beautiful night of passion I think I ever had.

In the morning she asked me how her camera was working. My response blew her mind.  She said she has never heard of cameras broadcasting that weren't technically on.  Good old V-girl, she sees this mechanical impossibility as a personal brain-teasing challenge. So she is coming by after work to check it out, and, of course, to avoid being alone.   

Meanwhile at the job, there are rumors circulating about me broadcasting my personal life on the Internet.  Craig, the poorest excuse in the world for a fitness manager, took me into the office to have a "little talk" with me.  Yawn.  I just sat there and let him run his simple minded blather, knowing full well they wouldn't fire me to save their own fat-free lives. Shit, my Iron Booty class alone makes these capitalist hard-bodies more money than any group exercise class they ever duped the public with.

All-righty. I was fixing to leave when Mister Sherwood Maxwell 3rd himself walked in. I don't have to tell you how much this rattled my bones. 

            "Ms Sweetwater, there is no point in denying you are web-camming yourself on the Internet.  I personally have seen you gargle, clean your ears and clip your toenails.  Not only grossing me out to the point of insomnia, but you are putting the entire reputation of the MaxWell-Body Gym franchise in jeopardy."

            He scolded me with a not-so-gentle reminder of the contract we have to distribute my videos.

I explained the whole problem with my computer and promised to get it fixed in time to go live from the gym.  He responded with "sure thing" in that way that let's you know, on no uncertain terms, that the person has absolutely no faith in anything you say.  Nevertheless, he said in the worse-case scenario he'll buy a new powerful camera to use.

More tomorrow.

I gotta go check in on Victoria.  She left me a message that said:

"Hi Jessie. I'm calling to see if you know why life sucks." 

Dear Diary,

            Just got home a minute ago.

I cancelled all my classes today and tiny little Craig is loosing his tiny little mind. He phoned me up and whined for a half hour about how the place is an absolute mad house.

Tough cookies baby.  

I can barely hold this pen, much less a Spin class.

LET'S START WITH THE LATEST TRAGEDY:

Yesterday afternoon Vikki was fired from her job.   Let's face it, network security is so beneath a woman of her talents anyway.  Still, it is a job.  We were up all night trying to figure out what she is going to do.

            Here's where the mystery gravitates to the land of phantasmagoric nightmares. And I don't even know what phantasmagoric means. Vikki was fired because the president of the company saw us having sex the night Amelia left!  Isn't that sweet? But it wasn't the drunken wild lesbian marathon booty-call that bothered him. Duh! The stupid mufuka got busted by his wife looking at internet porn...i.e. US! She walked in on him while he was watching and downloading the after-glow. Vikki and I were lying in bed talking about our jobs and shit.  At one point Vikki was in hysterics when she told me Mrs. Wentworth (a.k.a. the freakin bosses' wife) had a face that was a dead-ringer for a dead-Rhino's ass.

Here's the thing: there wasn't even a computer in the room Vikki and had sex in! I swear to God! Can you comprehend how overwhelming and scary this is?  It's like there's a ghost camera out there following me around. I'll admit to being a freaky girl, but this shit is too freaky for even me.

We Googled my name and there were two million hits on jessiesironbooty.com. A second later a window pops up and there we were: looking at ourselves on the screen and we didn't even have a camera connected to the computer.  We ran around the corner to a cyber cafe and again we saw ourselves sitting in the coffee shop at the terminal.  We walked home distressed and beaten down with confusion.

Dear Diary,

Vikki did come up with an idea. But it is not a good one. She thinks we should call Amelia.  My blood boils just hearing her name. But the bizarre fact is; the psycho-ex girlfriend from hell just happens to be a scholar on metaphysics and teaches a curriculum in mysticism and the occult sciences at Sara Lawrence. And that pisses me off too. Brilliant, impossibly beautiful and just as evil. Amelia is the Ann Coulter of the unseen world. A renowned expert in her field and hated by everyone in it.

Dear Diary

            I came home and Vikki was there...with Amelia.  No shit!  I knew she was going to talk to her but I sure didn't think it would be in person and certainly not in my house.  All the same, there she was.  All six feet of her long, sorry ass.  She was subtly and slyly trying to get Vikki back.. I may not be a full-fledged lesbian but I know when a chick is after my goods.  Even though she was pretending to fight off crocodile tears, I wanted to punch her.  Then the ho clutched Vikki's hand. And that's when it hit me; I was jealous.  Insanely jealous!  I pulled her manicured paw away and put my arm around Vikki...claiming her as mine. Dammit.

I grew acutely impatient with her being there and just asked outright what was going on with me and this webcam thing.  She was pissed, but she is also afraid of me. Which proves she isn't completely stupid. Anyway, I recorded what she said because the chick talks in convoluted circles of twisted logic.

            "Okay Jessica, here's what I think is happening.  There is a electromagnetic energy that is transmitted by all matter.  In the spirit realm that energy can collide with a person's psychic energy field and they merge.  Then the force follows one around like a head cold that won't go away. 

            "Your former addiction to web-camming was fine until you decided to use it for monetary purposes.  Your psyche accidentally slipped into the wrong dimension at the wrong time, so now the camera lives in your psychic energy field.  That's why it will broadcast every movement you make; for the rest of you life.  There is no proven method to impede or alleviate yourself of this.  I know it's not good news, but in the world of grown-ups, the truth is often unpleasant and brutally painful." 

            I damn near slapped the bitch.

 Instead, I stuffed five hundred bucks in her hand and told her to get the hell out of my house.

Dear Diary

A month ago Vikki moved in with me.  We are madly in love, happy and fitly rich. Vikki miraculously managed to finish my website and set it up so you must now pay to view me, us, or whomever I'm with. Thus,  we make money no matter what we do

We ultimately got three thousand chicks signed up for the class in the first nine hours.  I was so stoked I couldn't wait to call Max, But he called first.

Papa Sherwood told me the shareholders had an emergency meeting and they decided to drop the deal all together.  Apparently a little lesbian domination play is too much for the old-boy's school after seeing me tie Vikki up and spank her ass. Can you believe this shit? You would think this would be the kind of thing that would turn guys on. And maybe it does, because every single investor, club member and even Papa Sherwood himself has an account with jessiesbooty.com

                                    The End

The Secret Diary Of Web Cam Girl

and all contents in the collection titled You Always Hurt the One You Love is protected by the United States Copyright office.  Any publication, public performance, duplication, or recording is prohibited without the written permission of the author G.Hipster. 

Copyright 2006

App 3,600 words.  This is am uncorrected proof.