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AGGIE
In two minutes, I'm going to take my clothes off for money.
I confirm it's two minutes on the upper-right corner of my laptop screen. Yep. 11:58. Tuesday July 13.
Just another day at the office for good old Agnes.
If your office is your bedroom and you're kneeling on your bed in a cheap-ass black polyester slip you panic-bought at Walmart for $9.99. Marked down from $12.99.
Totally normal Tuesday.
One minute, 30 seconds.
Here's the thing. Agnes isn't doing this. No, Agnes files. Agnes owns four cardigans, all oatmeal. Agnes says bless you to people who only cough.
So I sent somebody else in. Agnes's alter ego.
Which is technically me. But not me.
Getting her ready took three hours, and it wasn't fun. The laptop camera wants to sit at a "flattering height," which in this apartment means balanced on a dresser on top of two library books and a Converse shoebox. The lamp in the corner of her room has a scarf over the shade and it's starting to smell a little burn-y. The camera frame she's primping in front of stops at her mouth, just above her upper lip, which is mandatory for privacy reasons.
But this is not Agnes. This is my alter ego.
I may be taking off my robe for internet strangers, but that doesn't mean all privacy flies out the door. After a bunch of research, I learned that a smart camgirl shows only her chin, lips, throat, collarbone, and maybe a strap or two of whatever she's wearing. There are no eyes showing. No face, aside from the mouth. Nothing that could be identifying.
One minute left. My eyes run over the computer screen where the website glows as if I haven't already studied it for several hours. I check the preview button that shows you what your viewers will see before they see it. I click it.
Oh, no.
That's my mouth? I've had it my whole life and never once seen it cropped off from the rest of my face and lit from underneath like a ransom photo. And my teeth are the exact off-white of a manila folder. Nobody warns you about this shit. You budget for lingerie and lighting and completely forget your teeth are about to be the whole show.
I make a vow, clad in my nine dollars of polyester, that someday I'll bleach these babies to a color that does not occur in nature.
Tonight, I fix what I can. There's a red lipstick in the drawer I bought for a wedding and chickened out of wearing because it was a lot. Now, a lot is the whole point. Two slicked-on coats later, the woman I'm looking at in the preview reminds me of someone I'd never want to owe money to.
Somewhere back in the setup, in cheerful little letters, the site congratulated me on becoming a model. A model. Somewhere in Milan, a woman is getting paid right now to walk in a straight line and look bored, and here I am, kneeling on a comforter I've had since sophomore year and I’m a freaking model too? I nearly choke. I’ve never set foot on a runway, and the last photo anyone took of me was my work badge, and in it, I look like I'm being booked for some crime.
Model, my ass.
Just above my onscreen preview is my new alter ego's name. The cam site made me pick a name, and under pressure, my brain coughed up one dangerous-sounding word. Which is how I'm now named after my landlord's god-awful chihuahua. Four pounds of ferocity. Bitten two grown men. My role model, honestly.
Diablo. Says it all.
Thirty seconds.
I'm not here for the thrill. A cheap slip and too much lipstick is not my idea of fun. No, I'm here for the damn money. I'm here because my sister put her name, her savings, and—surprise!—my name on a loan for a goat yoga ranch. Goat. Yoga. Ranch. In the end, because the business never took off, the goats were sent to some animal sanctuary, the yoga never happened, and the ranch went into foreclosure. But not everything died, unfortunately. No, as of today, the loan is alive and well in the hands of a man who has never once, in his life, cut anybody a goddamn break.
Ten seconds.
Robe on. Lipstick screaming. Self-respect out the door, at least for the next hour.
The GO LIVE button, all red and flashy, is screaming at me. My finger hovers over it. I look at my preview. I look around my bedroom and toss a possibly identifiable throw pillow onto the floor.
And she's LIVE.
Holyfuckingshit.
