Chapter One #3
This is freedom to me. Real freedom. It's the kind where you wake up and don't have to answer to anybody.
Thank God, I don't have to worry about slaving in no one's warehouse, a Fortune 500 company or worry about being micromanaged.
Truly, I loved my life because I have everything that I prayed for.
I'm at the point in life right now, where I'm not stressing over a man, robbing Peter to pay Paul and social setbacks.
Honestly, I'm having my way and at thirty-five years old, I'm doing a damn good job.
I never thought I'd be making a living showing off my body, naked, allowing men to gawk over me in lust and admiration, like a nine to five, but my dreams didn't pan out the way I wanted them to.
Since I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a chef, because I have a deep-rooted love for cooking, but I got into a bad incident that nuked my reputation.
I attended a wedding and I was highly recommended by word of mouth.
It was my first event after graduating and I was so elated.
For months, I prepped in advance, making sure everything was on the menu and overstocked so I wouldn't incur any issues.
The bride wanted lamb and my preparation was beautiful, among the other dishes and finger food I'd prepared.
I made sure everything was fresh, at least according to my liking, it was.
The turnout was great and beyond my expectations, but days later, I woke up to mass notifications and was being dogpiled by so many people on all of my business pages.
According to the bride and groom, their families got food poisoning, but to my defense, in the days between their wedding they could've eaten anything.
I went far enough to ignore all the negativity and make an apology statement but they weren't having it.
To add insult to injury, I couldn't prove that the food wasn't perished, because it'd been prepared right and I took the necessary safety measures I was taught.
After that, my downfall was my demise and for a long time, I felt so degraded.
Being humiliated like that in public had me feeling so weak and defeated, I got into a depressed slump.
So I hung up my apron and chef hat. It was easy for someone to stomp on my dreams, but that's not the sort of thing that people forget.
Hell, I was even on Reddit for a few months.
It got so bad, that I went ghost and didn't appear back on social media until all the noise died down.
Shit, I couldn't even get a job at restaurants to add to my resume because they'd heard about the incident. That was a major loss and not a good starting point considering that I was new and I made my father look bad, because I was highly recommended by him.
To keep up with my bills, I settled for shitty pay, busting my ass for companies, under the white man, who didn't give a fuck about me. I'd settled for more than I could bargain for before I quit.
I was responsible enough to have money set back for a rainy day, but I had to cut back on all the things I liked, getting primped and polished.
Even the extra money I had went towards a bill or two.
I did what I could to get extra coins, so I wouldn't have to keep penny pinching or dig in my family and friends' pockets, though I'm sure they didn't mind if I'd asked, but I hated feeling like a bother. Furthermore, my pride wouldn't let me.
For a while, I DoorDashed, Ubered, Lyfted and Sparked.
The extra money was great but it wasn't dependable.
There were times when the money was good, and there were times when it was just okay.
Even while taking on the tackle, I was looking for something permanent, none of which included burning my damn gas.
Things have a way of falling into my lap though, even when I'm not looking for them.
I call that, God. As crazy as it sounds, I believe in signs.
I saw something on TikTok the other day, the woman made a statement along the lines of, "If I need to leave this nigga alone, God show me a purple car," and I'll be damned if God didn't show her.
There were purple cars lined up back to back on a car carrier. Do you know how rare purple cars are!?
A while back, I was talking to this young nigga.
We were kicking it heavy, but nothing sexual, though he was aware of my content.
He didn't seem like he was trying me on that level to become a part of it, which oddly enough sounds weird, because niggas are freaky enough to fuck cats in the ass.
The most we did was talk on the phone and we never linked up, though he asked me a few times.
I wasn't ready to be face to face with him, but he didn't pressure me.
To me, he was cool and we had a lot in common.
Randomly, he'd send me money on CashApp, which was nice of him, but it was only enough to put gas in my car, or buy coffee from Dunkin' Donuts.
It wasn't shit to be grateful for, honestly.
One night I was in deep thought and something told me to look up his name on Facebook.
It was an old page, one that he was rarely active on, but he had his Instagram linked to the page, so I probed further and clicked on it.
Low and behold, he was engaged, with a baby on the way.
There wasn't much for me to be shocked about, because I'm used to dog-ass niggas lying and not playing fair, so when I mentioned it to him, I caught him off guard.
He looked at me with a straight face and said that was his twin.
From that moment on, I cut him off and quit fucking with niggas, pretty much anyone, because I couldn't take on the hassle.
Just like that fell in my lap, other things did too.
Though I had enough money to get by, it wasn't enough to stretch.
Shit, I had to eat, pay my phone bill and put gas in my car too.
There was a viral post, from a while back about a girl saying how much money she made on a Black-owned porn site.
The comments were filled with filthy shit and how women should prioritize their time with other things besides exposing their body.
Back then, I thought nothing of it and kept scrolling until I came across a podcast that featured the same girl, mentioning her viral highlight.
As many times as I've told that story to people, mainly my family or men who want to use it as a conversation starter, about why I started, I'd mention that story play by play. God doesn't make mistakes and I truly believe that was a sign to run the stoplight.
During COVID, a lot of mobile grocery apps like Walmart delivery for Spark, DoorDash and Grubhub, were closed temporarily because of the pandemic, so I was left with no choice.
In the beginning, it was something to pay the bills and my content was already cut short, uploading faceless content, like my nipples, asshole, feet and pussy.
I don't know how the promo worked, but I guess using certain hashtags, I gained a greedy audience.
In a matter of seconds, I earned $500, but the kicker was I wouldn't be able to payout until sixty days.
The real money was men requesting to see more in my DM, which sort of made me feel uncomfortable, which seems odd.
It sort of felt like I was talking to them face to face, mainly the part about connecting with men and women and them being strangers made it uneasy for me, until I got over my head and talked myself through it.
Truly, they were nothing but a bunch of perverted-ass white niggas, with money to fuck off.
The upside was that whatever money I made from that, I'd get immediately, and most of those payments were made via PayPal, Zelle or CashApp. What I wasn't expecting was the thirst being at a high demand and it becoming overwhelming.
By the end of the night, after fulfilling requests, I had enough money to treat myself and then some after paying my monthly bills.
My life was somewhat satisfying and I thank God for it every day, despite a few of my loved ones turning their backs on me because they don't consider what I do to be a real job, but I don't live my life to please others and I'm grown enough to accept that not being a flaw, because what I eat don't make them shit.
Regardless, I'm having my way with these niggas and I don't have to fuck for it.
The sound of my phone ringing jolted my eyes open and I sort of jumped. The water had gone cold and I hadn't realized that I was drifting off into a slumber. The water sounded when I moved to drain it. I'd been in it long enough for my fingers to look wrinkled.
Exiting the tub, I sauntered over to my walk-in shower and let the hot water rain on me, relaxing me again for a second.
I stood under the water for a few minutes before grabbing a bath towel, followed by some Equate feminine wash to clean my pussy first. I hiked my leg up on the soap holder and gently parted my lips to wash between the folds, applying just a tad bit of pressure.
Then I washed my clitoris, applying ease, but my sensitive bud still riddled with sensation so I jerked every other second before moving over my bare pussy lips.
Until I felt fully clean, removing my creamy sap, I grabbed the removable shower head to rinse, then washed it again once more for good measure.
I applied that same attention to my asshole with a different towel, applying more soap and dipping my finger inside just a tad.
Then I bent over, and allowed the water to swarm inside my ass too.
To make sure I was fully clean, I douched my asshole.
My wash routine consists of such only when I partake in anal play, but it's not a habitual ritual.