PROLOGUE
ASHTON
I never planned to make porn. But when your tutor asks you to strip for art and your bank account says, “Babe, we’re starving,” you learn to stop flinching at the camera.
I was hunched over my laptop, editing the last few frames of a video reel, the blue light burning into my retinas.
My flat was cold — the kind of cold that made you question every life choice that led you to a country where heating costs more than therapy.
I wrapped my hands around my mug of tea, took a bite of a Jammie Dodger, and tried to convince myself that the sugar rush counted as self-care.
The reel looked good. Clean lines, soft lighting, the kind of angles that made even me think, “Damn, okay.” I clicked save, stretched, and let my spine crack like bubble wrap.
Then my phone buzzed.
A notification from Instagram. Great. Probably a like. Or a DM from someone asking if I’d “ever considered doing a collab ??.”
I tapped it open.
Nope. A troll.
@PurityWarrior87: “You’re disgusting. Your parents must be so proud.”
My stomach dropped. Not far — just enough to sting. Shock first. Then resignation. Then that familiar, dull disappointment that settled somewhere behind my ribs like a bruise that never fully healed.
I stared at the comment, Jammie Dodgers halfway to my mouth, and wondered — briefly — if I should reply. Something witty. Something cutting. Something that would make them feel as small as they wanted me to feel.
But that’s what trolls want, isn’t it? A reaction. A spark. A crack in the armour.
I took another bite of the biscuit instead.
I wasn’t ashamed of my body. Or of sharing it. Did I feel sleazy? Not often. Mostly when preachy homophobes crawled out of the woodwork to scream that I was doubly damned. Well, if I was heading to hell anyway, why not profit from it?
Still...comments like that hit harder than I liked to admit.
I set the biscuit down, wiped my fingers on my joggers, and forced myself to breathe. In. Out. Don’t give them space in your head.
I deleted the comment. Blocked the account. Dismissed the sting.
Then I opened my editing software again, because that’s what you do — you keep going.
Did I enjoy making what was effectively porn? Yes, and no. Yes — I liked the control, the attention, the money. No, I hated the assumptions. The judgement. The way it made me question my worth on bad days.
I hadn’t meant to end up here. One of my tutors had asked me to pose nude for the life-drawing class. The money was good. I got a kick out of it. And being an art history student wasn’t cheap. My student loans stretched about as far as my patience for public transport.
Then Gav — drunk on J?ger bombs and terrible decisions — told me I had “fuck-me eyes” and could make quick cash doing my own porn. I laughed it off. Mostly. Until my electric bike payment reminder arrived and I realised I had two options:
Sell tasteful nudes
Take the bus with the grannies and school kids
I chose dignity. Which, ironically, meant taking my clothes off.
That was six months ago. Now I had a solid client base, a small website, and a growing Instagram following. Word-of-mouth was doing its thing. My photos were in demand. My videos too.
But it wasn’t my dream job. I’d finished my art degree, graduated with a first — but that didn’t magically open gallery doors. And I wasn’t ready to fly home to Santa Barbara with my tail between my legs and admit to my parents that my big British adventure had fizzled out.
So, here I was. Editing porn. Drinking tea. Nibbling Jammie Dodgers. Blocking trolls. Trying not to let strangers on the internet decide how I felt about myself.
One day, I’d hang up my jockstrap, wash off the baby oil, and get a job in a museum. But for now?
This was my life. Messy. Lonely. Unexpected. And mine.