ASHTON
I stared at the half-finished reel on my screen; the cursor blinking like it was judging me. The flat was quiet — too quiet — the kind of silence that made you aware of every little thing. The hum of the fridge. The tick of the radiator. The faint buzz of my laptop fan working overtime.
I took a sip of tea. Cold again. Why did I even bother making it hot?
I leaned back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. Editing was fine. Filming was fine. Even the admin was fine. But lately, I’d been getting this itch under my skin — this restless, nagging feeling that I was meant to be doing something else. Something more.
Not that I hated what I did. I didn’t. I liked the creativity. The control. The independence. The money didn’t hurt either.
But porn — even the soft, artsy kind — wasn’t forever.
I clicked open a new tab and typed “museum jobs London” into the search bar. Just to look. Just to see.
The listings were...depressing. “Three years’ experience.” “Master’s degree preferred.” “Volunteer roles available.” Right. Because unpaid labour was totally accessible when your rent cost more than your dignity.
Still, I scrolled. And scrolled. And scrolled.
I’d graduated with a first in Art History.
I’d written essays that made my professors beam.
I’d spent hours in galleries, sketching sculptures and analysing brushstrokes.
I’d dreamed — stupidly, maybe — of working in a museum, handling artefacts, cataloguing pieces, being surrounded by history instead of lube and LED lights.
I closed the tab before the disappointment could settle too deep.
Maybe one day. Just...not today.
My phone buzzed. A notification from my website: a new subscriber. I smiled despite myself. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was mine. I’d built it from scratch. Learned the software. Designed the layout. Shot every photo. Edited every video. Paid my taxes like a responsible adult.
I wasn’t ashamed of it. Not anymore.
But I wanted more than this tiny flat and the constant hum of loneliness. More than being someone’s fantasy and no one’s reality. More than being the guy people wanted in private but never in public.
I wanted a future. A real one.
I pushed away from the desk and wandered into the kitchen, grabbing a Jammie Dodger from the packet Gavin had left on the counter. He’d called me a “hopeless romantic in denial” last week. I’d laughed it off, but he wasn’t wrong.
I wanted someone. Someone who didn’t flinch at what I did. Someone who didn’t treat me like a secret. Someone who didn’t see me as a kink or a risk.
Someone who saw me.
I bit into the biscuit, crumbs falling onto my hoodie, and leaned against the counter.
Maybe one day I’d work in a museum. Maybe one day I’d meet someone who didn’t run. Maybe one day I’d stop feeling like I was living between two worlds — the one I wanted and the one I had.
But for now?
I had reels to edit. Bills to pay. A website to grow. And a future I wasn’t ready to give up on.
Not yet.