SIX Cera
SIX
Cera
Behind the Mask: New Orleanians have always said things behind a disguise they would never say barefaced, the cover loosening the tongue. The truest thing she owns slips out only because no one can see who is saying it.
I settle the elastic behind my ears, tilt my head until the molded edge sits right, and flick on the ring light. Warm white floods the room, turning the platinum wig almost silver in the reflection on my monitor.
I haven't gone live yet, but I can see he's already logged on. A rush of excitement courses through me that probably shouldn't be there.
After clicking the red connect button, the green dot beside the camera blinks awake. I'm live.
I had my first day at my new job today. The thought of wanting to tell Midnight about it has been knocking around in me since I walked into that big, glass building this morning.
That is the ridiculous, dangerous truth of it.
Out of every person in my life, the one who has never seen my real face is the one I want to hand it to.
There's something about him, about being able to be completely open about everything, that is so freeing it's hard for me to even comprehend.
But I can't. We don't do specifics. So I fold it up small and tuck it behind the version of me he pays for, the lighter one, the one who never has a rent due date or a real name, or even a real city. He thinks I live in Arizona.
His voice comes through low and warm, that faint digital edge I could pick out of a crowd.
"Peoria. You look beautiful tonight."
I settle deeper into the chair. The ring light warms my skin, and I smile at him, grateful for his approval.
"Hi, you. Wish I could say the same about you, but I have no idea what you look like."
"Not much to see. Trust me, I'm doing you a favor. How was your day?"
There it is. The opening I am not allowed to walk through. I think about the glass building and the offer letter and the number that made my throat close, and I want to pour all of it into the dark square where his face should be.
"Good," I say. "A good one, actually. Yours?"
"Better now."
Two words, and the warmth spreads through my chest. This is the part I never considered when I decided to do this, and it's not the performing. The performing is easy. It is the in-between I didn’t see coming, the small talk that isn’t really small, how he says better now like he means it, and I let myself believe him.
We have done this enough that I know his rhythms better than I know most people's faces. I know the hitch in his breath that means he is close. I know the silence that means he is only watching. I know that when he goes quiet for three full seconds, he is about to ask me for something.
He goes quiet for three full seconds.
"Tell me what you're wearing under that robe."
His voice drops lower, and the warmth spreads through my body. I lean back and let my knees fall open just enough for the camera to catch the motion.
"Nothing underneath tonight. For you."
"Open the robe," he says. "Slowly."
I pull the tie loose and let the silk fall open. Cool air finds my skin. My knees drift apart, and I tell myself it's for the camera. His breath changes, that low rough sound, and it is already doing more to me than my own hands are.
"There she is. Touch yourself for me since I can't. Give yourself the pleasure you deserve."
The line lands in a place I know it doesn't belong. We are both here for a performance, but something about our routine, our "dates," as I call them, has my brain making it more than that. And I like it.
I slide my hand low, and my breath goes thin.
The room narrows to the light and the screen and his voice running underneath all of it.
I forget the angles I am supposed to be minding, forget that I built this whole setup so no one could get to me.
My head tips back, and the sound that comes out of me is not one I perform.
"Ah, yes. Mmm."
Heat crawls up my neck at his satisfaction. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my breathing even. My fingerless lace-gloved hand moves to my thigh, fingers tracing a slow line toward my hip.
"Rub up the inside of your thigh just like that. I want you to shiver."
I slide my hand between my legs, and the first contact sends a pulse through my core. My breath hitches, and I close my eyes behind the mask. The platinum wig brushes my shoulders.
"Slower. Touch your wet pussy for me. I see it glistening. Tell me how good it feels."
I obey without thinking, and my fingers circle my clit in lazy strokes. The pleasure builds in careful waves. My thighs tremble, and I press my other hand flat against the chair to steady myself.
"That's it, Peoria. You're so wet for me."
His voice wraps around me, and the room shrinks to just this, to his words and the sound of his breathing. My body responds before my brain catches up.
"You're so fucking perfect."
My pulse jumps. The heat between my legs spreads higher, deeper, until my whole body hums with it. I move faster, and my breath comes short. The mask sticks to my damp skin.
"Tell me what you're thinking."
The question catches me off guard, and my hand stills. What I'm thinking is that the apartment is less hollow when he is in it, that I arrange my evenings around a man I couldn't pick out of a photograph. I don't even know where in the entire world he lives.
I'm thinking that this stopped being work somewhere in the last few weeks and became the thing I wait for, and that wanting it this much is its own kind of risk.
I don't say any of that.
"I'm thinking about you watching me, how hot it is, how wet I am for you. I'm thinking about your big cock inside of me."
It isn't a lie. That's the worst part.
"Good girl." His zipper comes down, and then he inhales deeply. It makes me so horny, and I'm wetter, if that's even possible.
My hips lift off the chair, and I gasp. The pleasure coils tight in my belly, and I chase it without holding back. My thighs shake, and my free hand grips the armrest until my knuckles ache.
"Come for me, Peoria. I'm going to come for you, too. Oh, yeah. You are so good."
The orgasm rolls through me in hot waves.
I cry out, breathless and open and completely unguarded.
My body arches and the wig slips a tiny bit, but I don't care.
For a few dangerous seconds, I forget the camera is on.
I forget the mask. I forget everything except the warmth in his voice and the way he nudges me over the cliff.
When I come down, my chest heaves and sweat slides between my breasts. I blink hard, and the room comes back into focus.
The screen, the light, and the distance I built this entire setup to maintain come back into focus.
I straighten the wig and compose myself, pulling the robe back over me. I don't tie it, leaving it draped over my body. I hear him rustling behind the black screen. I always wonder what he's doing when he doesn't talk, but I can tell he's moving around.
Midnight's breathing comes through the speakers. He settles whatever he was doing, but he doesn't speak right away. I let the silence stretch, enjoying the coming down.
A shiver runs up my spine as the cool air finds my still wet and throbbing center.
"Thank you." His voice is quieter now, almost careful. Something in my chest twists.
"Thank you. You're good and always deliver," I compliment him. I've never been able to come so hard with anyone, in person or otherwise.
The minutes sit easily between us, and that is its own kind of strange.
This morphed somewhere along the way, straying from our original setup.
He pays, I perform, and the screen should go dark.
That was the plan when we started, before he asked me to be only his, and I said yes.
Now the screen stays lit, and I don't want our calls to end, even now with a job to wake up to tomorrow.
"Can I ask you something that isn't about specifics?" I say.
"You can always ask." The command has gone out of his voice. He sounds almost tired, almost human. "I reserve the right not to answer."
"What do you do when you can't sleep?"
A pause, long enough that I think he is going to leave me hanging.
"I work," he says. "There is always something to take apart and put back together. It is more productive than lying there staring into a black void."
Something about that makes me sad. I understand that emptiness at night, and I don't want that for him.
"That sounds lonely."
"Being productive never feels lonely to me. Lying in a black room, unable to sleep, is much more solitary."
"That's an interesting take. I can see what you're saying, but do you ever think you fill space with work because you're afraid of letting someone else do it?” I pull my knees up under the robe.
"Going deep on me, Peoria?"
"When I was a kid, I used to climb out my window onto the roof and count the cars on the road behind the house as they drove by. I decided if I got to a hundred before I fell asleep, the next day would be a good one."
"Did it work?"
"Never made it past forty." A laugh slips out of me, and the realness of it catches me off guard. "But I always fell asleep."
"On the roof?"
"Yes, but never for long. When I climbed back into bed, I'd go straight to sleep."
"Were you lonely?"
"No, I had the stars and the cars."
He goes quiet, and I hear him breathe, and then, softer than anything he has said all night, "What were you trying not to think about, up on that roof?"
The question lands somewhere I am not braced for. Nobody asks me that. People ask if I am okay. Then they take the yes. He heard the thing underneath the story.
"My shitty home life. My father was never home, and when he was, he was a mean drunk. My mom hardly came out of her room. I spent a lot of my childhood alone, so I guess that's why I think about that kind of stuff a lot."
I never tell anyone about my childhood. I've never even told Locke about the desolation of the home I grew up in, the silence that sat over every room like a lid, the sense even as a small kid that there was a reason for all of it nobody would ever say out loud.
He is quiet for a moment. Then, lower than before, "I know that kind of alone." Something shifts in his voice, like he has caught himself saying more than he meant to. "I would have stayed up and counted them with you."
I believe him all the way down. Whoever he is, behind the black screen and the borrowed voice and the money he sends, he knows a piece of me I don't give anyone. For one reckless second, I want to climb through the laptop and comfort that feeling of aloneness I know all too well.
Then he clears his throat, and the careful distance slides back into his voice.
"I have an early day tomorrow, Midnight. I want to take you and this to bed with me now. You can hold me as I count the cars."
"I'd like that."
I let the quiet sit for a second. "Sleep tight, Midnight. Don't let the bedbugs bite."
"You always say that." A pause. "Why?"
"My aunt used to, when she tucked me in. She was my dad's sister, my favorite. I always loved it when she would visit because my dad was on his best behavior and my mom put on her happy face."
I don't hand people my family, but the roof is already out of my mouth, so this follows it before I can think better of it.
"Are we still on for Saturday?"
"Sure."
Sure would be dismissive delivered by anyone else, but I take it as a term of endearment from him. I know he looks forward to these calls as much as I do, but he would never admit it.
The call ends with a soft click, and the green light goes red. I sit in the chair and stare at the empty monitor, my pulse still racing.
I reach behind my head to undo the mask. The elastic snaps, pulling free from my ears. The cool air hits my damp forehead. I drop it onto the desk and remove the wig, running my fingers through my real hair.
Midnight has gotten under my skin, and I'm not sure if I should be worried about that or grateful he fell into my lap. As long as it stays like this, it isn't a problem.
Something tells me I can't be that lucky forever.