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I am in the tastefully lit bathroom of a downtown nightclub, taking a picture of myself reflected in the wall of mirror in front of me. The sweater I am wearing is suggestively low-cut, but I center on my face. My sea blue eyes sparkle in the unnatural light. I had stepped out into the alley with some random guy to smoke a joint about an hour ago, so I am a little light-headed. I made out with the guy for a minute or two, in payment for the joint, I guess. Guys always want something, and making out is effortless and quick. The dull thudding of the music pounds through the wall. ?I am a lovely girl,? I tell myself. Most of the time I have confidence that I am attractive. I have a face that men sometimes cannot look away from, and a body that draws eyes when I cross a room. Still, it is difficult to ignore the trolls. Sometimes it is hard to feel pretty. I compose the second shot in the mirror, my face tilted this time, long black hair flung behind my shoulder to expose more of my neck. I wear a more sultry look in this shot, but it is sexier than my first shot not because of my expression but because of the long expanse of my exposed neck. I read somewhere that men are turned on by a woman?s exposed neck because it suggests vulnerability. Encoded in our DNA is the idea that a woman showing their neck communicates trust and submission, by allowing a man the opportunity to bite it and rip it open. I will never let that happen. This is the illusion of vulnerability esat escort only. I sell illusion. My vulnerability is not for sale. The music continues to thud through the walls. The bathroom is empty, though the nightclub is crowded, so it will not be for long. I reach down and pull back the edge of my sweater, to reveal the swell of breast beneath it. As I do so I let my fingers graze comfortingly across my breast. I let them linger a fraction of a moment on my nipple. I feel it tingle. I take another shot, my fingers at the edge of my sweater, my smile turning from sultry to inviting. This shot is exactly what I want. I post it on Twitter, adding the text, ?See you soon boyzzzz? to the image. I have taken over twenty pictures today. I have posted nine online. I use Twitter, mostly, but also Instagram, Tumblr, Flickr, and my own page, of course, where I archive everything. I used to do short videos on Vine, until they changed their policy, disallowing any content they find "sexually provocative." That?s pretty accurate. That?s my goal. Like I said, I sell illusion. I am a cam girl, and I am very good at what I do. I get paid well. This is how I market myself. Another girl comes in, and as the bathroom door opens the music becomes much louder, intruding into what had been my own personal space until the door swings shut, and the music is returned to a dull thud. We make brief eye contact and share a generic smile etimesgut escort bayan before she goes into a stall and shuts the door. She is pretty: tall and slim with short blonde hair. This makes me feel good. All women should feel pretty. All women are beautiful. I am tempted to wander back out onto the floor, but I have a nice buzz going and I am enjoying the solitude in here. I feel comfortable and safe. My nipples are starting to harden. When I take pictures of myself I become aroused. Not because I am thinking of all the faceless, interchangeable men and boys who will be looking at it, jerking off. The wall of the monitor separates them from me. I am aroused because this is me, this is my territory, and this is what I do. I enjoy this. It has little to do with them. I glance behind me to make sure the stall door is closed, then cup my breast in my hand, my hardened nipple growing more obvious under the fabric, framed between my thumb and forefinger. I take a shot. This one is mostly of my breast, but some of my face is in the shot as well, lips open. I take another shot, my hands still cupping my breast, my nipple swollen, and this time I make sure my tongue is in the frame, licking my lower lip. ?I have lovely breasts,? I tell myself. They are mine. This is me. I lightly pinch my nipple. Sometimes it is hard to feel beautiful. I have read the comments sections on Twitter, on Flickr, when I post my pictures. Escort etlik They call me a whore, a slut, a cunt. They call me ugly. They tell me I'm a worthless piece of shit. Even the words they use are hard and sharp and cacophonous: fuck, cock, tit, cunt. I don't care. They are avatars to me. They are blocks of pixels. I love soft words. Pussy is a soft word. Kiss is a soft word. Sigh. Cum. Lovely. I put down the camera. I hold both my breasts in my hands. My nipples are now engorged, tingling. I have lovely breasts. Not all the comments are from trolls, of course, many tell me the opposite, how beautiful I am, how hot, how sexy. How much they love me. How much they want to fuck me. These comments used to make me feel better. I divided the online world into those who approved of me, those who didn't. I don't do that anymore. I know who I am. This is who I am. This girl staring back at me in the mirror. I don?t care who they are. My pussy begins to tingle. My camera sits on the counter, next to the sink. A few of the commenters I know. They are genuine real world friends, fellow cam girls, or fans of mine who follow me from platform to platform. Some of my fans have attempted to form a genuine bond with me. They empathize when I am feeling sad, celebrate when I am happy. They know someone similar to me, a facsimile of me, and I am happy for that. I welcome that. I consider them my friends. I don't know the rest of them at all. They appear to be mostly young men, a few young women (always young, everyone always portrays themselves as young), but they could be anyone: serial killers, convicts, my next door neighbor, my Mom. It doesn't matter. Most days I post my pictures and videos every few hours, as a tease, a come-on, an advertisement.