That being said, anyone expecting hardcore erotica is going to be severely underwhelmed. This is a story about people. And people are gross. You have been warned. Because a lot of my friends are terrible people, I knew that there were ways around Windows passwords that required little more than a thumb-drive and several dubious keyword searches. And of course it worked. The computer unlocked to reveal a desktop with a painting of the DC villain Harley Quinn as its background.
I was simply curious. There were seven folders on the desktop along with a small assortment of program icons: Microsoft Word, Photoshop, a program for live-streaming video that I had never heard of, etc. The computer itself was from the mids at the latest.
I started skimming through the earliest log and it quickly became obvious that Enid was no air-traffic controller. Client requests that I urinate into a bucket. I lay a plastic sheet down on the floor in front of the camera and do so. Client requests that I put on my Freddy Kruger hat, toy glove, and striped sweater with no panties and then play with myself while reciting lines from a Nightmare on Elm Street.
Client requests a voice chat but says nothing. It sounds like he is sobbing. Client requests that I kneel on the bed and expose my butthole to the camera. I get my porn the old fashioned way: off of free streaming sites. Think H. Lovecraft if he had been really into butt-stuff. In a weird way, I did start to feel attached to Enid. I spent nights sitting there, listening to her weird-ass music mostly stuff like the Cure and Four Non-Blondes.
I wanted to find her. That I would make everything alright. So, before this gets any more awkward, let me just reiterate: Not a monster.
