Camgirl Read online

  “How do you even flirt?” my new friend Simone asked me at lunch after I told her my plan.

  “It’s easy.” I rolled my eyes. “You just look at a boy and smile and then look away.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. My grandma even told me that in the olden days to flirt you used to just hold a cigarette out for a boy to light and he’d know you were flirting.”

  “Smoking is gross,” she said.

  “No, Simone. Smoking is glamorous.”

  Of course, I was only thirteen and had no idea what the hell I was talking about. Luckily, when you’re thirteen, it’s actually pretty easy to become a seductress. All I had to do was smile and stare at Nathaniel over the course of six classes, and he was hooked. A day later at recess a group of boys came up to me and told me someone wanted to talk to me. I followed them over to where Nathaniel was waiting for me by the swing set.

  “Hey.” He glanced at the ground.

  I stared into his eyes, unblinking. “Hi.”

  He took a breath but said nothing.

  I leaned against the swing set and nudged the front of my sweater open. Boobs got boys, I knew that much. “Robbie said you wanted to talk to me?”

  “No, I mean, I don’t know.” He glanced back at his group of friends who were all gesturing wildly at him.

  “Do you have something to ask me?” I smiled, trying to look kind and welcoming.

  He hesitated again.

  “Go on.” I stared into eyes, then glanced down at my feet, mimicking a sweet, shy girl I had seen on Degrassi.

  “Do you want to go out with me?”

  I had done it!

  “Of course,” I replied, imagining the thrill running up his spine as the words left my mouth.

  I walked in from recess that day, head held high. In my thirteen years I had never felt such a rush. I pictured Nathaniel in his next class, giddy, blushing, palms sweaty at the thought of me, Isa, as his girlfriend. I had power! I could make a boy like me. Damn it felt good. I hurried to Simone’s locker.

  “Well, I did it.”

  “You did what?”

  “Nathaniel.” I leaned in. “I told you.”

  I was finally a woman. A woman capable of controlling a man. Capable of making a man happier than he had ever been. Or, I remembered Mike, unhappier.

  For our first—and only—date, Nathaniel and I went to see Batman Begins. In a rare moment of unity, my entire family drove me to the theater. They went to Target and waited for me to get out of the movie so we could all go out to dinner after. I skipped into the theater and saw Nathaniel. He bought our tickets and one Diet Coke with two straws.

  During the movie, I draped my wrist over the edge of the armrest hoping that he would hold my hand. His eyes remained glued to the screen. I looked around. The theater was mostly empty. I leaned in, letting my fingers dangle a little closer to him. He smelled like AXE Body Spray and sweat. I eyed his hands and noticed dirty fingernails. His cargo shorts had a dark grease stain near the knee. On screen, Christian Bale kissed Katie Holmes. I waited for my kiss. It didn’t come.

  I walked back to my parent’s car fuming.

  “How was it?” my mother asked, twisting around eagerly in her seat.

  I inhaled sharply. “Fine.”

  My sister craned her neck out of the window trying to get a glimpse of Nathaniel. “Is that him?”

  I looked at the hunched teenager, with his lanky arms and that grease stain near his knee. He was picking at his chin and walking toward the bus stop.

  “No.”

  “That’s it? We don’t get to hear any more?” My dad started the car.

  “It’s my private business. Can we go to dinner?”

  “She’s such a teenager already,” my dad said proudly.

  I wondered why Nathaniel hadn’t kissed me. I had made Mike Parson slam his face into a metal locker, but I couldn’t get this loser to touch my hand? I wondered how to make Nathaniel like me more. I wondered how to make other boys like me. I wondered if I could make all the boys like me.

  I began testing strategies and developing rules. I watched romantic comedies and learned how to bite my lip like Rachel McAdams. I watched Julia Roberts bat her eyelashes and laugh sarcastically. I developed Isa’s Rules For Seduction™, and they were remarkably simple:

  Stare at a boy from across the room until he looks up, hold eye contact, then look away. Repeat.

  Ignore the boy completely in group situations.But, Isa, you might be thinking—your technique only works if you’re physically attractive and hot and beautiful. Well, you’re wrong. It only works if you’re more physically attractive and hot and beautiful than the boy. I stuck to guys that were either less attractive than me or just more insecure than me. Preferably both. I never went after popular, confident, self-assured guys. They might reject me. I picked the ones that girls didn’t like, or at least the ones who didn’t know that girls liked them. I wanted to be the girl a boy never thought he could get. I wanted to be a Goddess. I wanted to be worshipped. I wanted to be Isa, Queen of Boys.

  The more I toyed with them, the harder boys pursued me. When I ignored them, they asked me more questions. I told myself that these boys were falling in love with me. That they thought I was their soul mate. That I was the perfect girl. Really, I was consumed with a compulsion: more boys, more seduction, more eye contact. Of course, I told myself I wanted love. Earth-ending, soul-crushing, life-changing, obsessive LOVE. Every encounter with a new boy felt fatalistic and raw. This boy would be the end-all. This moment would be my saving grace.

  Which brings us to the final steps:

  Share something that seems like your deepest, darkest secret but really isn’t—because that would make you vulnerable, duh.

  Ask the boy to share his deepest, darkest secrets.

  Emotional intimacy is obviously the key to any healthy, thriving relationship. It’s also the key to any damaging, psychologically manipulative relationship. I learned pretty quickly that when you tell someone a secret, you’ll be vulnerable in front of them, which gives you invaluable power because you’ll always be able to dangle their knowledge of your secret in front of them for emotional blackmail purposes. For example, if a guy gets mad at you because you flirted with someone else in front of him, you could say something like:

  “I’m sorry. I was so drunk. [Begin crying]. Do you think I’m turning into an alcoholic like my mother?”

  Coming up with “secrets” of my own was easy for me, because I had so many juicy and salacious secrets to choose from without actually divulging anything I cared about keeping private. I simply chose the truth that would most resonate with them. For example, I could say:

  “My mom’s an alcoholic,” if I happened to know they had an addict in the family, or

  “My dad tried to kill himself a couple of times,” if they divulged that they were depressed, or

  “I burn myself when I’m sad,” if they were particularly prone to pity.

  These were all great secrets to share because not only were they deep, dark, intimate secrets, I assumed they made me look tragic and beautiful. Usually after sharing such a heavy secret—no matter that it had already been shared with several other boys that month alone—I pressured the boy into admitting something he also held close to his heart. Sometimes, if he was very reluctant, I would force it out of him in an interrogation-style interview.

  By the time ninth grade rolled to a close, I’d been back in Boulder for a year and had nearly perfected my technique. My friend Kyle and I were leaning against his front gate, waiting for my mom to pick me up. It was June, and the air was warm.

  “Do you believe in God?” I asked him.

  “Not really, why?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, what do you think happens when we die?”

  “I don’t know.”

&nb
sp; “Are you scared of dying?” I looked into his eyes, and then off into the distance. “I am. But I also want to die sometimes, you know? I guess it’s because suicide is so normal in my family.”

  He crossed his arms and remained silent.

  I tried again. “You’re different from the rest of the guys.”

  “I am?”

  “I can see you’re sad. Why are you sad?”

  He took a breath. “It’s funny you said that thing about suicide…”

  “It is?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Kyle. You can tell me.” I turned to face him.

  “My uncle killed himself. Last year,” he said, shuffling his feet against the asphalt.

  I knew this already. But he didn’t know that I knew.

  I wrapped my arms around him. He was mine.

  With every boy, I told myself this was it. This was the last one. Once Taylor liked me, well, then I’d be satisfied. Once Mark liked me. Once Patrick. Sky. Alex. Chris. I’d dig secrets out of a boy like clams out of the sand, and then I’d tell him all his dreams were possible and he was the most beautiful person in the world. When I called a boy beautiful, I saw in his eyes the exact moment that he decided I was spectacular. And I relished it. I wasn’t aware I was being manipulative. Or at least that’s what I told myself in my desperation to believe I wasn’t some kind of sociopathic succubus.

  One night in the tenth grade, I was upstairs alone in my room. My dad had been in bed for three days, and my mom was fed up. “I can’t do everything around here!” she screamed through his door. “You need to take responsibility for your life!” She paused a moment, waiting for a reply that didn’t come. “They’re your kids!” she added, as if us literally coming out of her body didn’t count for anything.

  I looked at my phone. I felt a tinge of guilt. I knew I shouldn’t, but I searched my contacts. I landed on Connor. I knew Connor wanted to date me. I knew I didn’t want to date Connor. I knew I didn’t even like Connor. But Connor certainly liked me. I typed out a message:

  Hey. Come over. Bring ice cream.

  Don’t do it…

  I edited the message.

  Hey. Come over. Bring ice cream ;)

  This never ended well.

  Ten minutes later, one Connor Grouse stood outside my bedroom window.

  “Should I climb up?” He held a rose by the stem between his teeth and a shopping bag looped over his arm. He looked so cheerful and sweet. I wondered what he had been doing before I had summoned him.

  “Is that cookie dough flavor?”

  He nodded.

  I popped the screen off the window.

  He began climbing, showing off by dangling from one hand for a moment before swinging up to my window ledge. His forearms were strong, his fingers rough.

  I smiled and leaned out to grab the rose from his teeth as he climbed.

  I spent an hour with him, eating ice cream and bitching about my friend Maggie. He nodded sympathetically and rubbed my neck. I sat in front of him, leaning back against his chest. Every now and then a vague shout wound its way upstairs and seeped under my door. Connor pretended not to notice. I had set the rose on my dresser and he glanced at it occasionally.

  His hands began to inch down the front of my body, until finally he wiggled around to get in front and kissed me with a wet mouth. I hesitated and pulled back. I felt I owed him this. He had scaled the side of my house, after all. I kissed him back, wondering how it was possible that his lips, so thin from far away, felt so fat and bulbous against mine. He began breathing heavily, darting his tongue in and out of the corners of my mouth. I pulled away. He pulled me back.

  He let out a breathless sigh. “Isa…”

  I slid off the bed and stood. “I need to sleep now.”

  His eyes half shut. I could see his jaw clench.

  I plastered on an apologetic smile. “I’m really tired.”

  He took his cue and stood, face relaxing. “Hey, I had a nice time,” he began. “Maybe, sometime, we could––” He reached for my hand.

  Nope.

  “Me too.” I hugged him. “Thank you for coming. I was so bored earlier.” I pushed him toward the window.

  “I’m so sorry you have to climb in and out. My parents are cool with friends coming over, I just didn’t want to ask them since they’re…” I trailed off. “Busy.”

  “It’s cool, I—”

  “Kinda fun sneaking in though, right? Romantic.” I winked and opened the window.

  He began to climb out.

  “Yeah but—” He tried to ask me out again, just his head and shoulders sticking into my room.

  I knelt near him and squeezed his shoulder. “You’re the best, Connor.” I looked into his eyes. “Really. I mean that.” Then I stood and placed my hands to shut the window.

  He looked up at me one last time. Confused. Frustrated. But not angry. Never angry. As if I would ever date Connor Grouse. I knew I was getting a reputation for things like this, that there were times people assumed I had sex when I didn’t. Sex wasn’t what I was after. But I did want to be sexually desired, and therein lay the paradox of my entire adolescence.

  Later, alone in the dark, I held a lighter to a safety pin until it glowed red hot and dragged it across my skin. I thought about Connor’s face, his clenched jaw.

  “Fucking whore,” I told myself, pressing down the safety pin, creating jagged, parallel lines across my inner thigh. “You’re such a fucking bitch.”

  I thought about Connor’s tongue.

  “I hate you. I hate you.”

  I burned a long line from my pubic bone to my hip bone, admiring how quickly my skin went from white to red to brown. It was reckless. I deserved it. I was disgusting. For needing him to come over. For letting him kiss me. For squeezing his shoulder.

  “You’re an idiot. Idiot, idiot, idiot.” I sparked the lighter, heating the safety pin again. “Giant piece-of-shit asshole.”

  A few moments later, I collected myself. I knew Connor would ask me out soon. I knew that I’d either have to reject him and lose his attention or date him and deal with the consequences. I’d have to touch him and hold his hand and make out with him.

  I didn’t want to make out with him.

  I crawled into bed and pulled out my phone. There was something big and dark and gaping inside of me, and if I didn’t feed it, it would swallow me whole. When you’re sinking in the dark, it’s easy to think that love will save you. A boy will save you.

  I scrolled through my contacts. Which boys stayed up past midnight?

  ×××

  The first boy I had sex with was Jonah. I met Jonah my sophomore year of high school. We first saw each other outside his school, where I was waiting for Simone. He watched me talk with a group of boys and smirked at me from a distance. He had short, curly brown hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked dorky, but cute. He stood slightly pigeon-toed, and I noticed his muscular calves. We began dating by accident, mostly because he looked me straight in the eyes and said, “I know what you’re up to.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He pushed his hands against his hips and leaned back on his heels.

  “With your little mind games. They’re not going to work on me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Not a chance.” He winked.

  I was intrigued. No one had ever called me out before. We dated. He let me seduce other men (as long as I didn’t kiss them) because he found it funny to watch me manipulate them. I became obsessed with gaining the upper hand over Jonah, but it proved impossible. He manipulated me right back. He tried to control me, and I tried to control him, and then we’d both watch as I controlled other boys. What began as a cute high school romance turned into an epic power struggle. And that’s how I realized I had fallen in love with Jonah.

  That d
idn’t change the fact that I still needed every boy to want me, but now it was tempered with the fact that I had a boyfriend. The boundaries were clearer, but I let them think that maybe—just maybe—if they tried hard enough, I would leave Jonah for them.

  As the months progressed, Jonah and I worked our way around the bases, from awkward boob gropes to hand jobs, and from hand jobs to awkward blow jobs with plenty of teeth. Soon though, it wasn’t enough for Jonah.

  Jonah wanted sex. I didn’t.

  “Don’t you love me?” he asked, when I told him I didn’t feel ready. He was sitting in the blue chair in front of his computer. I sat on the edge of his bed.

  “I do.”

  “Then why don’t you show me you love me? That’s all sex is, proving your love.” Jonah spun the chair around, facing me.

  I considered this. “I just, I don’t know. I don’t want to have sex.”

  “You want every guy to like you, you parade around manipulating people and I let you do it, but I need you to show me you love me. That I’m special.”

  “Of course you’re special.”

  “Then why won’t you show me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s better that we lose our virginities together. We’re in love. This is special.”

  He began punishing me for my refusal. When I sat on his lap, he’d chastise me. “You can’t sit on me like that and refuse to have sex with me. It’s not fair. Don’t be a tease.” I didn’t want to be a tease. I dreaded his disapproval and began to avoid touching him at all. I wondered about my reluctance to have sex. It felt antithetical to my personality. How could someone who enjoyed the attention of men so much also want to avoid the very thing those men wanted? I told myself it was because I cared about love more than sex, but with Jonah I could have both. I should have both. That’s what people did in relationships. They had sex.

  I gave in. We chose a day, and that afternoon after school I walked to his house while his parents were still at work. We had a three-hour window. We crawled into his twin bed and hid ourselves underneath the light blue sheets. He kissed me and told me he loved me and pulled off my clothing.