Twink-bodied straight-boy thugs kept spawning like NPCs with bad attitudes—some dumb enough to come back for a second round. Where the hell was he digging them up? Even boneheads should know when they’re just meat for the grinder. He allotted them two hours, tops—the first, usually less, to get them settled, high, or buzzed, whatever it took to shove a pen in their hand and lock them into some boilerplate, unenforceable contract. The rest was just extraction—slow, methodical, and never off-budget.
These brain-dead fucks only had room for two thoughts—what they thought was some life-changing payday and getting their dicks wet. Everything else, gone. They walked right past me, the big-ass camera practically welded to my shoulder, and the dozen other neon signs screaming this is fuckin’ whacked, like they were auditioning for Darwin Awards.
That first day I had to haul the big-ass camera, five different scholars showed up—did the dance, picked out some gross-ass “pussy porn,” stared at it until they were hard, then stripped down, leaned back, and let their host work them over. Faces blank while they were milked like it was just another Tuesday. Every so often, for maybe a nanosecond, I’d catch a flicker—like some part of them was clocking what was actually happening—then it was gone. Game over. They’d wipe their little boy dicks, beam these bright, grateful thank-yous while they got dressed, take an envelope, and saunter back out into the world. Seriously—WTF. I had to quit. Didn’t matter that the money was stupid-good—if I stayed, I’d end up just another parasite, no better than the twink-bodied thugs I was pointing the lens at. Hell, maybe worse, because I’d know exactly what I was doing. Every envelope would just be another pound of meat carved off my soul, and for what? Rent? Groceries? No paycheck’s worth walking out of yourself like that and locking the door behind you.
It wasn’t like I was rolling in it before. I was hustling every damn week—weddings, bar mitzvahs, corporate “team-building” videos where middle managers pretended to like each other for two minutes of B-roll. Rent still won the arm-wrestling match with my checking account every month.
Then one night, a buddy calls. Says a group of strippers needs a videographer—quick turnaround, big payday. A “sizzle reel” for their website. Yeah, it sounded sleazy, but it was their hustle, not mine. And they knew their shit. These women came in with a shot list, a vibe, the whole deal. I set up lights, rolled the camera, and they hit every mark like pros. Between takes, they cracked jokes, tipped me in cash every time I adjusted something, and actually thanked me for making them look good. Fast, clean, and everybody knew the boundaries. They were in control of their image, their bodies, and their money. I walked out that night with the fattest envelope I’d seen in months, smelling like glitter and cigarette smoke, thinking, if this is as sleazy as it gets, I could do worse.
Couple weeks later, one of the strippers calls. “Hey, my friend’s got this gig. Needs someone who can shoot discreetly. You were chill, so I told her about you.” Discreet. That’s one of those words that means exactly what you think it means but you hope you’re wrong. Still, rent was due, the fridge was light, and my phone bill didn’t care about my moral compass.
We meet at a diner. She’s younger than me, maybe mid-twenties, wearing a hoodie that says Girls Don’t Cry. She explains she’s managing content for a few “independent models” who want promo videos and some behind-the-scenes stuff for their subscription pages. Not porn, not really. Just “suggestive.” I could shoot, do some light editing, cash same day. It sounded easy—less choreography than a wedding, less awkward than a corporate training video. I tell myself it’s just like the strippers—professionals controlling their own product. Only difference was, these “models” didn’t show up with shot lists or angles in mind. They showed up late, distracted, and looking at me like I should tell them what to do. I did the job, got paid, but something in my gut buzzed on the drive home. That buzz is the thing you ignore right before you step on the first rung of a ladder you didn’t mean to climb down.
A month later, the same girl from the diner texts me: Got another job. Same rate. Quick shoot. She doesn’t mention it’s at a guy’s apartment. I walk in and it’s just him—shirtless, jeans hanging low, grinning like we’re old friends. He says he’s “doing a collab” with a model who’s running late. He needs B-roll: setting up lights, mixing drinks, laughing at nothing. Then, “We’ll roll right into the action when she gets here.” Action. I should’ve walked. But the envelope’s already sitting on the counter, fat enough to make my pulse jump.
She shows up—a little buzzed, laughing too hard—and they disappear into the bedroom to “get ready.” When I’m called in, they’re already half-naked, and suddenly I’m not just shooting promo fluff. I’m following them in close, framing the curve of his hand on her hip, catching the sweat on their skin. No one said porn, but we all knew that’s what it was. When it’s over, they thank me like I just fixed their Wi-Fi. I pack my gear, take the envelope, and tell myself it’s still just work. But driving home, the buzz in my gut is louder. I’m not on the ladder anymore. I’m halfway down it, and the ground under me is starting to look like a hole.
At first I was selective—one gig a month, tops. Then my car needed a bearing, so I took two that month. But never more than two. That was the rule I made up to feel like I was still in control. Then a friend-of-a-friend calls: If you don’t mind shooting some guy-on-guy, there’s an obscene amount of money to throw at you. I hesitated. Not my scene, not my comfort zone. But obscene money has a way of sanding down your principles. The guys turned out to be muscleheads—sober, professional, knew exactly what they wanted, and drew clear lines before we even started. Not comfortable, but there were rules. And everyone was getting what they needed out of it.
After that, the calls came steady. The rules were still there—on paper—but they got looser every time. The shoots blurred together. Some were still clean enough to justify, others… not so much. The guys weren’t always sober, the lines weren’t always clear, and sometimes I’d catch myself adjusting the lights to make things look less rough than they were. The paychecks were fat—fatter than anything I’d seen before this gig—but not as fat as they once were. And the more I worked, the more I noticed the math didn’t quite add up: the jobs were dirtier, the rules fuzzier, but somehow the payout was shrinking.
Then came the first one that really got under my skin. Not even the worst of them—just… textbook. Vapid boy-twink thug. The kind of guy who thinks his biceps are a personality and a bad tattoo makes him dangerous. He slouched in like he owned the place, signed the release without reading a single word, and grinned like he’d just conned us instead of the other way around. That was the moment it clicked—these idiots were signing away their faces, their bodies, their images for literal peanuts. And for what? A couple hours of buzz, a little envelope they’d burn through before the week was out? You can’t outrun the internet. Didn’t they get that? Someone, somewhere, is going to see them. Someone who knows them. And then all their friends will know—the video proof is right there. Them, naked, with a joint hanging from their mouth while some faceless dude sucks them off. Christ, do they even care? Or are they too dumb to know they should?
The answer walked in over and over again after that. That first day I had to haul the big-ass camera, five different scholars showed up—did the dance, picked out some gross-ass “pussy porn,” stared at it until they were hard, then stripped down, leaned back, and let their host work them over. Faces blank while they were milked like it was just another Tuesday. Every so often, for maybe a nanosecond, I’d catch a flicker—like some part of them was clocking what was actually happening—then it was gone. Game over. They’d wipe their little boy dicks, beam these bright, grateful thank-yous while they got dressed, take an envelope, and saunter back out into the world. Seriously—WTF. (All of them were of legal age, fully consenting, and more than willing to take their appearance fee.) I had to quit. Didn’t matter that the money was stupid-good—if I stayed, I’d end up just another parasite, no better than the twink-bodied thugs I was pointing the lens at. Hell, maybe worse, because I’d know exactly what I was doing. Every envelope would just be another pound of meat carved off my soul, and for what? Rent? Groceries? No paycheck’s worth walking out of yourself like that and locking the door behind you.
The first week after I quit, I kept waiting for the panic to hit. But it never came. Instead, my inbox started pinging—weddings, a corporate training shoot, even a real estate walkthrough. All legit. Nothing I’d have to bleach out of my head later. The money wasn’t porn-envelope fat, but it was solid. Clean. It was like the universe started balancing out a bit. Jobs I’d chased for months were suddenly calling me back. A photographer I’d worked with once handed my name to a client. I found myself looking forward to shoots again—not because of the money, but because I could walk in, do the work, and walk out without that buzz in my gut. Maybe that’s the real paycheck—going home knowing you didn’t sell another pound of yourself to make it through the week.
A couple months later, I’m loading gear into my car outside a hotel ballroom when I see him—the vapid boy-twink thug, dressed like he’s trying to sell knockoff cologne out of a gym bag. He’s across the street, laughing with a couple of guys, totally oblivious. For a second I wonder if he ever saw the video, if anyone ever sent him the link with a “Bro… is this you?” I doubt it. He didn’t strike me as the type to stick around for consequences. He doesn’t see me. I toss the last case in the trunk, slam it shut, and drive off. No wave, no nod, no nothing. Just the clean, quiet distance between then and now. And damn, that’s worth more than any fat envelope ever was.
