Isa Mazzei - Camgirl

This is a Genuine Rare Bird Book

Rare Bird Books
453 South Spring Street, Suite 302
Los Angeles, CA 90013
rarebirdbooks.com

Copyright 2019 by Isabella Mazzei

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book
or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, including but not limited to print, audio, and electronic.

For more information, address:
Rare Bird Books Subsidiary Rights Department
453 South Spring Street, Suite 302
Los Angeles, CA 90013

Set in Warnock

epub isbn : 9781644281062

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Mazzei, Isa, author.
Title: Camgirl / by Isa Mazzei.
Description: Los Angeles, CA : Rare Bird Books, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019012248 | ISBN 9781644280355 (hardcover)
Subjects: LCSH: Mazzei, Isa. | Internet pornographyUnited States. | Internet personalitiesUnited StatesBiography. | WebcastingUnited States. | Sex oriented businessesUnited States.

Classification: LCC HQ472.U6 M39 2019 | DDC 306.77/102854678dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019012248

For all my friends:
online and off.

Contents

Trigger warning: alcoholism, mental illness, suicide,
self-harm, sexual violence

Prologue

I was about to hit the countdown. My overly lit, overly made-up face blinked at the thousands of people watching my video stream. My giant desktop computer was on the carpet and I was on my knees, a glass of wine on one side of me, the Bible on the other. Id been sober for nearly two years, but now I was drunk. Behind me, Jesus smiled garishly in a framed picture. He wore red robes and pulled open his chest to reveal a heart entwined with thorns.

I was naked. My ass hurt from bruises and burns. This was itmy moment. My grand artistic statement. The internet was going to tip me to kill myself. I wasnt actually going to die, but that wasnt the point. They thought they were killing me. Really, they were going to kill Una, my online persona. Once she was dead, Isa would be reborn.

In the past two years I had amassed thousands of viewers, thousands of followers, and hundreds of thousands of dollars. Id ranked among the top fifty camgirls on a site that boasted tens of thousands of performers. I had everything I wanted even before I knew I wanted ita brand-new apartment, two BMWs, endless eggs Benedict, and a manicurist on-call.

Earlier that day I had taken a scalding shower. I waxed, shaved, tweezed, and exfoliated until my skin was raw. I stacked candles on a shelf against the wall: tea candles, pillar candles, cheap candles from the clearance section of Target that smelled vaguely like Christmas. Every light bulb in the room glowed red. In an impulsive moment, I scrawled COMMIT across the wall in red lipstick.

It was melodramatic. Indulgent. Sexy.

The show was part suicide note and part eulogy for Una, the girl my cam room had come to know and love.

My viewers were curious, impatient. They peppered the chat room with questions. Now that I was naked, what was next? Would I pour hot wax on my body? Burn my hands on the flames? Burn the Bible?

I looked again at the word: COMMIT. Everything I had worked for built up to this: my final show. I sat poised over a dildo I had stuck in the middle of a cross, ready to fuck my way to fame. I tried to focus. I felt hot, dizzy. The air was thick with sweat and pain and promise.

Una was my everything. My home. My lover. My sense of purpose. She gave me money. She gave me validation. She gave me power and taught me hope and accepted me exactly as I was. Una was the keeper of my shame, my pride. She was there when I was lonely, when I was sad, when I was bored, when I needed a friend. Una was always just a click away.

And I was about to kill her.

Rooms On Fire

W e want cow! We want cow! A large group of angry elementary students marched in a wide circle around the perimeter of the playground. We want cow! Tiny fists punched the air demanding justice. Their goal? Freedom from the tyranny imposed by a principal who allowed only an eagle, a prairie dog, or an elk to be considered for school mascot.

Their method: A school-wide walkout, replete with signs and chants.

Their leader: A skinny eight-year-old with a megaphone and a penchant for political unrestme.

WE WANT COW! I demanded through the megaphone I had obtained by bribing my babysitter.

Even then, I knew I was destined to be famous. A famous activist, a famous singer. A famous anything . I needed to be the center of attention. Preferably, I wanted all eyes on me in shock and awe as I did something surprising: like calling out my teachers for their grammatical mistakes or convincing my entire class to drop their pencils mid-math class and stomp around outside in defense of freedom.

We want cow! we shouted.

My teacher followed us into the yard, flanked by several students who had been too scared to walk out but wanted to participate now that they saw how cool we looked. I handed them the signs my friend Amy and I had made in the bathroom with stolen art supplies.

We want cow! We want cow!

I walked up and down the line of marching students, urging them to shout louder, stomp harder, wave their signs as high as they could. We made our way to the edge of the playground and circled back toward the building, completing a full circle of the schoolyard. A cluster of teachers gathered near the door, and our gym teacher blew her whistle in an ineffective attempt to gain our attention.

My friend Seans eyes wandered over to where teachers stood with their arms crossed. His sign quivered.

WE WANT COW! I reminded him. I jumped up on a tree stump and raised my arms. This is our school! We should get to choose our mascot!

The crowd cheered. I cheered.

I jumped down and joined the front of the march.

What do we want?

COW!

When do we want it?

NOW!

What do we want?

As we approached the building, the principal made her way to the yard. Her eyes locked onto me, and she walked briskly toward the group, waving at the gym teacher to stop blowing uselessly on her whistle.

She blocked the groups forward progress with her body. Whats going on here?

We refuse to go back to class until our demands are met, I said, using my best adult voice.

What demands? What does cow mean?

You know what it means, Debra. I crossed my arms, daring her to challenge me.

Sean gasped. Amy shrieked in delight.

Debra knew what we wanted. My four prior meetings in her office had outlined our simple, reasonable ask: a ballot box for cow so that students could cast a vote for what they actually wanted. Prairie dogs and eagles were boring. Cows were cool. Cows were the trendy animal of the fifth grade.

What did you call me?

Do you want to meet to negotiate our terms? Our demands are small, Debra.

I will not negotiate with you.

I stood my ground.

She grabbed my arm.

I swung around and blasted her right in the face with the megaphone.

WE WANT COW! I screamed, as loud as I could. She didnt even wince. WE WANT COW!

She pulled the megaphone from my hands and grabbed my shoulder, pushing me toward the building.

Dont give up! Dont go back! I screamed over my shoulder. What do we want?