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Facing a unpaid rent bill Lola-Rose Curtis tried a new career as a cam girl and now earns up to ?k a year, here she explains what she does for the money. When Lola-Rose Curtis was forced to quit her job in the cut-throat world of recruitment because of a stress related breakdown she didn't work for seven months. Facing an unpaid rent bill the year old, from Windsor, Berkshire, was prepared to try a new career. She had discovered a friend was working as a 'cam girl' and, encouraged by her sister, decided to give it go and hasn't looked back. She has now been a cam girl for several months and earns hundreds of pounds each day for a few hours' work talking online to men about their sexual fantasies and sometimes taking her clothes off or using sex toys. I believe that women should be entitled to do exactly as they please with their bodies without having to fear criticism. Lola took time out to answer some of the Mirror's questions about her life as a camgirl.

Melissa discusses the upsides and downsides to a job that can be emotionally and mentally draining. Though some may see the job as controversial, Melissa is an open book.

If anybody's going to judge me, then feel free. They taught me how people live their life there and I wouldn't have known that any other way. Dazed: Confessions of a cam girl. Like one college girlfriend who started showing up to watch his lacrosse practices. I doubled down on Cool Girl. I served up the fun, wild parts of myself and kept the wobbly bits hidden.

I drank whiskey without flinching, hustled darts with my opposite hand, and wore low-cut tops with black bras when we played pool. Oh, if the Teen Shakespearians could see me now! I listened for cues to up my game. M y sister Sarah, now a design student at the Fashion Institute of Technology, moved in with me in the Big Apple.

  I tried webcam work for the first time at the age of 20, when I found myself homeless with my three-year-old daughter. A friend said we could stay with her while I Life As A Cam Model We are just like you. Makaela Ferguson. Aug 08, Vincennes University. BangGood At 19, a girl should be thinking about college, when she will be hanging out with her friends again, when the next party will be, how to make their car payment. Instead The first time I went 'private' with a guy I freaked the fuck out. All he wrote was 'get naked'. And so far all I'd done in a chat room was flash my boobs for an influx of tokens. I froze up in stage ­fright and closed the room. In my group chat I wrote: "Sorry, cam froze." And I logged off for the night

We caught five mice in our decrepit apartment in the first week. Yet as long as Sarah was there, I was home. I wrote her resumes. Mountain Man sent me handwritten missives and pencil skets of my face. He highlighted words in a pocket Spanish dictionary - amante, beso, toque.

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In between pages, he pressed columbine and Indian paintbrush. He included a little satl of rocks - limestone, hornfels, mica - tiny treasures from his rambles in the high places.

It was the first time I saw him away from his other woman, the wild. I joked about the local wildlife pigeons, rats in the subway, my asshole mice roommatesbut it was plain that he was lost without his true love. I could never compete. Sure, he knew how to survive in the wilderness with nothing but a pen and ball of twine, but I knew how this city worked. He waited, beaming at the agent, wafting manbrosia from 20 feet away. He slapped a scuba certification ID onto the desk.

In it his hair stuck out in all directions, his expression adorable. She laughed and waved him through. Manic Pixie Dream Boy strikes again. He gave me a winning smile and headed toward the gate, back to his mistress.

The truth about being a CamGirl..

Life got harder in New York. My mother, living alone in Syracuse, was hospitalized with a perforated bowel. I had just worked up my courage on a phone call to tell him how scared I was to lose her, when his surf buddy knocked on his door. He called once a week from a landline.

It sounded pathetic. There but for the grace of God, go I to the lacrosse practice. A year into dating, I visited him in Ojai. I felt like a hollowed-out pinata.

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So I could either get real quick or break up with him. I chose the latter. Or I valued the preservation of my fairy tale over the actual relationship. Or I was just damn exhausted. We went on one last backpacking trip in the Sierras. Distance was a perfect excuse. He told me how amazing I was, but I knew the truth. What a fraud. I consoled myself by expanding the story. No girl had broken up with him before! Yet, his claim of wanting to stay friends seemed genuine.

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He set up times to talk on the phone during his brief interludes down from the Sierras that summer. Then he flaked every time. The dull a in my st tightened into something sharp.

Autumn came, still I waited, hating myself for it. I worked insane hours for low wages at an environmental nonhosabsafaris.comofit run by a sociopath. One afternoon I got a voicemail from him. But it was a pocket dial. Now he gets a cell phone?! A week later I rode the tide of commuters up from the Union Square subway station, buoyed and beaming.

Confessions of a Cam Girl in an Age of Loneliness. Confessions of a Cam Girl in an Age of Loneliness. A t 7 o'clock in the evening, seven days a week, I can be found sitting on one end of my bed in Manhattan, posed in front of my phone as I address hundreds of strangers. "Hi, you guys," I say - because the majority of my viewers are men - followed   What does a cam girl do? A cam girl will be online and visible to others through a webcam that also has a chat room to communicate via typing or audio But cam girls have the privilege of working from their homes or a studio, where they don't have that threat of violence or diseases. Or they just don't have to deal with a client having bad breath

Another pocket dial. In it I heard Mountain Man coaching his lacrosse team. He sounded so happy and I was so miserable. The final indignity. The dam that had held back my messy self for so long burst.

Hell no. NOBODY DOES COOL GIRL LIKE THIS!! The gray-black river of indistinguishable New Yorkers streamed past me on the sidewalk. N ine years passed in New York. I wrote stories for money. Got rejected. Wrote more. Then improved. Then worsened again. I dated a police officer, a tech entrepreneur, a newspaper man. I had pigeons in an air shaft outside my bedroom and Sarah had a dumpster full of mice outside hers.

At least the vermin were outside now. So small, only I could see him. My longing, in a pocket for you. I decided to move to Los Angeles, though leaving Sarah was like leaving behind a limb. Missing him and missing the mountains felt the same - a tug to abandon acceptable society and get dirty.

I considered reaching out to him.

I was stronger now - his equal, right? Maybe it could work? A narrator speaks. NARRATOR V. The lovers reunite in the wilderness.

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Only now can they truly. Mountain Man answered my email with a warmth that made my entire body blush. Their burro train would be easy to spot with Mountain Man at the helm. I let Sarah keep all of our furniture, and she helped me pack my books and wardrobe into Goldmember, my secondhand Subaru. I drove alone from New York to Los Angeles in a daze of possibility. I was about to start telling stories for a living in the City of Angels.

Who knew what might spark between Mountain Man and me under the stars? I wandered through story castles in my mind as miles of Midwestern corn flew past my window. I awoke on a bright August morning in Silver Lake. My friend Adam was letting me crash in his converted garage until I found my new home in L.

Today was the day. Butterflies danced up my thighs but Cool Girl was back and took charge.

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I debated the merits of cowboy hat versus baseball cap in the bathroom mirror for 20 minutes. Then I painstakingly applied no-makeup makeup: professional grade mascara, concealer, tinted SPF and bronzer - camouflage to the untrained male eye.

I hit the road late. No matter, I could make up the time on the five-hour drive. I climbed the precarious switchbacks, well-known to wilderness junkies and location scouts, into the mighty Sierras, youngest mountain range in the United States.

Impossibly young, like me. I shout-sang to the radio until it fuzzed out. My ears popped as I dodged fallen rocks with one hand and called Mountain Man with the other. There were no guardrails and the road narrowed to a blind turn, above a thousand-foot drop-off.

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It went to voicemail. I arrived at the sprawling parking area, dotted with dozens of trailheads.

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Goldmember quickly found the right one. Mountain Man and the alumni had departed. Fresh burro tracks crowded the trail. Fair enough, I was 20 minutes late. The midafternoon sky was hard and bright as a marble.

I reapplied no-makeup mascara and started down the trail, recognizing trees and streams as I passed. Cocky about my sense of direction, I stopped to meditate on a felled trunk, freebasing sunshine and alpine air. H ours later, I climbed a grueling series of switchbacks as sunlight narrowed to a thin ribbon over the saddle. My mascara had fallen into racoon eyes. I distracted myself from my gnawing hunger by rehearsing my opening line to Mountain Man.

Sweat-drend and huffing, I made it to the saddle and looked out upon the long-shadowed wilderness. No Langley. The trusty burro tracks were still there. I scurried down the opposite slope into the gloaming. Raindrops pinged my bare arms but there was a lake up ahead that I recognized. Just a little farther. Night ambushed me. Total blackness. I balanced my pack on a rock, hands trembling as I fumbled with an ancient headlamp mummified by duct tape. Was I shaking because of the cold or my nerves?

The rain intensified. A mountain lion pounded down the ridgeline behind me, jumped with jaws wide, ready to rip into my flesh - I whipped around, hiking poles braced. It was only the sound of my own heart, trying to beat its way out of my ears. Nausea washed over me. I knew the hypothermia risk of sleeping out in precipitation. I was at the tree line, 12,foot elevation, which meant near freezing temperatures, even in August. Is this a joke?

Donner, party of one?

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I wandered aimlessly now. My story mind grew emboldened. Maybe Mountain Man can hear me from here. I released a high-pitd cry into the wild dark. Then I heard it - a faint, deep voice across the lake. Relief, pure and sweet, dropped through me. I was already in that warm cabin, laughing it off.

Should I shout again? Weary, I hunkered down with my wet sleeping bag and used my dirty sneaker as a pillow.

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Dankness soaked into my bones. My knee throbbed. I began sit-ups to generate body heat as hail pummeled my face. ANNOUNCER V. GHOST JUSTICE, coming to CBS this fall. I closed my eyes for short, drowsy intervals, and opened them mechanically, as if triggered by the slow, audible click of a lever behind my ear. The view changed a little bit each time. Hazy, no stars. Then a low, drippy moon.

Then faint white pinhosabsafaris.comicks everywhere. I opened my eyes again to find a clear-eyed moon bearing down on me like an interrogation lamp. I threw myself upon its mercy. I confess. I understand the story now.

I opened my eyes wide to take in thousands of stars, a dusting of cosmic sugar that extended beyond my periphery, brilliant and twinkling. Revelation punctured my woozy delight. I shook myself upright and pind my arm. Snap out of it, Johnson! Deep cleansing breath. I locked my eyes shut. A frantic sparrow was trapped inside my head, flying room to room, bloodying itself against every window - looking for the way out. I t was a long sleepless wait before I dared to open my eyes again. The stars were gone now, and I watd the sky change from black to indigo to pink, like a bruise healing.

I rose, quaking as a colt. Everything hurt. The muscles around my knee spasmed. My lungs worked for every breath in the oxygen-depleted air. On the far side of the lake I spied campers packing for departure.

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I shuffle-ran toward them, legs screaming, desperate to make it before they left. They were just below me when I realized this must be Serial Mountain Rapist and friends. My survival instincts had turned thespian. Six grave, bearded mugs turned to face me in unison.

They were hiking out today and encouraged me to join them. Their map showed that I was nine miles and 2, feet up in the wrong direction. I toed the back of the line with the eldest father. We settled into a meditative cadence. The others got farther ahead. Misty-eyed once, when his sister died. But never cry. While Sarah and my older sister, Toby, fell apart next to me at the lectern, and my mom sobbed in her pew, I held steady. My tribute. Be cool.

T he day was late back at the trailhead parking lot. Hair ratty, makeup frightful, I was downwind from the public toilets and too spent to move. Portrait of The Uncool. He sounded pissed - his voice, low and even. The unflappable guy, flapped. He had waited for me at the correct trailhead, five minutes away, until nightfall. State troopers were looking for me on the highways; park rangers were searching in the mountains; student workers from the camp were scouring the trails - a full-scale search-and-rescue operation.

His backpack held an emergency oxygen tank. My tongue was thick with shame. It was worse than the search for me in the White Mountains, because she knew I was alone. M ountain Man and I walked to the camp from the correct trailhead. It took 45 minutes. I looked up at Mount Langley - eternal and unchangeable to a small human. All this hard stuff was happening. You were a real shit. Mountain Man neither possessed nor could tolerate weakness.

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But his real name was Gabe. He was born in Reno with a clubfoot to parents who got divorced. He was self-conscious about his hairy back. Clean arcs resist messy details. It was a pillar of my story.

But then he opened up about his own bone-crushing loneliness after his last breakup. It had been drawn out, ugly, emotional - an altogether human affair. I felt the hurt radiating off his body. The words sat heavy in my mouth. I ad to say them, to drop the Cool Girl mask for good.

Vulnerability is death. Yet lack of vulnerability is also death. What a rotten trap! I wanted to shout back at the voice in the wilderness that had told me to shut up. I wanted to sob at the lectern. I wanted to be messy and real and loved for it all. L ater that evening, I lay snug in the open meadow under bountiful stars. Andromeda was about to be eaten by a sea monster. Callisto was transformed into The Bear so Zeus could hide her from his wife.

Virgo, daughter of Demeter, was stolen by Hades. Ancient poets and wandering minstrels flung these stories about women upon flaming balls of hydrogen and helium - so they could feel less alone in the dark night. Our toy swords against the dragon. T he rest of the weekend was full of hikes, hammocks, and music around the campfire. What if neither of us was right?

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What if both of us were right? What if all the stories were true and untrue? What if we could experience the multitude of competing narratives at once - and enter the Spider-verse like a god, like Jupiter? SARAH He was a garden-variety dilettante with an REI card. And his beard was gross. whistles through teeth. VANILLA ICE CREAM CONE I never met a mouth I liked more. PALM READER I predicted the whole thing.

GABE She came back to see the mountains. W hen the time came for me to return to L. They were bringing homebrew and a yeti costume. All creatures in his gravitational orbit bent toward him.

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I felt the pull and leaned away. I could hold all of the stories at once, devour them in a mouthful. They swirled together in my magnificent round belly. There was no past and no future here. Nowhere else to be. I felt my life force expanding in a primordial storm. I was the descendant of supernovas. Is he a lost soul deserving of mercy, or a cold-blooded war criminal who must face justice? He stared at the edge of the table in front of him, holding his hands in his lap as if he was praying, visibly tense as this small woman with dark blonde hair spoke in a confident, cool, posh English accent.

Mezey, a professor of psychiatry in London, was testifying because nothing was more important and more controversial in this trial than the mental state of the accused, a former child soldier.

Ongwen sat between two grim-faced guards. His skin had become lighter after more than three years in prison in Sveningen, a suburb of The Hague. He had gained weight, but you could still see his handsome high ekbones, square face, and a deep frown between the eyes that got deeper and deeper the longer Mezey held forth.

Ongwen listened to this psychiatrist, who had never personally met him, talk about his mental state for almost three hours. But he lost his composure shortly after lunch break. He got up. He pressed the button that turned on his microphone, got tangled up in his headphones and ripped them off his head in a quick, fluent motion. Thank you, madam witness.

But were you in the LRA? He raised his voice more and more with every sentence. The guards on his left and right jumped up and grabbed his arms. His lawyers turned around, trying to calm him down. Then the green curtain of the visitor gallery closed. Muffled screams could be heard through the glass.

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And then the sound of something heavy being thrown to the floor. The Americans were trying to hunt down Joseph Kony, the despotic, unhosabsafaris.comedictable leader of the LRA.

The U. soldiers came and picked Ongwen up by helicopter and revealed who he really was: one of five LRA commanders who were wanted for war crimes and crimes against humanity with a warrant from the International Criminal Court.

The warrant for his arrest was almost 10 years old. No one had expected him to turn up just like that. In the months before, his relationship with his boss had collapsed. Joseph Kony had thrown him in prison and threatened him with execution. He said that he had wandered around in the wilderness alone, for more than a month, surviving, among other things, an attack by a pack of lions.

He seemed to believe that a higher power had helped him. A cloud, he said, had guided him on his way. He was obviously happy to be alive at all.

His body bore the scars of 11 bullet wounds. After eight days, the Americans brought him to a Ugandan army camp, where the officers gave him fresh clothes - a blue shirt, light trousers. Instead, after 10 days in Obo he was extradited to The Hague. The French-American author Jonathan Littell happened to be filming a movie in Obo on the day that Ongwen was extradited.

Ongwen gave him a rare minute interview before he was put on a plane. But Ongwen did reveal something in that short conversation. This was the only thing in this world. Ten days later, on a cold January day, he appeared for the first time before a judge in The Hague. He had nervous eyes. He was wearing a suit for the first time in his life. Someone had helped him put in a ckered tie. It is hard to imagine how strange, odd and inscrutable the world must have felt to him during those first days in The Hague: his aseptic cell, his fellow inmates and guards, none of whom spoke his language.

He understood neither English nor French, only a few words in Swahili, which one other inmate spoke. He was as alone as a person can be. I t was a cool morning, sunny, with a light breeze, when I visited Coorom. A few days later, the heat would return with the dry season. Fields would be scord, streams would disappear, green would turn to yellow and brown. A small group of huts emerged as we approad in our car, just behind a high field of sorghum only days away from harvest.

The compound where Ongwen was born is a quiet place. His uncle and aunt still live there, as does one of his cousins. His relatives were polite and reserved. The compound had been swept just before I arrived. A tall papaya tree, with big green fruits, stood in the middle. His uncle, Odong Johnson, has the same, somewhat angular face as his nephew. He is missing three teeth in the top row and four in the bottom.

At 67, he looked frail, melancholy, his body transformed by a life of hard work, war, displacement and loss. Johnson told me that, when Ongwen surrendered inthey had just started arranging a funeral for him. They had all thought he was long dead. It had taken them a long time to save enough money for the burial.

As a boy, Ongwen had been the best in his school of more than a hundred children, Johnson said. He had always learned quickly and easily. And he had been eager to please. He never complained about his household chores: fetching water from the river half a mile away, tethering the goats in the evening, lighting the fire for the night.

Ongwen often stayed overnight with his grandfather, who lived in a hut surrounded by mango, banana and orange trees a short distance away from the others. In the evenings by the fire, Ongwen told jokes and riddles that his uncle still remembered more than three decades later. They fought for the losing side.

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Thousands of defeated Acholi soldiers fled north, trying to hide in their home villages. Ongwen was about 8 years old when the war arrived in his district. Acholi land was enemy territory for the soldiers from the south, and they behaved accordingly.

Hundreds were summarily executed. As a reaction to the violence from the government troops, several rebel groups emerged. Their founder, Joseph Kony, was an ajwakaa witch doctor. Spirit worship remains widespread in northern Uganda to this day.

Witch doctors get in touch with an invisible, transcendent world, which often serves to explain what cannot be explained: illnesses, deaths, bad harvests. The Acholi also believe that spirits haunt those who have killed. They call this phenomenon, which we might describe as post-traumatic stress disorder, cen. Kony, however, invented spiritual beliefs and practices that went far beyond Acholi tradition. He claimed to be in contact with powerful new spirits.

When Kony communicated with these spirits, he went into a trance. His voice changed. The ghosts, he said, ordered him to overthrow the government. They were ghosts for a rebel leader. Kony left his home village, Odek, in springwith only a handful of followers. The soldiers taught this strange new prophet how to wage a guerrilla war.

The LRA became a hybrid between an army and a religious cult. What the LRA lacked, initially, were soldiers. Too few volunteered. The belief system of the LRA was too foreign, too strange, too radical to attract widespread support. So Kony soon reverted to an old strategy, one that had been used in the civil war in Angola, by other military groups that lacked public support: He started kidnapping children.

Children were more malleable than adults. When I visited his home, the table in his hut had been set with an embroidered white blanket. A Bible lay open on top. The worn pages and frayed seams suggested that it had been read over and over again. Kakanyero had been reading the Gospel of John, the pages about the first appearance of Jesus Christ.

For More Stories Like This, Sign Up for Our Newsletter. But cam girls have the privilege of working from their homes or a studio, where they don't have that threat of violence or diseases.

In the media, sex workers are always portrayed as tragic victims of drug addiction or sex trafficking. So many cammers-and sex workers in general-defy that stereotype, and their lives are often totally different than what we assume. My exploration into camming definitely confirmed that.

By signing up to the VICE newsletter you agree to receive electronic communications from VICE that may sometimes include advertisements or sponsored content. Sign In Create Account. Video TV Podcasts Shop Apps VICE Voices Newsletters. The Project News World News Tech Music Food Health Money Drugs Election Identity Games Entertainment Environment Travel Horoscopes Sex VICE Magazine. What It's Actually Like to Be a Full-Time Cam Girl. Karley Sciortino talks to wildly popular cam girl Ona Artist and visits the biggest camming studio in the country.

by Karley Sciortino. as told to Sarah Burke. February 28,pm. Tagged: Sex porn Karley Sciortino camming cam girls ona artist studio 20 Broadly Sex.

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