Page 2 of Ripple Effect

A life split in two.

I nudge a piece of driftwood with my foot, the waves greedily snatching it up and carrying it away. How simple it would be to tag along with it, aimlessly floating along the waves, carried by the whims of the ocean.

No fucking deadlines, no expectations.

Bentley breaks away from his inspection of a particularly interesting seashell, bounding toward me. His tail wags in excitement, and I can’t help but crack a tiny half-smile, crouching down to ruffle his thick, golden fur.

As he stares at me with his bright eyes, I heave a tired sigh. I have to remember that I’m not just putting in the work for myself. I’m doing it for Bentley, for Kaia, for my family, and even for Everett, that little piece of myself I’ve carved out and set on a platter for public consumption.

Somehow, the walk back to my car feels shorter, the countless deadlines already pricking at the edges of my consciousness. I glance down at my furry companion, his tongue lolling out in a pant, tail wagging with contentment.

Out in the distance, a lone surfer takes advantage of the pre-dawn stillness, riding the waves under the faint light of the morning sun. It may be early, but life around us is already buzzing, shaking off the last remnants of night.

“Let’s head home, buddy,” I mutter, stopping to scratch behind his ear.

Once we’re home, I unlock the door to my apartment and let my dog take the lead, waiting as he shuffles toward his bed. I follow him in, closing the door behind me. And now, after a much-needed break, the sight of my work laptop feels a little less daunting.

Everett might rule the night, but when the sun is out—the world outside waking up to a fresh day—it’s Elio’s turn.

* * *

The restof my Monday is a dizzying rush of lectures, seminars, and half-baked assignments. Professors speak, my pen moves, but my mind is elsewhere. When the sun sets and campus is mostly emptied out, I trudge back home, exhaustion clinging to me like a second skin.

I head into my apartment, and Bentley trots over, tail wagging as he nudges against my legs. As much as I’d like to spend time with him, I have another role to play first. So, I give him a quick pat and a promise of a longer cuddle later. Then, I retreat down the hall, the sound of his whining tugging at my heartstrings.

In the emptiness of my bedroom, I quickly work to become my other half. It’s a simple change of clothes, a shift in demeanor, and a switch from the physical world to the digital. But even as I strip, trading in my normal attire for an outfit that my subscribers prefer, I can’t help but acknowledge the divide.

The person in the mirror looks like me, but the cool detachment in his eyes is far from the man I’d like to be.

My setup for filming is simple. A single camera, carefully adjusted for the perfect angle, a laptop for streaming, and a reliable internet connection, the lifeline to my audience.

I log in to AfterDark, my eyes scanning the familiar interface. That’s when I spot a live one-on-one request—a rare but expected occurrence—from a user called SapphireDream. The name is random, impersonal, just how I like it.

Anonymity is the norm here, and over time, I’ve learned to detach myself like it’s second nature.

The Accept button glares at me, a reminder of what I’m about to do. The role I need to play, the script I need to follow, the performance I always promise to deliver.

I take a steadying breath and enter the conversation. The screen bursts into life, and SapphireDream’s chat window opens up on one side, her icon some random pin-up girl from Pinterest.

“Hi, Everett,” she types, and I can’t help but snort a laugh at the contrast between her timid greeting and her chosen profile picture.

“Hello, Sapphire,” I say, my voice steady, betraying none of the thoughts racing through my mind.

The conversation starts off innocently enough. Small talk and questions float back and forth, Sapphire’s shyness apparent in her short replies. But this is where Everett excels. He’s the smooth-talking, charming person she needs him to be, guiding her into comfortable banter and conversation, instilling trust and an easy connection.

As the minutes turn into an hour, I peel off my shirt, leaving my torso bare. She asks me questions, her words growing bolder, while I respond with practiced ease. There’s a method to all of this—being someone else—and it’s one I’ve perfected over the years.

“I want to see you. All of you,” she types, so I unbutton my jeans, my fingers working slowly, deliberately. My movements are calculated, a skill honed from countless nights of playing into the façade.

I slide out of my pants, leaving myself in just my boxers. All the while, Sapphire’s words continue to dictate my movements. She’s the puppeteer, and I suppose I’m her willing puppet.

As the intensity of our conversation kicks up, that familiar dissociation sets in, a necessary self-preservation tactic. I might be naked under the harsh gaze of the webcam, but there’s a larger part of me that remains veiled, protected.

Jerking myself off becomes just another act, another service Everett provides. There’s no lust, no longing, just the mechanical movements of my hand, dictated by the desires of a faceless person living in my screen.

She asks me to touch myself, and I do. It’s another job, another performance for my counterpart to nail.

When the session ends, her parting message promises a return, a compliment for Everett, another satisfied customer. I breathe out, the tension uncoiling from my muscles as I log off.

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