On First Looking into Chapman's Quim

For 18 tokens a minute with a minimum of 10 minutes, a user could enjoy a private (one-on-one) show with Unperforated. At a nickel a tip that meant she made a huge $9, although some of her private shows seemed to run quite a bit longer. She disappeared from everyone else's screen for the duration; I could only imagine what she did to encourage these more exclusive shows. When she left for a private show most people would drift out of her room, so she'd have to build up the audience all over again. Some cam girls charged as much as 150 tokens a minute for their private show, or sold tickets for group shows at 100 to 333 tokens a pop; successful cam girls reportedly made $100,000 or more a year, but Unperforated obviously fell far short of such riches.

One night I sat grading papers at the kitchen table with her room displayed on my laptop, and noticed three private shows in just under an hour (okay, so maybe I wasn't devoting full attention to the grading). By the end of the third (and longest) private show, I was one of only five left in her room. She had no restrictions on who could chat, so a little while later I typed "You have beautiful breasts." Not tits or boobs, as most of the others called them. She thanked me, calling me leib, and included a cute emoji of a kitty blowing a kiss. I was surprised at the surge of good feeling when she did that—a mild endorphin rush. No wonder cam girls encouraged chatting!

That was the first time I spent more than 10 or 15 minutes in her room. The next night I bought 100 tokens (yeah, had to give them my Visa number), tipped her five—Wow! She got a whole quarter!—and paid her another polite compliment in the private message each tip allows. Over the next week, I started staying in her room about an hour each night; I would tip her 5 and compliment her politely at least once each session. Each time she responded by thanking me and including some cute emoji. Her thanks started getting somewhat warmer.

One night after a month or so as she was absently stroking her pubes, I thought I saw something tattooed on the left side of her mons. I paid closer attention for a while, and finally made out OM; there seemed to be more, but I couldn't make it out (she had really thick pubes). Over the next week or so I saw it was HOM, and finally, about a week later, HOME. That's clever. She wouldn't want FIRST BASE or SECOND BASE tattooed where they could easily be seen, but hiding HOME plate was cute. And funny.

I chuckled about this when she fiddled again, then saw that there was one more letter. B? P? No, it was R. HOMER? That was puzzling. Was something on the other side of her mons? BART? No, that would be sick, he's just a kid. MARGE? Maybe she's bi? It was getting late, so I logged out went to bed. I was in that weird twilight zone just as you're falling sleep when random thoughts pop into your head and you're not sure what's real and what's a dream. I mused about a cam girl indelibly identifying her cooch as HOMER, then started to grin; maybe her last name's Chapman and she labeled Chapman's Homer—you know, On first looking into—

Holy shit! I sat up, wide awake. What if she was Marcella Chapman! That was so not funny. Then somehow I knew that's who she was.

HIGH SCHOOL, SENIOR YEAR, typical horny guy. If I was from Mars, Marcella Minerva Chapman wasn't from Venus, she was from Proxima Centauri b—she was that far out of my league. Marcie was drop-dead gorgeous, got a brand-new Corvette for her 16th birthday, went through boyfriends like Mike Tyson went through sparring partners. I was in at least one class with her every semester all through high school in Grass Valley, memorized every oblate spheroid and hyperbolic paraboloid of her stellar body.

But Marcella Minerva Chapman had no more idea that Ben Day existed than she knew what the Avogadro Number was. Which I did know, of course—hell, I even knew why it wasn't called Avogadro's Number anymore—pretty well giving away our respective roles in those years of pedagogical desuetude known as high school: she was a social princess and I was the quintessential geek. (We learned that pithy phrase—pedagogical desuetude—from our counselor, Tony Harmon, who called himself our sex and drugs and rock-and-roll teacher.)

The most memorable—and demoralizing—experience of my high school years happened near the end of my senior prom. I'd call it "our" senior prom but that would imply some sort of link between Marcella Chapman and me beyond the simple fact that we were both there. I had to take a leak before I left, and as I came out of the rest room Marcella Minerva Chapman stomped up to me. She pushed me against the wall, plastered her pelvis against my crotch, grabbed my ass with both hands, plunked my uvula with her tongue like it was her own magic twanger, then fixed me with a fierce glare.

"You should have asked me to this dance, dipshit! Now I've got to give my cherry to Johnny Dickhead Keats." She held the glare for a few seconds, then reached under her prom dress, wriggled a bit, slapped her panties in my hand, then stormed off to her rest room. I stuffed her panties in my hip pocket—well, yeah, I might have sniffed them, just a bit, first—and stood there for a minute or so trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

I finally decided that it had either been a dare or she was just torturing me for the hell of it. I'd carried a torch for Marcie so long that it was a wonder I didn't have black lung disease from all the oily smoke I inhaled. It turned out that I had contented myself with fantasies not because she didn't know I existed, but because I just didn't fucking ask. Dipshit was the understatement of the year, if not the decade.

I left the prom with my date, and no, she wasn't my sister or my cousin, and yes, I got laid, and no, she didn't get pregnant, and yes, we fumbled around a lot but sort of enjoyed it, and no, we never went out again.

Marcie Chapman went on to Stanford for a BS in psychology, then Harvard for her MBA. I went to Diablo Valley Community College for general ed, transferred to Fresno State for a BS in math with a minor in computer science, then spent another Bulldog year getting my teaching certificate. She got a job at Google in Boston for something north of $90K doing some sort of market research; I got a job teaching high school math in Gustine for a lot less.

I was convinced the cam girl who called herself Unperforated was Marcie Chapman. I had to talk to her, to find out what happened, why wasn't she still with Google in Boston, why was she doing this since it was obvious she didn't want to do what other cam girls did to make big money. As usual, when I went into her room that night I tipped five and paid her another respectful, if somewhat obscure compliment: "I've never seen it, but I'm sure your face would launch far more ships than Helen's paltry thousand." I was pretty sure that most cam girls wouldn't have the faintest idea what I meant. Yeah, I know that's stereotyping, so sue me. Marcie Chapman would, though.

—i doubt that but ty

She punctuated her message of thanks with a GIF of a round yellow cartoon face gliding over to kiss another round yellow cartoon face that blushed furiously (think animated smiley faces), then quickly typed another reply.

—poor sailors didn't bring Trojans® lol

And another emoji: a yellow cartoon face with eyes closed demurely and a slightly askew halo. Bingo! She's riffing on Helen of Troy, gotta be Marcie. Now what? I wanted to talk with her, to let her know who I was, find out what the hell she was doing here, ask her if she had problems, offer to help—but I was pretty sure she'd kick me out if I just blurted that I knew who she was. I sure as hell didn't want her to kick me because I wouldn't be able to get back into her room for a month.

I needed a long, private talk with her, which meant buying a private show. At 18 tokens a minute and a 10-minute minimum I'd need at least 180, but I had hopes of getting her to spend even more time with me. I'd resolved that the ten bucks I spent for 100 tokens was the only money I'd spend on porn, but this was Marcie Chapman! That evening, I bought 500 tokens and didn't waste time on small talk.

—Good evening, beautiful young lady. How do I arrange a private show?

It turned out to be pretty easy. I paid my 180 tokens and shortly it was just the two of us.

—what do u wanna see leib? titty play, ass gape, wild orgasm?

She assumed that I was just another horndog, but had no reason to think otherwise.

—No, nothing like that. I'd just like to talk with you for a while.

She waited a bit before responding.

—bout what? trade drty jokes or tell me what u wanna do 2 me or what ur doing rite now?

Then a quick follow-up.

—i dont talk about me

The last thing in the world I wanted was to sext with Marcie Chapman. I wanted to tell her I always regretted missing my chance with her and wanted a second chance, but didn't know how to get there and figured I'd better go slow.

—I won't ask any personal questions, I promise. I know better than that.

—then what do u want? i dont do grlfrend

This wasn't going well. If I pissed her off, she'd kick me.

—No, no, I'm not looking for a girlfriend, just temporary companionship. That oughta be easy money for you.

She took her time responding. I needed to find a way to get through to her without making her mad. Or scaring her.

—ok mr easy money what do we talk about?

Oh shit! I hadn't thought this through. I couldn't think of anything innocuous to talk about. I was really afraid that I would screw it up and lose any chance of reconnecting with Marcie. I started off kind of babbling.

—Movies? NASCAR? Trivia questions?

No response. Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! I was running out of time—not the private time I paid almost $2 a minute for, but the time I had left to convince Marcie Chapman that I was someone she'd known most of her life, someone who cared for her. Time to change tactics.

—Wait! Before you decide I'm a total jerk, do you recognize my name? I've been coming to your room for over a month.

Again, she waited a moment to respond.

—lotsa guys come in here but ya i sort of remember u. so?

—Have I treated you with disrespect, made lewd or lascivious comments or suggestions or requests?

—dude i cant remember what guys say. this place gets pretty busy yanno.

—Come on, I always make it a point to be polite and respectful...well, maybe sometimes a bit appreciative of your...charms.

—...charms...right!

Whoa! She spoke pretty good sarcasm. I pictured her putting air quotes around charms.

—ok so ur not a dirtmouth. bfd thats a pretty lo bar. if ur such a boy scout what r u doing here?

That sounded like a flicker of interest. I needed to gently fan that flame.

—If I promise not to ask anything that could give away who you are or where you're from, would you promise not to kick me?" She replied immediately.

—r u serius? a blank chek? u xpect me 2 promise? i dont think u undrstnd camming. how old r u?

Well, that didn't work. Even though almost five minutes were left on the clock, I tipped my remaining tokens for another 19 minutes.

—Now there's 23 minutes left and I'm broke. You wouldn't kick a fella who just gave you his last nickel, would you?

I waited a few seconds. No response, so I babbled on, hoping to placate her.

—Please believe me, I'm not a psychopath, I'm not even a sociopath, or some drooling gameboy living in his mother's basement. I'm crushingly ordinary, a high school math teacher for God's sake! Divorced, no kids, afraid to trust again, lonely. That's all.

She waited so long I was afraid I had screwed the pooch. Just as I was about to type something whining and pathetic, she responded. No more chat box Valley Girl speak, it sounded like someone else.

—You do seem like a pretty nice guy, LeibnizFTW, but I'm not looking for Mr. Right, I'm looking for tips. This is my only job. I make money by giving guys something to whack off to. I don't do companionship. Take my advice, look somewhere else.

Talk about brutal honesty. I was losing her, time to swing for the fence. I typed as fast as I could to keep her from leaving.

—I;m nott a pretty bnice guy, i'm the di[shit who didn

—t invite ypu to teh prom 12 yearrs ago

—ive regreted it ecver since still do ebry day

When I saw how many mistakes I'd made, I slowed down for my last gasp.

—Would you give me another chance? Please?

I quit typing and waited. And waited. She turned the webcam so it showed a blank wall. My heart sank. Then, for the first time, I heard her speak.

"Ben?"

IT WAS THE FIRST time Unperforated had spoken on camera. I hadn't heard Marcie's voice since that prom night so many years ago. I think my heart skipped at least a full beat, I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath until I finally gasped for air.

"Oh God, why did you have to see me here?" The anguish in her voice nearly broke my heart. I quickly tried to reassure her.

—Don't be unhappy, Marcie, I'm happy no I'm overjoyed, I'm thrilled. Please please don't be sad. Be happy that we found each other."

I typed quick follow-ups, but made sure there were no mistakes before pressing SEND.

—I can't tell you how many times I've regretted being so clueless about you. I had no idea a girl like you would care anything about me.

—I'll tell you why I'm hanging out here if you'll tell me why you aren't still in Boston taking over Google.

—But please, please don't leave. I don't ever want to lose you again.

I could hear her crying. "Oh Ben, you're the last person I wanted to find me. You knew me before I turned into...this." I started typing while she was still talking, pressed ENTER just as soon as she finished, then kept typing.

—You haven't turned into anything.

—You're still Marcella Minerva Chapman, the girl of my dreams.

—Something bad must have happened to bring you here.

—Let me make that bad go away.

When she finally responded, her voice was flat, no more crying. "You can't. No one can."

She kept going before I had time to respond

"Ben, I can't stand the thought of you watching me. Give me your phone number and email address. I promise I'll get in touch with you if you'll promise to leave and never come back here again."

I was afraid to take the risk, but wanted her to trust me.

—Marcie, I'm afraid to take the chance of losing you again.

I was typing my next line when she turned the camera up to show her face, eyes glittering with tears. She was even prettier than I remembered, she was beautiful.

"You can trust me, Ben, I promise. I think I want that second chance, too."

Now my eyes filled with tears. I gave her my phone and email address, told her she was beautiful, then said goodbye.

"Before you go, Ben, how did you recognize me?"

—Your tat. Not when I first saw it, but later that night, after I went to bed. Might even have dreamed it. Chapman's Homer, indeed!

"My analyst, if I had an analyst, would probably say I was trying to get caught, that I wanted somebody to guess what it meant and who I was. But what would have been the odds that it'd be you?"

—Since we're obviously meant to be together, I'd say they couldn't have been better.

She laughed, just a little one, but it still lit up her face. "Pity you weren't such a smooth talker back then." The smile faded. "Now go, please. I promise I'll be in touch."

I left her room and logged off the cam site, hoping that I'd never return.

By the evening of the third day I was a wreck. Marcie hadn't called or emailed, and I was afraid she might have changed her online name or even switched to a different website, that I'd never find her again. I started to wish I'd never figured out that Unperforated was Marcie.

Then she called. Once again God was in his heaven and all was right with the world.

But my good spirits faded when I tried to arrange a meeting—she said she couldn't bear to face me. She wouldn't even give me her email or phone number, but agreed not to hang up. After I poured out my heart out to her, she finally agreed to meet me Saturday morning at a Starbucks on East Brokaw in north San José if I promised not to follow her home. I promised.

I got there almost half an hour early, of course. She came in the door shortly before our "date" at 10, wearing jeans, T-shirt, and a hoodie. I jumped up intending to rush over and hug her, but she looked so startled that I sat back down, not wanting to scare her off. She slowly walked over to my table; I stood up— more slowly this time—and held out my arms for a hug. She hesitated a few moments, then stepped in and we hugged. Gently.

After I got our espressos, we exchanged the usual "you're looking good" and other banalities, then she asked me what I was doing now. I gave her the Reader's Digest version of my life, including the divorce and move to Hollister, then handed it over to her. "OK, your turn."

"Mine's a bit more complicated." That was a bit like saying Shakespeare was an okay writer. Her story proved to be a lot more complicated and took a lot longer to tell.

"Boston was interesting but Google wasn't a great place for a woman, and I never got into the spirit of driving as a fun contact sport. When a headhunter called and asked if I was interested in a job with an investment bank in Manhattan, I tried not to sound too eager." She flashed a little embarrassed smile at the admission. "I didn't even have to go into The City, they sent two people to interview me in Boston. The lead was a woman. They had me even before they mentioned the 35K raise."

I said "Wow" or something equally sophisticated, but she just shrugged as if it was no biggie. Not for the first time I wondered about my career choice.

"New York was all I hoped for, even more. Think Sex and the City with cheaper shoes and off-the-rack frocks." She paused, then held an embarrassed smile a bit longer, even blushed a little. "Well, to be honest, it was more like Girls, just better jobs and a nicer apartment. But the guys weren't any nicer, they just dressed better and spent more." Her eyes clouded before she continued.

"Then I met Hernán Cortés, at a gallery opening of a woman painter I knew. Before I had a chance to find her, this tall, dark, handsome fellow in a bespoke silk suit brought me a flute of champagne, and with a charming accent said he hated to see a beautiful woman look so thirsty. I decided to smile at his corny line, and we talked for a while." She took a sip of her still-hot espresso.

"Turned out he was a senior partner in a hedge fund, originally from Salamanca, and apparently filthy rich. Before the evening ended, we had exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet again. He called a couple of days later and invited me to a dinner party at his place.

"Talk about Sex and the City! He sent a Town Car to whisk me off to his apartment building on the Upper East Side. The doorman was expecting me and escorted me to a private elevator that opened directly into his penthouse. Everything was glass and marble and stainless steel, the place was full of modern art and women in designer dresses." I tried to show that I was paying attention by making inane little comments like "Oh wow" or "Hmmm," but I really couldn't relate to her experience.

"He introduced me to VPs of Goldman Sachs and other big-time finance houses, some local politicians, a couple of ballplayers, an opera soprano. I recognized a bunch of names from the due diligence work I'd done at the bank and had to keep reminding myself to stop gawping like some star-struck teenager. After drinks and a marvelous dinner, guests started saying their goodbyes. When they were gone and the staff started cleaning up, Hernán kissed me on both cheeks, thanked me for making his evening memorable, and said the Town Car would take me back home, which it did. I wondered if I had failed some test I didn't understand."