Fag Tax

Yesterday morning I’d been on cam for about an hour, showing off my goods in a lascivious manner for any and all to see, and I’d amassed over two hundred and sixty viewers—men and women both, enough viewers in total to vault me onto the site’s front page. It was also so many viewers that I’d more or less given up trying to chat in the room associated with each camera, because the messages were flying by too rapidly. I’m about the politest of men who displays his penis and body to strangers on the internet, and I try to respond to everyone who asks a question, and to give my thanks to those who bless me with compliments, so giving up was really a last resort. Then I got a private message from someone: Your dick is fucking amazing, sir.

And because I am the most polite of exhibitionists, I replied. Thank you.

It is truly the superior tool of an alpha male, he messaged back. Other men should bow before you and recognize your superiority.

My natural instinct with this sort of compliment is simply to ignore it as overblown (though, you know, not untrue or anything), but instead, I simply wrote back, Damn right.

May I offer you a tribute to your superiority? he asked. I didn’t know what he meant, so I simply typed back a question mark. I would like to make a deposit to your PayPal account. It was such an oddball request that I didn’t respond right away, so he typed, I get off on offering tributes of money to superior men. I can try to explain if you want.

Explain, I said.

There are others like me who worship superior alpha men such as you, he wrote. (Shut up, those of you who know me. I hear your snickering.) Since I cannot express my admiration and abasement in person the least I can do is give you cash. Please sir. It is even more fulfilling than sex to me to give my tributes.

I’d heard of the concept of cash slaves before—usually internet-only relationships between a submissive type and a dominant involving the exchange of cash for verbal abuse and perhaps some on-camera sex play—but I’d always thought of them as a mythical thing or at least something that would never impinge on my life. I got him to email me his photo, so I could see what I was dealing with. He sent me several shots of himself—a good-looking guy in his mid-twenties. A boy-next-door type. White, attractive, and buttoned-down. So what is this shit? I asked. You want to pay me your fag tax or something?

Oh fuck. Yes sir, he wrote back. Please let me pay. Let me pay my fag tax.

Out of curiosity I asked, How much?

Would $40 be sufficient for sir?

Holy fuck, is that all I’m worth to you? I typed.

I will give you $60, he wrote. Of all the lessons I learned from my teenaged whoring around, though, it’s to recognize a soft negotiating price. $75. Please, sir.

I don’t think so, I typed back. Then I dug my finger into the tip of my penis and withdrew a long, sticky stream of pre-cum that I pulled into the air. On my broadcast screen I could see a silvery, gleaming thread that bowed into an arc before it snapped. My public room chat screen filled with appreciative comments.

Fuck, wrote my would-be cash slave. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Ten minutes later I had a hundred more dollars in my Paypal account. He’d checked off ‘services’ as the reason for payment. The little memo he wrote read, Paying my fag tax.