More than the pictures, more than the videos themselves, I’m drawn to the comments.
Given that the site has subheadings that include “hardcore,” “girl on girl,” and “amateur,” I’m prepared for some type of deviant evidence to appear. Searching her name, more than twenty videos appear. Each of them displaying her face. Her head is thrown back with pleasure written in her expression. One of her leaning forward in the middle of a bar, her legs spread on the sofa, her attitude playful, yet seductive, and both of her hands wrapped around a champagne bottle, the bubbly spilling down the side. She’s clothed in the stills, but I’d be surprised if she remained that way once I clicked on them.
Slipping the headphones into place, I do another check of the monitors, before returning to the site.I have … specific tastes so I’m not unfamiliar with websites that cater to a certain clientele.
Each video post has hundreds of comments underneath. These are the digital footprints of people who have sat where I’m sitting. They watched these videos in the glow of a hundred different screens, in different sitting rooms and bedrooms and basements.
My body hums with the recognition that this is technically research, but still … jealousy and possessiveness threaten to piss me off. My skin pebbles with goosebumps and my breathing comes fast and shallow and my hands—
My hands are clenched into fists so tight that my knuckles are white above the keyboards.
It’s all because of these fucking comments. Men and women who watched her and discussed it freely. With anxiousness, I shift in my seat, noting each of the videos falls under the category labeled “Exhibitionist.”
There’s an enormous variety in the types of comments made. Some are completely irrelevant, a simple thumbs-up or emoji. Then there are other, more detailed comments and conversations. Feminist opinions. Misogynistic ones.
And summaries of what happens within the clips.
Summaries—and reactions.
I can’t help lingering on those. The first few comments are written in all caps. Ten, twenty exclamation points. They urge the viewers to keep watching. It gets hotter, the comments read.
It only takes ten minutes to start recognizing names of the users. Some have returned to the videos again and again, the comments providing that evidence with the dates beside the comments. I recognize two usernames in particular—two men in conversation across multiple videos.
One conversation in particular gives me insight I didn’t imagine I’d ever find on a site like this. Dated four years ago.
Where’s the one with her on her knees?
Deleted. :(
Fuck me. That was one of my favorites. This one’s close, but not the real deal.
It went down with the others when they got engaged. He decides what stays and what goes.
Selfish bastard.
Engaged.Ella was engaged before. A concoction of emotion stronger than whiskey hits me all at once. She was engaged, and from the looks of it, the two of them had a shared proclivity to be watched.
The Dominant side of me shifts in my seat from the uncertainty of their relationship. My preference has always been for discretion when I indulge. The level of discretion displayed in these videos is obviously a different boundary than I have ever committed to.
I almost close the laptop, my mind reeling with more questions than answers, but I stop myself short, one thumbnail calling out to me more than all the others.
The thumbnail is a still of Ella, like the rest, but in this one she wears a bright, innocent smile. When I click through it has the most comments of any of the videos I’ve searched for in the last half hour.
I can barely focus on them. The first line I read several times, and still the words don’t register. I’m not a fool; I know what I’m going to see when I click the play button. Still, I know I shouldn’t. And yet, I know I will.
Ella’s simper reaches right through the screen to me. Her teeth are sunk into her bottom lips, painted a cherry red as she sits on a man’s lap. The man’s hand wrapped around her waist splays across her hip. It’s a loose hold on her, not at all possessive. The black man smiles, his focus elsewhere as she stares at the camera, a beer held in his right hand. It’s not hard to tell that they’re at a bar. In public. The mischievousness that glinted in her eyes yesterday morning is there in this photo. Begging me to play.
I have to click play. That’s part of the research. Witnessing this is my job. A barely audible voice whispers that it’s not my job. That watching these videos—labeled as pornographic in no uncertain terms—could be avoided. No, should be avoided.
I don’t want to avoid it, though. I’m damn sure of that.
The comments under this particular video are about how it’s the beginning. The commenters say it over and over. This is the beginning. This is how it started. How the incident began and to keep watching.
From one of the familiar names, I read the comment, It’s her foreplay.
I hover my cursor over the video, and it plays a few seconds in a loop. She’s not alone in this three-second clip. Far from alone. I know the place—it’s a Hard Rock in Vegas. The background is crowded with patrons coming and going. There’s no possibility that anything salacious could happen within this public venue. But whatever did happen, it’s clear the other woman in the video was involved.
Because she has her fingertips on Ella’s jaw. I’m caught for a long minute watching the three-second clip of her tracing her pale pink painted nails down Ella’s jaw, down her neck, and even lower, to where her black-sequined dress barely covers her. The hemline skimming her thighs makes my mouth dry up. Clearing my throat, I check the empty room again. Comforted by silence, I return to the two women.