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Last autumn I sat in a midtown cubicle sorting receipts for my boss’s monthly expense report.

Upon first glance, the only semblance Marina bears to her office-dwelling predecessor is her penchant for Post-its, which now testify to a to-do list decidedly more perverse: And yet, as she poses in lacy white stockings – a gift from a virtual admirer – atop her squeaky Ikea armchair, the only thing that surprises her is how ordinary it all feels.* * *The afternoon that I was placed on Performance Probation, I left work early. I remembered a conversation I had several months earlier with an acquaintance, whose ex-girlfriend, he claimed, made a decent living as a camgirl. ” I asked him, familiar with the phenomenon only through sidebar Internet advertisements claiming that Jessie19, conveniently located in my neighborhood, wanted to fuck, like, “Well,” he said, “usually they just strip, tease and get themselves off in front of guys online in exchange for money and gifts.

Riding the N train back to Queens, I quietly wept upon the sympathetic cashmere shoulder of Ann Taylor and brainstormed responses to my imminent dismissal. For the first time, my intellect and perfectionist work ethic had failed me. It’s super easy – most guys aren’t looking for some airbrushed Barbie. I paused, looking down at my austere gray cardigan.

My parents were proud of me, and I was proud that they were proud of me.

Convinced that I was doing the “right thing,” I spent a year botching Excel spreadsheets and crying in office bathroom stalls.

Much like waitressing or washing floors, professional masturbation was simply incommensurate with my educational background and perceived level of dignity.