This work is copyright© 2008 by Orestes. You may download and keep copies for your personal use as long as all author related information and this paragraph remain on the copies. I don't mind if you send it along to a friend, repost it to an appropriate newsgroup, or post it to your adult-oriented web site, so long as you don't charge money for any of these activities. No alteration of the contents is permitted.
Who do I think I'm kidding? You're reading this on a site called stupidmaria.com - a so-called reality-style porn site about me and how stupid I am. So I'm thinking what's the use in trying to convince you that I'm not stupid?
I don't know why my new webmaster (or do I call her webmistress if it's a girl?) wants me to write this. It's not a rebuttal. If I didn't want to be Stupid Maria, the best thing we could do is take the damned site offline. But that's not what I'm doing. I'm writing, in every little detail, an account of how I became ... this.
Really, I'm not stupid. But that's my face, and my name on the web site. And it's pictures of my ass floating all over the internet that drive traffic to the site. And it's videos of me doing really degrading sex acts at some of the lowest moments of my life that sell memberships. So I must be stupid, right?
It's really fucked up (pardon my language) that I'm left holding the bag on this whole thing. It wasn't my idea. It didn't begin like this at all. I was in a bad spot, and my boyfriend took advantage.
The way it started was when I got fired at the grocery store. I got "let go" for making too many mistakes. And you know, I'd just as soon leave out this part of the story. It was a really bad time, getting fired from that job. But I can't leave it out, because she wants me to leave it in. What's the difference? It's so god damned mixed up.
Anyway, I made some mistakes on the cash register. I can't believe they have codes for six different types of lettuce. Lettuce - seriously, if I asked you right now to identify six types of lettuce by sight, could you do it? Right.
So they moved me to bakery, and I did pretty good for a while, until they started riding me about product rotation. The manager was a bit of an asshole. He'd stop to "supervise" me, but really he was just there to eyeball me. He was constantly trying to look down my blouse when I was stocking shelves. I was too embarrassed to mention it. I just ignored the bastard, which probably screwed me in the end, because there were girls who messed up way worse than I did, but they didn't take any shit, so they kept their jobs.
This is one of the very few humiliating scenes from my life in the last year that you won't find floating around the Internet as a video. Me, getting fired from a crappy job. And I actually cried. It wasn't so much the job itself, or even the money - that part of it hit me later. It was the fact that this was a really crappy job, and that I wasn't good enough for it.
I thought about my parents, and what they would say. Then I thought about my friends - some of whom worked at the store. Last, I thought about some of the bitchy girls who worked there, and all the catty stuff they'd say when they heard about it. All the while I'm sobbing away in the office of my lecherous soon-to-be-ex-boss, he's probably thinking about how to get me out of his office so that he can share the news of my firing with the bakery manager.
Pretty girl - not too bright. Maybe she could clean houses, or pick berries, or something.
I'm enrolled in college, for goodness sake. It's not like I have to work minimum wage jobs for the rest of my life. Good thing, too, because this was my third attempt at a crappy job, and I don't think I'm cut out for it. That doesn't make me stupid. I'm smart enough to write ... you can see that. I can be witty from time-to-time. I'm even smart enough to know that all my attempts to prove how smart I am are just making my "stupidity" the central issue of my existence, and I'm not coming out on the winning end of the contest.
I had to let my parents know about the job. They had helped me buy a new car, on condition that I would make the payments. Now that deal was screwed. Hell, soon it'd be a challenge just to afford gas to commute to school every day.
They love me, but I disappoint them sometimes, and I hate to be around them when they look at me all sympathetic like that.
When I met Kevin on campus, he became a pretty good distraction from it all. For one thing, he came with a whole other group of friends, who didn't work at the grocery. Plus, there's nothing quite like a new relationship to take your mind off of things. He was a good looking guy, and he couldn't keep his hands off of me. Seriously, during the first week of college, I don't know how much time we spend kissing and groping in the hallways, or at his place nearby. You know what it's like when you first hook up with a guy.
He treated me really well. Money never seemed to be a problem for him, which surprised me a bit. When I asked him about it, he didn't try to conceal it.
"I build adult web sites."
"Porn. Overseas mostly. I just repackage other people's content, get it translated, and take a cut of the profits. It's good money."
"I can see that, " I said, " but Jesus..."
"Hey, " he laid it out, shrugging his shoulders, " I like porn. What guy doesn't? I'm making good money while I go to college, and when I'm done, I won't be in debt. Listen, Maria, I like you a lot, so I'm hoping you'll be okay with it."
And just like that, it became a non-issue. He spent money on me. His apartment was convenient. We screwed like jack-rabbits, and we chose not to feel guilty about it.
That was the brief place and time where everything was okay for me.
Then that bitch Lori from the produce department transferred into my computer science class, and I'm freaking because it brings that whole ugly scene from the grocery store into my life again. She knew she had my number as soon as she saw me there, and I just sort of dissolved into my seat, wondering how long it would take for her to get everyone in class thinking I'm stupid like a cow.
I was right, of course. She'd snicker to everyone whenever I made a mistake, and within a couple of weeks, some of the other students were joining in. My only salvation was that the instructor caught on to what Lori was doing, and she had my back. Her name was Connie. A bit older, definitely a dyke, but she looked out for me. A couple of times, I noticed that she did little things to make Lori mess up her work. Well, it kept the attention off me, anyway.
Now, down to the ugly truth of my happy little life at the time. I mean, aside from Lori trying to mess me up, I really thought I was doing pretty good. But I guess Kevin was itching to do a little more than translate web sites. Without letting me know, he had began posting pics and videos of me on the internet.
Now here's where you're going to have problems with my credibility. You're going to wonder how I can even pretend that I didn't know that he was taking sex videos of me and posting them. How could I not know?
Well, some of them I did know about ... but only about him taping them, not posting them.
In my defense, I don't regularly cruise porn sites just on the off chance that pictures of me will show up somewhere. Neither does my family or friends (that I know of). Besides, lots of people tape sex videos. Not all of them end up online. I know, I know ... most girls don't have boyfriends who build adult websites either, point taken. I'll cop to being a little naive about it. But then, you also have the advantage of knowing the ending to the story already.
I remember when we made that first video - the one he splashed all over the place to promote the new site.
Kevin was all excited about this new digital camcorder he got. He was a bit of a technophile. I guess it's a guy thing. He could rattle off specs about his computer's bits and parts, his cameras and his game systems, right off the top of his head, so this new purchase really lit him up.
Another guy thing: the way all guys seem to have universal agreement about what a good blow job should look like. It's like there's some secret governing body somewhere that votes on the accepted canon of fellatio. So when Kevin finally convinced me to do it on camera, I shouldn't have been surprised when he went all amateur director on me.
"Suck it slow first, good ... now lick my balls ... look up at the camera."
I put on a pretty good show, I think. I 'mmmm'd and unghhhh'd at the right times, and pretended like I was worshiping his cock and balls. I don't mean to say that I don't enjoy giving a good blow job from time to time. It's just that when you have a camera stuffed in your face, and you're conforming the known conventions of the porn genre, it's takes on a more technical feel, and I have to admit, a somewhat more degrading one too.
He slapped my face with slobber-covered dick while I lolled out my tongue.
Still sort of in that foreplay zone, and yeah, degrading.
It's true what the feminists say about sexuality. You have to own it. If I were truly enjoying what I was doing, and doing the exact same things, there'd be nothing to be ashamed of. It'd be empowering, almost. It's when it's clear that you're reluctant ... that's when people look at you like you're a bimbo. Why would you do it if you're not enjoying it? Because he told you to?My face was reddening, and Kevin was playing it up.
.... There is more of this story ...