Lucie Culerrier

My viewers don’t know that I’m the one running the account. My username is bathroom684157 and most uploaders here are men. The question of my gender has never been brought up during my many interactions with my subscribers. Sometimes I wonder what would happen if they found out that the woman they watch undress every night is the same person that they message, asking for different angles or more cameras. They are always so friendly to me. Calling me “the man” or “bro.” I would miss those familiar interactions. The sense of community my videos has created. Knowing that like clockwork, at 8 pm they will be waiting for me. That I won’t be alone anymore.

The clock above my bed reads 7:47. I need to start soon.

I live in an old student accommodation building that has been converted into apartments. My room is one of the cheapest ones, on the last floor. It contains a single bed, a small wooden wardrobe, a table with two chairs and a small kitchen area. The bathroom is outside, on the floor, a few doors away from my room. It’s supposed to be shared but no one apart from me lives on the last floor, so I’m the only one using it. The majority of the residents are elderly and the building doesn’t have an elevator, leaving the last few floors almost vacant. Deserted. When I worked from home, I would spend days, sometimes weeks without running into another breathing being. Without hearing the sound of my own voice. Except maybe when I hummed under the shower. To see if I still could.

I sit up from my bed. I check one last time that the server is connected to the camera, that I’ll be able to livestream properly. Everything is in order. I open the wardrobe and a few rumpled clothes fall through. One of them is my grey sweatpants, I set them aside. I dig through the pile of clothes sitting at the bottom, below the empty clothing rail. I never bought hangers. I find an oversized shirt with the symbol of the university I went to on it. Under the big logo, small letters read, “Rowing Team of 2013.” I can’t remember taking rowing during my years at college. If there were once a moment in my life where I woke up early, on a cloudy Sunday and walked in the cold to go to rowing practice. It seems impossible, unfathomable.

With the rowing shirt and grey sweatpants at hand, I check the clock again. 7:56. It’s time to go. They’re expecting me.

The bathroom is cold, like always. My toiletry bag is on the sink. I rarely use it now; I stopped wearing makeup after realising that it didn’t impact my views. I tie my hair up and I start undressing.

It should feel different when you know people are watching you, but it isn’t anymore. I imagine it’s like getting naked in front of your significant other after years of being together. The excitement, the nervousness is gone. All that is left is the familiar rhythm, the order, the routine. I always start with my shirt. I unbutton it. One after the other. Slowly. My work uniform has very small buttons and my swollen fingers sometimes struggle to reach them. I gained weight. I’ve been gaining weight since… I don’t even remember. Maybe since my rowing days.

Once my shirt is off, I toss it on the ground, near the door where I know the water can’t reach it. After that, I take off my pants and place them above my shirt. If I was wearing socks I would remove them at that moment, but I’m usually not wearing any. I like being barefoot. Then it’s time for my bra. I unhook it, usually with a bit of difficulty. Once I’m topless, I take a few seconds to look at the state of my body. The redness where the straps dug into my shoulders. The new shapes it has created near my ribs. The flaccidness of my breasts. At last, I remove my panties.

The shower tiles are cold. I turn on the faucet and I let the scathing hot water cascade over my back. Water streams down my arms, gently caresses my fingers. I’m held.

User90543 wrote on one of my videos a few months ago that he wished my body wash was more cum-like. I couldn’t take his suggestion right away, it would look suspicious. So I waited until my body wash ran out to use a new one. Creamy white-like texture. It smells like vanilla and coconut. My views went up by 13% after that. It is still the one I use.

I wash my body. Carefully. Gently. The scent of coconut and vanilla mixes with the steam. I close my eyes. I can feel the warmth of their eyes grazing my skin. I hear their whispers. The sound of typing on keyboards. I wash my legs first, then my stomach, chest and arms. When it’s time to scrub my back I turn towards the camera; maybe they could warn me when I missed a spot. I shave my legs, my armpits. The razor blades leave a trail of red bumps on their furious descent. I trace the ever-changing topography of my skin with the tip of my fingers. What would they think if they were able to see this up close? Would they still watch?

I can’t remember how I started it. It all seemed so comfortable. So comforting. If I dropped dead right now, if I collapsed onto the floor and cracked my skull open, who would notice apart from them?

The steam continues to rise. I feel dizzy. I exit the shower quickly, dry my body and put on the rumpled rowing shirt and grey sweatpants. In my room, I sit silently on the edge of the bed for a few minutes. I look at the comments from today.

user90543: sexy 

l8ti8sex: more angles plsss bro

maturelover69: beatiful tits xo

ajopdn: she looks off today  

“She looks off today.” She looks off today. Is it me they’re talking about? Who is that woman who showers meticulously on my screen? Can she come sit with me and hold me? She stops for a second after shaving. She caresses her skin gently, like no one has ever done to her. She does look sad today. Maybe she’s waiting for someone to turn off the camera.

I close the laptop.

Well. Someone else would do it if I wasn’t doing it to myself anyway.

About the Author

Lucie Culerrier is a 23-year-old writer. She is a postgraduate student at the University of Cambridge pursuing a master’s degree in Creative Writing. She has previously been published in Swim Press, an independent literary journal, for a piece of flash fiction. She spends her time between England and her native France, unable to choose between the English countryside and her precious Parisian cat Lili. She is passionate about all forms of storytelling, from novels to films to video games. She hopes to publish a novel one day.

Instagram: @lucieculerrier