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I read through it with interest and thought of my dreaded supermarket job. Whilst my friends were busy planning nights out over our upcoming half term, I was facing a long train trip back to my rural hometown to pull double shifts and last-minute cover on the checkout. But with webcamming, I could set my own schedule. I could even chat to men online whilst fully clothed and earn money per minute.

A steal, almost. Throwing caution to the wind, I chose a username and signed up. I stumbled like a newly-walking Bambi through the deluge of requests from men on the chat box, which appeared next to a live video stream of me, as well as private messages to my profile. Are you into scat [sexual activity involving feaces]. Customer service became a part of my new gig as I remembered to smile as the suggestions, mostly unpaid, came in.

I logged on for four hours a night and over the first, month earned hundreds of pounds. Being a cam boy was like waiting tables with no hourly wage. Everyone could sit at the table, but you were only paid in tips. I persevered as it was a way to earn money whilst uni classes were on, so I could earn cash on top of my dreaded supermarket job in the holidays. Sometimes, a couple of hours camming earned a fiver, whilst other sessions could yield hundreds of pounds from keen tippers and private one-to-one viewers.

Tempting - but I refused, drawing a line at meeting in real life. The circle of regular men who joined my digital shows grew and turned into a confessional of sorts for older, married men. I asked them about their day, and it became quickly clear that I was often a release of sorts for men in religious households - sexually frustrated Christians, Muslims, Sikhs, and more.

I had gone into camming blind of the realities. In the webcamming world existed a grey zone; a less-sinister Dark Web, where a man from Dubai tipped you a fiver to listen to him talk about his ex-wife whilst watching you slap your ass cheeks. Some thought it was my kink to stream my live, solo sex shows and got off on asking. It was better than the alternative of boring supermarket customer small-talk about red wine at the till.

My anonymity and digital presence were a blanket of safety. I also regularly Googled my username to check none of my live shows had been lifted. There were nerve wracking moments when the identikit backdrop of my campus bedroom outed me to recent graduates of my university.

I know that light fixture , a guy typed in the chat box, one night. Luckily, there was nothing to differentiate my room from the thousands nearby. Moments like that were offset by the money I made as a cam boy. Private viewings of me simply wearing clean socks brought in hundreds of pounds a night. My regulars all had a vice and were desperate to meet in person. They had already heard my voice, seen my face - and the rest - but only on a screen.