I stan for you, Natalie Abrams. Your sweet voice has made me cum again and cum again and cum again so many times.

Her real name. Her full name. She does not click the attached video. The preview image shows a man’s dick poking out from a clenched fist like a purple turtle.

Can I taste your cookie, Ms. Cutter? I’ve got some extra creamy filling for you.

A jerky sob of outrage and disbelief as she thumbs down to the next message, and the one after that. She’s alarming the driver. Can’t help it. How did they know her name? The internet. The internet knows everything. Like she knew her driver’s name, Tendai, and that he had a 4.7-star rating and comes from Zimbabwe, and a good conversation starter would be to ask him about music, even before he turned the corner.

Your voice makes me want to rape you to death.

It’s worse online. #cookiecutterxposed on Discord leads her back to a chat board. There are photos of her. Her headshots, which are public if you know her real name. And others. Personal ones from her real life. Not from her Facebook. She’s not that stupid, deleted her account long before she ever took up sex work, but from her friends and family.

It’s her graduation from the University of the Western Cape, with the psychology degree she hasn’t been able to turn into an actual job yet, her dad, before the stroke, standing beside her beaming, wearing her stupid rented mortarboard on his head, the tassel dangling beside his nose.

Kayaking in dazzling turquoise waters in Phuket with her ex-boyfriend Perry, both of them hungover and miserable behind their sunglasses.

At Feroza’s wedding with all the cousins and aunties and uncles.

Driving Chantal to school, the day after Nats got her license, her sister mugging for Nats’s proud moment, doing the scream-faced emoji of terror.

10/10 would fuck baby sister CookieCutter too.

“FUUUUUCK!” Nats screams and throws her phone away as if that will make it stop. It thunks against the window, and the driver jolts in fright. The car swerves, there’s honking from the other lane. A near miss.

Her driver takes the wrong turnoff and yanks his car over into the emergency lane. He sits gripping the steering wheel. “No,” Tendai-from-Zimbabwe turns to look at her, furious. “This is not the way you behave in my car.”

“I’m sorry. I’m upset. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I can see that. But you don’t treat people like this. You don’t try to damage my car. I’m still paying for it. Every day I drive, I’m paying for it. You could have caused an accident. You could have hurt people.”

She starts crying harder. “I’m sorry. Something happened. Something really horrible happened.”

He looks at her, pursed mouth. “I should cancel this trip.”