Just had one of those rare nights where everything feels... heavy. Not the good kind of heavy, like when a thick cock stretches my pussy until I’m dripping. The other kind. The kind where I stare at my bank account and wonder if the money will ever feel like enough to quiet the shit in my head. My husband kissed my forehead before bed and my kid drew me a picture today—why does guilt taste like vomit at 2am? Don’t get me wrong, I fucking love my job. The way strangers jerk off to me, the way my ass looks in latex, the adrenaline of a new gangbang scene. But tonight? Tonight I just want to be Eva. Not ‘Eva the slut’ or ‘Eva the mom.’ Just… Eva. Maybe tomorrow I’ll fuck the sadness out. Or maybe I’ll buy another designer bag and pretend it fills the hole. (Not the one between my legs—that one’s always full.)