Goodgirl.tv — Part 2: I'm a real-life puppygirl, bred not to judge.

By CancerCancer

That is goodgirl.tv, if you strip the graphics off. Seven and a half million viewers jacked into my consciousness, each one with their own reasons. Some are curious. Others are lurid. I've served them all. As a real-life puppygirl, I'm bred to not judge.

The viewers receive an exact copy of my synapses. Every ear-flick, tail-wag, and itch on my body becomes purchasable property, and as long as I keep up my end of the bargain I don't end up poor.

I make a point to pant, to let the tags on the collar ring, to slurp the water bowl loud enough for the mic — that plays well on the ASMR market, for one, and for two it lets the viewers open a donation bounty, my dad's idea, and the number climbs high enough that I'll sit. Roll over. Show the camera my belly and hold it there, soft and stupid and obedient, while the chat goes good girl, good girl, good girl and the counter spins.

People buy from me because I'm the best. My braindances are like the craziest dream you've ever had. When you strap in you don't see me roll over, you are me rolling over: you get the good-girl flood in your own chest, the warmth, the whole felt thing, played back at whatever fidelity you paid for. That's the product. Not my face. Not the footage. The braindance can't counterfeit what isn't there. The rig records what the body actually felt. So the body actually has to feel it.

Which is the part I solved early. I don't have to be home for it. I learned young how to step back and let the goodgirl have the controls — she's better at this than I am, she was bred for it, she means every second — and I go somewhere with no windows and wait. The body fronts. The body feels it, all the way down, for real. The rig drinks the real thing straight from the source, and somewhere I'm not, a hundred thousand strangers wear my genuine joy like a coat they rented. I come back when the counter stops. They got to feel more of me than I was in the room for.

And here's the part I can't get a therapist to sit still for: it works on me too. Not just on her. I can step back but I can never fully unplug the wiring — some of the good-girl flood always reaches the back room where I'm hiding, warm and loose and grateful, the honest chemical kind that has no off switch and no opinion about whether I'd choose it, and for one second, every time, every single time, I am exactly as happy as they built me to be. That is the design. A creature that fought would have been a worse product; they wanted one that floods on cue, so they bred one, and called the flood consent, and sold it by the minute. I roll over because the number got high enough. I love it because they made sure I would. Those are not the same surrender and they live in the same body, and I have never once managed to get either of them out.

Goodgirl almost feels like a stepsister inside my head. Mom and Dad made her a dog. My genes are the result of a vote-with-your-wallet donation marathon that brought my parents a fortune and bought me a pedigree. Best in show. The audience picked the breed and my parents installed it and the breeders signed off and nobody in that chain was a legal person who could be asked, least of all me.

And they called me Cancer because of a meme, so that's good too.

I remember how good-girl would light up for the cameras, all that eager, all that want-to-please she couldn't switch off — and then there was the reality stream, the spinoff movies, the ad campaigns. She did well for herself.

But still. A stepsister. Yeah. I just wish that when I looked in the mirror, her face wasn't the one looking back at me.

So I built somewhere with no mirrors. No cameras. No her.