I fully expect him to slam the laptop shut - or at least bark at me to turn it off, to stop the stream. I expect him to demand I put some clothes on, and lecture me for the next hour about the dangers of online presence, or something.

He takes a deep breath, and I tense with anticipation.

"How often do you do this?" he asks, and the lack of inflection is scarier than if he yelled it.

"Once a week," I squeak.

"How many people watch you?"

I glance at the screen. "Right now, there are five thousand. Sometimes more, depending on... what I do."

Another pause. "Five...