On the ground floor of a Bushwick tenement building with a staircase lined in peeling fleur-de-lis wallpaper, inside a railroad apartment and past the big bed with black silk sheets and two massive chests full of rhinestone-encrusted thongs, Stoya is perched on a metal stool in leggings and a sweatshirt, talking about the future. She cracks open her kitchen's rear window, tucks her legs beneath her, and smokes a Parliament Light. Then another. And another. "There's an unknown expiration date for me," she says. "It could be 28, or it could be 35: The age when no one cares anymore, I'm no longer relevant, and there are strange wrinkly things happening to my butt cheeks that should not appear on HD video." Stoya is 26. She smokes another cigarette. Then she tweets to her 124,000 followers from the iPad perched on her windowsill: "Does anyone know of a place where I can buy a wig cap on the Lower East Side at 11:30... More >>>