by Julia Kent
I can’t believe any of this. The room starts to spin.
Spatula laughs uncontrollably, reaching into his back pocket for a smartphone. “You seen the newest one I found?”
Beastman looks down at his crotch. “Dude. Not the time. You know those videos make me soft.”
Nothing on this hulking man’s body is soft. He looks like Jason Momoa crossed with Kingpin from Spiderverse.
“Heh.” Spatula mercifully puts his phone away. “Fine. After we’re done shooting, I’ll show you.”
“After we’re done shooting, my balls will hurt plenty,” Beastman says, his half grin somehow sad and proud at the same time. Kind eyes meet mine. “But this new lady will help that.”
“Mallory,” I gasp. “I’m Mallory.”
“Call her Mal,” Spatula instructs. “All her friends do.”
“Mal?” Beastman gives me side eye. “That means ‘bad’ in Spanish.”
“You know so much trivial crap, Beastman,” Spatula says. “You’re a walking encyclopedia.”
“No, dumbass. I just paid attention in school.”
“So did I,” Spatula defends himself. “Paid attention to the tramp stamps on the girls in front of me. That’s all the education I needed for this industry. That and home ec. We baked some awesome shit in there.” He points to Beastman’s penis and looks at me. “Here you go. We talked about the look we’re going for. We want all the height we can get, Mal.”
Beastman cups his balls, his half erection looking about as crestfallen as I feel.
“I can’t arrange that!”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t fit any of my color palettes!”
What am I saying? Sweat blooms instantly between my breasts, under the soft curve of my overly tight, bound breasts in this too-small bra. I can’t stop staring at the half-limp penis resting on the pale inner thigh of a guy in his dressing room on a cooking show set. Undressed.
They should call it an undressing room.
“You don’t need to arrange it.”
“I don’t?” Maybe this is an elaborate joke.
“You need to make it look better.”
I shake my head slowly, sorrowfully. “No can do. Sorry.”
“What do you mean, ‘sorry’? It’s your job,” Spatula growls, his demeanor changing fast. Eyes that were friendly turn cold. “You’ve got five minutes to make this happen.” He looks at his phone. “I’ve got talent that needs Narcan in another location.” The doorbell rings. “He’d better be tight and gleaming when I get back. Jasmine's on her way to film with him, and she likes 'em ready to ride.”
“Jasmine?”
“Yeah. The star.”
“When is she coming?” I ask.
“On cue,” Spatula says with a smoky laugh. “Now get Beastman looking better, like I said.”
“Then it’s an impossible job. Penises are just plain ugly,” I lie, trying to say or do whatever it takes to get out of this surreal moment. “No amount of styling will change that,” I call after him, slightly dizzy as all the different parts of me try to put this together into a whole that makes sense.
“Don’t call my junk ugly,” Beastman protests, looking genuinely hurt. Guilt pours through me, tugging at my heart. “You can’t let that get into my psyche. It’ll ruin filming. Most of this job is in the mind.” He looks down at his member. “Maybe ten percent happens with him.”
“Oh, no! I wasn’t calling your, uh, member ugly! It’s not you! Don’t be offended. It’s all men. It’s a universal truth that all penises in search of visual validation will be disappointed,” I blabber on.
“What the hell does that even mean?”
So much for my attempt at a witty Austenism.
“Um, where is the furniture I’m supposed to work with?”
“Furniture? You mean the special wedges?”
“Wedges?”
“Or the Sybian?”
“Isn’t that a kind of bread?” I ask, confused. Why bring Middle Eastern baked goods into this conversation?
“You know. Sybian.” To my horror, he begins rocking his hips toward me.
Not bread. Okay. Got it.
I feel a little faint now, but I pull it together and ask, “Where is the bedroom? Why don’t we start there?” Maybe I can escape through a window.
“Nah. The living room this time. But I like the bedroom, myself. On my other jobs, that’s where we always start,” he says, nodding as if I’m finally on the same page. “And end. And it’s pretty much where the middle happens. Unless we’re doing a casting agent thing. Then there’s a desk and the girl wears glasses.” He squints at me. “Hey. You’re wearing glasses.”
“Yes, I am.” I touch one of the arms.
“You sure you’re just the fluffer?” His eyes roam up and down my body. “Because with that rack, you could make some serious bucks with pearl necklaces.”
From artisanal bread to fine jewelry. This place is about as hipster as you can get.
“I thought this was a cooking show. Not jewelry.” I look down at his lap. “Unless you count those as family jewels.”
He chuckles, then moves to a small chair where he manspreads. If there were a pageant for naked manspreading, he’d be world champion. I wonder what the crowns for that contest would look like?
“You’re funny.” His grin widens. “So what kind of lube did you bring?” His gaze moves up to my mouth. “Other than spit.”
My jaw drops.
“Man, that’s freaky,” he says as he leans back, his legs spread, and makes it clear what he expects me to arrange. With my tongue.
“Excuse me?”
“The way your mouth just made a big O like that. You look like Kathleen.”
“Who’s Kathleen?” I squeak.
“The blow-up doll. You know. The AlwaysDoll?” He clears his throat and says, in a radio announcer’s voice. “She’s always ready for you.” His chest puffs up like a peacock. “I did the demo video for that, for the sex-toy company. It went viral.”
“I’ll bet you’re viral, all right,” I mutter, my skin on fire as it really sinks in that I’ve walked into a porn set in an obviously rented house in the fanciest part of town. A porn set. Pornography is being made right here, right now, and I’m smack dab in the middle of it.
And I’m expected to elevate the talent. I mean, I believe a rising tide lifts all boats, but this guy has an aircraft carrier between his legs.
Porn set.
A flash of the last day of senior year hits me. My best friends covered my car with streamers and “balloons” made from condoms.
And as a joke, painted the words “Most Likely to Become a Porn Star” on my windshield. It was a joke because I turned out to be valedictorian.
Joke’s on me now.
Just then, Spatula walks back in. “Hey! Great! You two are getting along nicely.” He thumbs toward me. “She said in the interview she was willing to use spit.”
“I said spit and polish!” I protest.
“Even better,” Beastman says suggestively, looking at my hands.
“No, no, no. Not literal spit! I’m not spitting all over his–” I gesture toward Beastman’s crotch.
“Hey, Mal. You know how it goes. You’re a pro. You do whatever it takes to make Beastman perform at peak,” Spatula explains, voice going low and dangerous.
“That’s not a peak,” I say. “That’s Mount Everest.”
“Any tape residue left on the tip?” he asks Beastman.
“Tape?” I gasp.
“I have to tape it to my leg when I wear jeans,” Beastman explains. “Sometimes it messes with the close-up shots.”
“Do people comment on that? I mean, are viewers of porn really looking that closely?” I blurt out.
“Of course! We get tons of fan mail and reviews.”
“Reviews? People review porn movies?” I’m imagining Yelp pages for that.
“Sure. All the time. Holds us to higher standards.”
&nb
sp; Spatula abruptly hands me a small bottle of Goo Gone. “Here. Get rid of the sticky stuff on Beastman’s tip.” He shakes it, impatient.
I don’t touch it.
“I thought the point was for him to produce sticky stuff.”
“Only for the money shot.”
“He... has sex with money? Does he wrap it around his shaft? How does that work?”
Beastman laughs. “She’s funny. It’s like she’s never watched our stuff.”
“I–” Sudden shyness overwhelms me. I haven’t watched their stuff. I haven’t watched any stuff. I joke about YouPorn, but it’s not like I use it. If I want to get off on something, it’s an audiobook of a favorite romance novel. No worries about ass to mouth, no sudden choking.
No unexpected scat play.
An audiobook is dependable. Aural sex is the best.
When you’re single, at least.
Or, maybe, when you're me.
Unreality has a funny way of announcing itself when your entire way of viewing the world melts into a gooey pile of chaos. All the carefully spread layers of life, each in its place and held apart from the others by psychological forces so mysterious they’re almost magic, converge into one big mess.
I have become a Snickers bar left on a car dashboard in July.
“Hey, hey, hold on there,” Beastman objects, pointing to the bottle Spatula shoves in my hand. “That shit stings like a mofo. I’m not letting her put that on me. Last time you had to CGI out the red burn spots!”
“Only on close ups,” Spatula retorts, minimizing poor Beastman’s protests.
“This is a pornography movie set!” I shout. It’s obvious, I know, but I have to say it. Have to. It’s like that moment when someone trips and you shout, “Careful!” afterward.
I mean, what’s the point? What’s done is done. Your words aren’t going to make a difference.
But you do it anyhow.
“Sure is,” Beastman replies calmly. Spatula moves to the door, his palms flat against it, behind his back. Panic covers his face with an urgency that looks like I feel inside.
“Why are you announcing that? You wearing a wire?” His eyes roam over me, lower teeth biting his upper lip, looking like he’s assessing whether he can do a body search.
“You lay one hand on me and I will squash you like a bug, Spatula!” I shout. My hands curl into fists and every self-defense class I ever took–all two of them, that I was dragged to by Perky because she wanted to hit on the instructor–run through my memory bank with one final conclusion:
Drop to the floor and use your legs.
So I do.
Beastman groans. It’s a sound of... pleasure?
And sure enough, the tide raises his boat, the mast moving up, up, up, the tip rubbing against the light fixture in the middle of the ceiling.
Or, at least, that’s what it looks like from my viewpoint as I bend my knee and rotate my hip for maximum ball kicking. Good thing I'm wearing my Spanx.
Spatula’s jaw goes slack, the panic deepening, one hand ripping his baseball cap off to reveal a nearly bald pate covered in newly implanted hair plugs.
Looks like he’s in phase one. I’ve seen old plastic dolls with better patterning.
“I have looked at plenty of penises in my life, mister!” I holler up at the hairy redwood. “Yours isn’t so special! I never promised to use spit on you! I just thought I was arranging furniture and getting lighting and accessories to sell it!”
“You are, baby, oh, you are. You are so selling it.” Beastman is stroking himself. He’s, um... definitely fluffed.
Spatula lunges, grabbing Beastman’s arm. “No, man! Don’t! You’re too close to climax. We’ve got a daily budget we have to meet. No choking your chicken when you’re not being filmed. It’s in your contract!”
“He’s not allowed to masturbate when you’re filming a new movie? Not even on his personal time?” I ask, righteously indignant on poor Beastman’s behalf. “Masturbation is a basic human right! We need a 28th amendment to the Constitution! The ACLU needs to take this case! How can an employment contract prevent you from self-pleasure? That’s just wrong. Someone needs to defend the rights of single people. Lonely people. People who aren’t willing to settle. People who can’t even pick up a guy at speed dating at the library. People who– “ I wind down and shut myself up, fast.
People like me.
Damn it.
“Nope. No sex with anyone, either. It makes the movies more authentic,” Spatula elaborates, peering at me with those beady eyes.
“That’s outrageous! He has the right to private pleasure! It’s not like masturbation makes hair grow on your hands or anything.” I cannot shut up. The words keep rolling out of me, as if that coconut oil is lubing the path from the fear center of my brain to my mouth.
Beastman just shrugs, but then he carefully examines his hairy hands with a dawning look of horror.
Why I am lying on the floor, my leg cocked like a cricket, arguing for Beastman’s right to flog his meat is beyond me.
This is all out of the realm of possibility.
I’m dreaming, right? This is a sick dream.
Sounds from the foyer make it clear someone else is having an argument, a man’s authoritative baritone booming through the whole first floor.
“He has every right to spank his monkey if he wants to!” I shout.
Spatula pulls the door open, taking a step toward me.
“Naw, man. We did that movie last month. No more monkeys. They bite!” Beastman extends his thigh and points to a small, thin scar, slightly raised and red.
“That was a euphemism!”
“Oh.” Beastman frowns. “I played that in my high school marching band. But only for a year. Then they moved me up to tuba.”
“Not euphonium! Euphemism!”
“What’s the difference?”
“About fifty IQ points, apparently!” I shout at him. “And please tell me you didn't have sex with monkeys in a movie?”
“What do you take me for?” he bellows, clearly offended. “I would never fuck a monkey. They were there for the dance sequence only.”
While I'm deeply relieved to hear that, I point the toe of my shoe at Spatula. “You come any closer and I’ll give your taint an episiotomy!”
“I don't have time to talk about that Episcopal stuff," he whines, impatient. "You're just here to give Beastman a rise."
Beastman moans, making bass sounds so erotic, I’m pretty sure he’s Barry White’s love child.
Spatula inserts himself between us, spraying Beastman’s chest with an oily substance. “Listen here, Mal. You’ve got him so hard. He could use that thing to cut diamonds. This is great, how you’re using his kink to help.” He opens the door even further, poking his head out to see what’s going on. Voices are louder out there, but it’s hard for me to tell. My head has an alarm in it, going off like an air raid siren.
Only this isn’t a drill.
“His kink?” I squeak as my eyes scan the small desk that Beastman turned into a makeshift dressing table. I need a weapon. I grab a dog's chew toy from underneath. It’s baby blue plastic and about two feet in length, and has increasingly large spheres along the shaft as it progresses. Holding it in front of me, I fling it around, the air making a whoosh sound as my strokes turn it into a whip.
“Beastman loves femdom,” Spatula explains, leaping out of range of my makeshift defense mechanism. Having a weapon makes me feel bolder. Hopeful. Less terrified.
I am ready to kick some ass and get out of here.
“Femdom?” I look at Beastman, who is watching me with his tongue out, eyes glassy, hand on his, um... beastdom. You know how guys always say they’re so big, it’s not going to fit? And how it always fits?
This one ain’t gonna fit. I am pretty sure Beastman would need a large farm animal to be able to–
Oh. Oh, no. I never thought to ask why he’s called Beastman, did I?
“Yeah. Hey, Mal. You willing to
wear a strap-on? Because you could turn old Beastman into the Titanic if you’d do some ass play and–”
“I REFUSE TO WEAR A STRAP-ON! IT IS NOT IN MY CONTRACT!” I shout up at him, waving my magic dog toy in an arc. He curls his belly in before I hit him with it.
Before Spatula can reply, another man interrupts us, clearly stunned by my words.
Someone I know.
Someone I haven’t seen in ten years.
Oh. My. God.
4
I would know him anywhere.
Will Lotham.
The Will Lotham.
My high school crush.
“You have less than two minutes to get the hell out of my house,” he shouts at all of us, my eyes drawn to the way his jaw flexes, how his dark hair brushes against his red, frowning forehead. Still tall, wider and more muscular in the shoulders, Will's face has grown even more handsome with time. Alert, sharp eyes narrow with suspicion, his anger justified and his authority unquestionable.
Looking up at Will Lotham from the carpeted floor with my leg coiled for action, my hand grasping the beaded weapon, I nearly faint.
“And for God’s sake, lady,” he says to me with a snort. “‘Lady.’” He uses finger quotes. “Take your damn strap-on and that anal-bead string and whatever other nasty equipment you’re using in my parents’ house and don’t you ever come back again!”
I drop the dog toy. It falls on my chest and rolls onto the floor, the biggest bead at the end coming to a final rest on top of my fallen purse.
Anal beads?
Our eyes lock.
His house?
Did he just say his house?
I’m fourteen.
In an instant, I’m back to being a freshman. I'm seeing Will Lotham for the first time, in the hallway where we have assigned lockers next to each other. L and M. Lotham and Monahan. Just like that, with a human grizzly bear scrambling into torn jeans and Spatula screaming into his smartphone, I’m frozen, transported back to 2004.
Will Lotham is talking to me. The Will Lotham.
Talking to me. On a porn set.
In his house.
He bends down and touches me, nudging my shoulder. “Look at you. Glassy eyes. Non-responsive. What are you on?”
