by Iris Blaire
“Just double checking. Love you. See you in a bit.”
“Don’t forget the milk. Kisses,” she says, and hangs up.
I drop my phone in the cup holder and rub my eyes. Already a reply from the photographer… am I ready for this? Posing isn’t a deal at all. I’ve done underwear shoots before.
But the fact that the mag is affiliated with East Park just makes me feel so unprofessional. On top of shooting with girls that aren’t Tricia.
But she doesn’t care, so I shouldn’t care.
I pull out of the parking lot, looking forward to nothing but buying milk and grading undergrad papers tonight.
And being poor.
And whoring myself out to EPE subscribers.
Fuck college.
Chapter Two
Evan
“I’ve narrowed it down to four sexy models,” Britain says right when I walk in the door. She sits at her computer. “They’re all gonna stop by tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I say as indifferently as possible. I throw my bag on the couch and head to the kitchen to wash out my smoothie cup.
“Well, aren’t you interested?”
“In seeing what these model boys look like?” I yell over the running water, and shrug. “Not really. I mean, I’m not going to be posing with them. And they’re just temps, right?”
“Jesus, Evan. Stop being a prude and come check out some hot ass with me.”
I roll my eyes and turn off the water, trudging into the living room. I pull up a chair and sit at the desk with her. She has the first on already open. He’s… hot, I guess. Nice abs.
“His nose is kind of big.”
“You’re impossible,” she says.
“Show me the next one.”
She clicks her mouse, and a new photo pops up. He leans against a brick wall, crossing his meaty arms. Meaty is an understatement.
“This guy is huge. And short. And bald. God, you have terrible taste in men. Why am I just realizing this now?”
“Shut your face.”
She clicks to the next portrait, and I stop breathing.
The model lounges on the couch wearing low-rise jeans. His white shirt is completely unbuttoned, revealing his tanned chest—the ripples of his six-pack.
I exhale. “Oh my god.”
His neck is craned as he glances at the camera behind him with those gorgeous blue eyes.
“Evan has a lady boner,” Britain sings.
I open my mouth, but what the hell am I supposed to say? That she’s late to the party? That I’ve already been mentally masturbating to this guy for the past two hours? “I know him. Well, sort of. He was our student lecturer today in bio.”
“Wait. You’re telling me that he’s a grad student?”
“Yeah. But what does that have to do with anything?”
She shrugs. “Older guys are at our maturity level. Adam is so already getting on my nerves.”
“Which is why we shouldn’t have any boys in our shoots.”
“No, which is why we should hire this one.”
When I jump up, I almost knock my chair over. “Hell no!”
“Are you kidding me? We have to. He’s perfect. I heard the way you gasped when I pulled his picture up.”
“He’s in my department, Brit. The first time a subscriber sees the two of us near each other, they are going to figure out exactly who I am.”
She pushes her blonde hair out of her face at the same time that Delilah swaggers down the stairs wearing booty shorts and a crop top. “You really need to get past this whole double life thing. You’ll be way less stressed out.” She nods toward the stairs. “Take Delilah for example. Delilah’s never stressed.”
Delilah swings from the bottom end of the banister, her curtain of auburn hair swinging back and forth. Delilah—EPE’s Jessica Rabbit. Full hips and boobs, tiny little waist. Huge lips and eyes. She doesn’t just play a vixen on television either.
“I’ve told Evan this a million and a half times,” she says, sauntering over to us. “You get used to the cat calls. The free drinks make up for it. Plus the sex any time you want it.”
Delilah isn’t like me—she doesn’t have a pseudonym.
“And if I did that then I’d never get any work done.”
“You’d be too busy fucking.”
“Well… no—”
But she cuts me off. “Who. Is. That?” She leans in toward the computer. “I want to lick every inch of him.”
“You might get to.” Britain zooms in on Dallas’s picture.
“He’s one of our new boys?” Delilah bites her bottom lip.
“No… No.” I put my hands on my hips. Nothing says serious business like hands on the hips.
“Think about it, Evan. You’d have someone in your own department who understands you. You guys could be buddies.” Britain bats her eyelashes. “While Delilah climbs him like a tree for our benefit.”
I roll my eyes. “Whatever.”
As I trudge up to my room, Britain yells, “So you’ll be around tomorrow to meet him, right?”
I don’t answer.
“Hey Evan, want to have a How I Met Your Mother marathon this weekend?” Delilah asks.
“Can’t. Homework. Always homework.” I watch as she pouts from below. “Try after graduation.”
^^^^
As I lie in bed, I clutch my stomach, wondering why it’s twisting so much. I’m not jealous of Delilah. I’m not. I’m making money. I’m getting great grades. I’m going to get into grad school. The last thing I need is to be distracted by a bunch of male models. Bringing them in to work alongside us is a bad idea in the first place.
When Britain sees that having them work with us will just turn off male readers, then they’ll leave and things will return to normal.
I just have to wait.
^^^^
When I hang around shoots that aren’t mine, waiting for my own turn in front of the camera, I usually wear something comfortable, but much trendier than what Evan would wear to school. Sexy Rylan comfy. Today, it’s a black romper and gladiator sandals while Nora does my makeup and hair.
I guess Nora would be another one I’d consider to know both of my identities. But I don’t really care that she knows—she graduated from a cosmetic school on the other side of town, is not-so-secretly super goth, and wants nothing to do with us college skanks.
I kind of like her.
We don’t pay her much. I’m sure she only comes in to doll us up from the credit in the mag. She’s actually had quite a few of our subscribers (or subscribers girlfriends, I guess) wanting to set up an appointment because of what they saw in EPE.
I close my eyes as she sprays on my makeup. I get the usual Rylan look today—soft, curly hair cascading over my shoulders, and a shadow palette in quiet browns. Cheeks an innocent pink hue. My favorite thing, oddly enough, is the pair of fake eyelashes I get every day. There’s something about eyelashes that totally changes a girl’s appearance, and makes me look like an entirely different person.
When Nora is done, I examine myself in the mirror. Hello, Rylan.
I curl my fingers around one of my locks and head out toward today’s set. There’s only one bedroom in the studio side of the house. We use it for most of our inside shoots, the bed, furniture, and walls covered to rematch our theme. I haven’t really been paying attention lately to the mag lineup so I’m not sure what is planned for Delilah’s shoot—which is why, when I step foot into the bedroom, I’m not expecting to be handed a bottle of chocolate syrup and have a very, very naked Adam in front of me.
“Help smear this on Adam,” Britain instructs, returning to her job of dousing Delilah, who wears only a black thong, in chocolate syrup.
“Well,” Adam throws me a smirk and stretches his arms. “Ready when you are.”
I sneer. “Of course you’d give me the naked giant to cover.” Naked giant with nice assets. But I’m not about to comment on them and make his ego even bigger.
“Whate
ver,” I mutter. Rubbing chocolate on a hot, naked boy isn’t the weirdest thing that I’ve ever done. I walk toward Adam and pop open the lid to the bottle. “Hershey’s… classy.”
I shake the bottle at is torso. When chocolate spurts out onto his skin, he groans.
I snort. “Give me a break.”
“What?” Adam says. “You don’t find giving me a chocolate bath erotic?”
“I find it cheesy as hell. Don’t step off the plastic. Chocolate syrup is a bitch to get out of the carpet.”
“You’d know?” He asks wickedly.
“Yeah. You—and Delilah—aren’t the only ones in this room who’ve been covered in dessert.”
“But you haven’t been covered in dessert with me.”
“Oh, God.” I step back, pointing to Delilah. “Do you not see the hot piece of ass that you’re going to be shooting with for the next hour?”
“Why thank you,” Delilah sings. Delicately, she climbs onto the bed. I notice now that it’s covered in the ivory vinyl comforter and pillows. It sounds tacky, but it actually looks like an expensive down feather bed set. And yet it can be sprayed off with a hose if needed.
“But having just Delilah isn’t as good as having both of you,” Adam says.
“Sounds like someone has a crush.” Delilah kneels on the bed and fluffs her hair, completely free of shame as chocolate slowly trickles over her breasts. I mean, when it was just us girls during shoots, so much exposure wouldn’t make me blink twice. But the thought of being naked in front of someone like Adam, who devours me with his eyes while I’m clothed, kind of weirds me out.
I can’t let it. Just because a guy’s involved in a shoot doesn’t mean that I don’t have the upper hand. I can’t be afraid of something new—of the unpredictable.
I put a little swagger in my step as I walk toward him, squirting chocolate syrup on my hand. “So you’re one of those guys who thinks he’s so hot, he can just have it all.” I press my hand against his chest, smearing chocolate all over his pecks. Keeping my eyes locked on his, I trail my fingers down the muscles in his abs. “So it must be shocking for a girl like me to be apathetic to the thought of licking chocolate syrup off of you.”
I trace his hipbone. His eyes roll back and he squeezes them shut. I glance down to find him hard as a rock, his dick less than an inch away from my abdomen.
Good to know that I can actually turn a guy on in person. A little affirmation here and there can’t hurt a girl.
“Quite flirting with the model, Rylan, and hurry up,” Britain drawls.
I quickly smear the rest of the chocolate over Adam’s torso and back as he douses his legs in chocolate, and then he climbs onto the bed with Delilah.
“What are they going to do now?” I mutter to Britain.
“Lick it off each other—what do you think?” she responds with indifference as she readies her camera.
I think it’s a bit corny, but I don’t say anything. Instead, I sit in the corner of the room and wait for Britain to get the lighting around the white-washed room just right.
“I’m going to try this shoot with a bunch of different aperture settings, so we might be here for a bit. You two okay with that?”
Delilah bites back her grin as Adam pulls her toward him. Instantly, I am no longer the focus, and Delilah is the new lust-object. God, men are so predictable.
“Absolutely,” Adam says.
Britain doesn’t do a whole lot of instruction like she usually does with the solo shoots. I guess the pheromones are doing a well-enough job. Adam forcefully pushes Delilah back onto the bed, dips his head, and licks up the middle of her chest, right between her chocolate-covered breasts. Delilah’s plump lips part as she gasps and writhes on the comforter.
Stealthily, Britain grips a canopy pole for support and hops onto the footboard of the bed, shooting away. She’s good as these balancing acts. “Great. Keep it steamy, guys.”
That’s all she says. She doesn’t instruct Adam to lick up Delilah’s neck or for Delilah to look more invested in what he’s doing to her. They’re perfect.
Adam murmurs something to Delilah, and she giggles and nods. Adam trails his chocolate fingers up the inside of her bare thigh. He lowers his head to her breast and covers her nipple with his mouth. Delilah whimpers and raises her hands above her head, giving him full access.
Heat floods the apex of my thighs. Damn, this is hot.
I keep telling myself that I can make it through my PhD without dating or hooking up, but watching them reminds me that it’s been a whole year since a guy touched me like that. I cross my legs, imagining how it must feel for Delilah right now—Adam’s tongue flicking against her nipple, the pad of his thumb moving over her thong and rubbing against her covered slit.
“Don’t let him dominate you, Delilah. Do something about it.”
Adam lets Delilah flip him so that she straddles him. Britain hops down from her spot and gets in close as she can, getting shots of their bodies pressed together, Delilah’s tongue running along the cusp of Adam’s ear.
I keep my legs pinned together, my breath even, my teeth gritted.
I’ve never been so envious of someone and yet so thankful that I wasn’t them at the same time.
Dallas
I’m not sure what I was expecting the EPE headquarters to looks like. Hell, these shoots nearly border on porn. I mean, classy porn to say the least. Artistic porn. But I’m broke and this is what it has come to. I guess I was expecting a dump in the inner-city part of town, but that’s not where my GPS brought me. I park outside of a large home on the outskirts of the suburbs. Nothing surrounds this house other than a cal-de-sac and some open fields.
The house is in nice condition too. And it’s huge—like a middle-class, Desperate Housewives version of the Playboy Mansion.
Before I get out of the car, I look down at myself. I’m kind of dressed like a prick. I’ve just come from student teaching and my shirt is buttoned up to my collar and tucked into my slacks. I pull out my shirt and undo my tie, unbutton a few buttons, and take in a deep breath.
Why the hell am I so nervous? I mean, it’s not a big deal if I don’t get the job. It might be for the better. Applying was a stupid idea in the first place, even if Tricia’s right about it giving me a leg up in the industry. And what about respect from undergrads? The last thing I need is a bunch of freshman fuck-heads who think they can mess with me because they’ve seen me naked.
Mostly naked.
EPE is good at avoiding crotch shots. But still. This was a mistake.
Right when I’m about to start the engine back up, a cute blonde wearing glasses bounces out of the front door of the house. She spots me, waves, and runs over. She’s dressed in a tank top and cut-off shorts.
Normal enough.
She leans into my open window, holding out her hand. “You must be Dallas,” she says. “Well, obviously you’re Dallas. I’ve seen your photo. I’m Britain.”
This is Britain? I thought Britain might be some pseudonym for an old creepy forty-year-old man with a pot belly. But this girl looks like your average college student. Naturally pretty, but a bit too nerdy to be in a sorority. Kind of plain. Like she wouldn’t be into taking pictures of naked people.
“Err… hi,” I say. I pull my keys out of the ignition and step out of the car.
“Come on in. It’s okay, you look kind of scared.” She grins. “I hope you didn’t dress up for us.”
I tug on my collar. “I student teach.”
“Oh, that’s right.”
“That’s right?”
“Uhh… yeah. I mean, I had to do my research. Umm… one of my friends is in your bio class.” She looks away from me and heads toward the door.
Great.
I follow her up the steps and into the house. The main room is vaulted and big, but classy. Much classier than I expected. It almost looks like a nice, middle-class family could live here. I mean, other than the framed posters of the half or mostly naked EPE
models on the walls. I recognize all of them. I’m not an avid reader or anything. Tricia looks through my issues more than I do. But I’m a subscriber. Who on the East Park campus isn’t? We have the most successful independent erotic magazine out of any campus in the country.
Everyone’s going to be looking at pictures of me now.
I’ve done underwear modeling. It’s the same thing.
A girl stands in the corner of the room, crossing her arms. In the frame behind her is the promotional poster of her, like she planned it.
Rylan Willow. Holy shit, it’s Rylan Willow.
She looks much happier in her promo poster—and wearing a lot more—but it’s definitely her. Even though I’m not what you’d call EPE’s biggest fan, I never skip the Rylan spreads. And now she’s standing before me, arms crossed tight against her tits so that her cleavage spills perfect over that… one-piece thing. Whatever the hell she’s wearing that looks so damn good on her.
Maybe the exposure of this job will be worth it if I can shoot with her.
No. I can’t think like that. Not when Tricia’s trusting me so much with this.
Why the fuck does Rylan look so pissed at me?
“Dallas, this is one of our primary models, Rylan Willow.”
“I—am aware of that.” I’m aware of that? Knock off the professor façade—you fucking idiot. I hold out my hand but she doesn’t take it, so I shove it into my pocket. “Nice to meet you, Rylan.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Pleasure,” she drawls. She could’ve fooled me.
Britain leads me to the couch and lays all of the typical interview questions on me—how long I’ve been shooting for, what has been my favorite gig thus far, and what I do when I’m not in school or not modeling. She thinks it’s funny that it was Trisha’s idea to audition for EPE.
I catch myself glancing at Rylan, who has pulled a weird green drink from the kitchen fridge and is sipping it by the island, watching us.
“So, since you’ve informed me that you have a girlfriend, this might be a problem in terms of how far you’re willing to go for the shoots. I mean, I try—to the best of my ability—to stay classy enough to call this art, but you’ll still have to get intimate with the models.
