Different sets of rules. Sister Annie’s rules. Hawk Publishing House’s client relationship rules. Moral, ethical, spiritual, religious rules.
But because I can’t help myself, I type:Wow. How’s your dick?
This is also a question of genuine concern, however, and it follows right on the heels of watching this deliciously naked man groan, “Fuck,” on my screen while clutching said appendage. “You would think I’d learn after the first few times. I should start wearing protection,” he had said.
I chuckled and pulled out my phone to email him immediately, something I’ve been doing with regularity for the past several months.
As I wait for his reply, his sexy scholar voice continues over my laptop speakers. “But anyway, the reason I keep burning my dick is that oil splatters when moisture comes into contact with it when it’s hot. The water pretty much immediately vaporizesinto steam, which expands quickly, which pushes the oil out of the pan.” He lifts up on his tiptoes to stick his impressive length under a stream of presumably cold water running from the sink. “And onto my dick,” he finishes in a deep baritone.
Goddamn.
His turning towards the sink allows me the perfect opportunity to objectify the hell out of him. Sorry, he’s a client. I meant admire. Admire the hell out of him. Out of his ass, that is. Although ‘ass’ has never seemed like the proper terminology.
Badonk, perhaps?
Because the creator ofNakedReactionsis big. Beefy. Bulky? No, that’s not right either.
Thicc. With two c’s.
He’s big all over, but not in a meathead, gym rat way. Obviously strong, but most of his muscle is covered with a thick, naythicc, layer of padding. More bear over lion. More dad-bod than pro-athlete.
I wipe at the drool collecting at the side of my mouth.
He’s hot as hell, and we don’t even need to see his face to make that determination. His camera is always angled in such a way that his head is cut off.For privacy reasons, he told me. But he could still have the face of a melted candle and still be considered hot, because his body, combined with the deep intentionality of his voice and his clear intellect, is a solid recipe for success, as evidenced by his hundreds of thousands of followers on his subscription-based platform.
We love a smart beefcake of a man who cooks. In the nude. While explaining, in thorough detail, the science behind his cooking processes. Hundreds of thousands of people will even pay ten dollars a month to watch him do so.
Hawk Publishing House will pay him a hefty seven-figures to make a cookbook out of his videos. And they will pay me,a desperate-for-cash failed poet under their employ, a (barely livable) wage to ghostwrite it.
My phone dings.
From: [email protected]
He’s out of commission for a while. I’m going to the doctor in a bit. I feel really sorry for him.
I smile, and amidst the sizzling noise of potato sticks frying in hot oil and the creator’s languid, professorial voice saying something aboutpectinandstarch granulesandenzymesandpectin methyl-something, my fingers start flying and I’m hitting send.
From: [email protected]
Seems like a standard occupational hazard for you. But who could ever feel sorry for what you’re packing?
An imaginary nun reprimands me from my shoulder.Annie, Sister Annie snaps.
Fuck you, Sister Annie, this doesn’t count! Flirting with a porn star—sorry, adult content creator (his preferred terminology)—may toe the line, but it certainly doesn’t cross it. It might bend it, though, but at least I’m not getting bent over. By anyone other than myself.
Sex with myself doesn’t count, I proclaim to Sister Annie from Rock Bottom, also known as my parents’ basement.And I’m totally sober.And you’re gone in a month, anyway.
I jam my fingers into my eyelids.
Sister Annie. This sanctimonious bitch. Guardian nun of my now-two-year-long self-imposed vow of abstinence: no sex,no drugs, no alcohol. A hard reset after a decade of reckless abandon, of nights blurred by strobe lights and fake friendships and sloppy fights, of rooftop misadventures and waking up in strangers’ beds with nothing but a headache. She got the job two years ago, when my twin sister May kicked me out of our shared apartment and forced me to move back home. Here. Where I’ve stayed safely. Bored, but safe.
Until last year.
After I rose like a drunken phoenix (an insane yet sexy one—the two truest things that dumb fuck Nico has probably ever said about me) from the literal flames of May’s engagement party, I made a promise. No more problems. No more chaos or relapses or ruining more things for May. I gave Sister Annie one more year. Her last day is on the day of May’s wedding.
