“I fucki—I know,” I tell her, teeth clenched. Even if she’s not touching me, her proximity seems to cause me more pain. “That’s why I’m here. I’m in freakin’ agony, and I saw some pus.”
She hums. “Are you allergic to anything?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. I’m going to prescribe some antibiotics and some antibiotic cream. Take the pills three times a day and use the cream twice a day. Clean the wound first before putting the cream on. You can wrap it up, too.” She chuckles at her little joke. “With some gauze and tape.”
“What do I do about the pain?” I demand to know.
She shrugs. “Over-the-counter pain medication. Acetaminophen or ibuprofen.”
I blow out a breath. “That’s what I’ve been taking, and it’s not doing much of anything.”
The doctor studies me. She’s either thinking about ‘the general weakness of men’ (as my sister so frequently refers to), or she’s trying to judge if I’m some sort of junkie. “On a scale from one to ten, how bad is the pain without ibuprofen or acetaminophen?”
I shove all toxic masculinity aside and admit, “Eight.” I am the proud fuckin’ spokesman for the ‘general weakness of men.’
She hums. “I don’t feel comfortable prescribing you something stronger here. If the pain becomes unmanageable, I’d recommend the emergency room.” The finality in her tone tells me there is no room for negotiation.
“Yes, ma’am.” It’s a wonder I don’t scream it.
She wraps me up without any jokes, types some crap up on the computer, then stands. “You’re all set. I’d lecture you on lab safety, but seems like you’ve already learned your lesson,” she laughs on her way out of the room.
I’ve learned my lesson dozens of times, but unfortunately, outside of ensuring I dry whatever I fry as much as possible,there’s nothing I can do about it, and I’ve never been more acutely aware of that as I think about all the damn choices that have led me to where I am right now.
I, Nicholas Giannuzzi, the valedictorian of one of the best high schools in the country, am a fuckin’ porn star. And it’s all because of the choices I made. With my undergrad chemistry degree, I could’ve gone straight into big Pharma or something way more lucrative, but instead, I chose to do the doctorate because food chemistry genuinely interested me, because I had no fuckin’ regard for my future or what came after I fulfilled this fun little thing I wanted to learn about. Then Ma got sick, and I wanted to move home to take care of her instead of going to any of the best food science PhD programs in the country, and suddenly I found myself living in squalor in a shithole in Ridgewood while at NYU.
I was out with May and some other friends and got to talking with a buddy of hers who turned out to be an actual porn star at this ethical, women-owned porn company calledHarlot. They got a mission statement and everything. He mentioned they were expanding into creator content and said I could be a good fit for one of their subscription-based platforms. After a year of sinking desperation, I tried it out… and I made a bunch of money almost immediately. And then, what started as a side hustle somehow became my main gig. Which worked, because we were racking up hospital bills left and right.
It’s been lucrative as hell. And I sure as hell ain’t stopping anytime soon. As much as it fuckin’ kills me. As much as I want to shrivel up and die every time I record a new video. I won’t stop, especially not with this hefty cookbook deal, especially not while I’m in this postdoc, making even less than I did back then, and with Ma’s bills behind us after the advance I got for this book? Fuck.
Listen. Sex work is real work, all right? I’m friends with lots of creators who I deeply respect, who own their hundreds of thousands,millionsof dollars a year. But I don’t own it. I do the opposite of own it. I’m embarrassed. I’d never tell anyone. Could never show my face. Can’t even talk to Ali, the anonymously sassy, horny woman ghost-writing my book. But with thisNakedReactionsgig, I make more in one month than I would be making in one year.
I’m out of commission for the next week, though. No one wants to see a red and blistered dick dangling around food. I’ll have to dig around for some unused content I can post. Photos, maybe.
I head to the drugstore across the street, wondering what Ali is up to today, what videos she’s watched. At least she thinks I’m hot. Is it possible to get hard from a work email (yeah)? Is it possible to have a crush on someone if you’ve never seen her face (yeah)? Don’t matter though, ‘cause she’s never gonna see mine.
Still, every time her name hits my inbox, my brain lights way the fuck up, like she’s rearranging the atoms in my head. She’s kind and for some crazy reason thinks I’m cool. She’s funny and sharp and smarter than me in ways that make me want to keep up. I tell myself it’s harmless ‘cause it’s words on a screen. Just playful banter with someone I’ll never meet. But the truth is, I’ve started writing back just to make her laugh. Even worse, to get to know her even more. I retype my answers three times. I even check my spelling.
I like her.
I’m wincing when I walk out of the drugstore. Right there, in the middle of the sidewalk on Broadway, I rip open the bags and bottles and pop an antibiotic along with three acetaminophen dry. I dig around in my pockets next. I know I have… yes. An edible. One of the candy ones. Ten hefty milligrams of tetrahydrocannabinol. Some people have pocket lint. I havepocket edibles. I pop that too. Then I waddle down into the subway station and hop on the train to Ma’s, thinking of Ali the entire time.
The edible kicks in by the time we’re crossing the Brooklyn Bridge, and I’m feelin’ like a million bucks. I know it’s kicked in because I started rappingNo Sleep ’til Brooklynin my head. Also, because I’m giving a standing fuckin’ ovation to the acrobatic kids dancing and flipping all over the train car, even when one of them comes close to kicking me in the head.Wow, what talent, I think, while bobbing my head to their house music, instead ofif you fuckin’ touch me, I will end you. I throw a twenty in one of their snapbacks.
I’m whistling as I walk out of my stop, taking in the beauty of Bensonhurst, the neighborhood of my youth. I’m only somewhat kidding; it’s pretty drab, but there’s a certain kinda charm in the old-school butchers and pizzerias with the Italy flags out front mixed with all the seafood markets and bakeries with the signs written in Chinese.
I’m walking down the main thoroughfare, about to take the left onto my mom’s block, when I run into May Li.
“May Li,” I bellow. “May Li!” I’ve always called the Li sisters by their full names. Just feels right. Like a celebrity. Keanu Reeves. Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. May Li. Annie "My Worst Fuckin’ Nightmare” Li.
She smiles, going in for the hug. “Hi,” she says. “Please don’t mess up my hair.”
I know it’s May, even if she and Annie are identical twins. We all went to elementary school together way back when. Wewent to different middle schools, but we eventually went to high school together, too.
I learned to tell them apart around first grade. Everything about May was always perfect. She had perfect posture, sitting ramrod straight even at six-years-old, feet flat on the floor at her desk, with perfectly combed hair with those plastic clips set at even heights on both sides of her head. Never had any scuffs on her little shoes. She was calm, kinda stiff, but always really nice.
Annie Li has always been a fuckin’ demon child. I think she went to sleep with her hair wet or something, because it was always all crazy and sticking out all over the place, a radius around the point where her head was on the pillow. She always had skinned knees. Her desk was behind mine in Mrs. Silvio’s class, and she could never stop moving her feet and kicking my chair. She was loud, bossy, and smart as fuck, the worst possible combination of traits in a child. If we ever played some sort of team sport in gym class, she was the type of kid who wouldn’t physically do anything but would yell directions at everyone else. She was scary as all hell, and my ten-year-old masochist ass was into it for a hot fuckin’ second until she called me an “illiterate sausage” for the sixteenth time. Or maybe it was after the fifth time she didn’t pick me for her team in gym class because I “ran like a spilled pudding cup.”
