No, I don’t think I’m worth what they paid for me, which is why I fuck that camera with my eyes, same as I always do, whether I’m naked or in a three-piece suit. My football career has a shelf life, but I will milk every penny I can out of thisbody, and the best way to make money from nothing is notoriety.
“Looks like our time is up, Deb. I got a thing I had to postpone for this. Sorry,” I lie.
Not about the time being up or the thing I have to do. Check-in for the local anime convention started an hour ago, and I’m supposed to already be downtown so my buddy, Denny, can pick up my badge for me. Freak him out over fucking up my afro before I sneak back out to the stylist.
No, I’m lying about being sorry. Fuck Deb and everyone else telling me I gotta question if I’m good enough. If I’m not good enough at this, I’m not good enough at anything.
Denny circles me several times, scrutinizing the costume. Not that there’s much to it.
“I wish you’d asked me before you bought this,” he huffs as he attaches the thong to my pelvis — mywaxedpelvis — with a tab of spirit gum to keep it from dropping the critical half-inch to my dick.
I spin in front of the mirror to check my ass out. Denny’s done a good job of coating it in the bronze shimmer he’s highlighted the rest of me in. The thigh-high boots are doing the rest of the work to frame my ass so I look more god than man.
I nailed the cosplay, from the prosthetic brow Denny applied at the salon so my hair stylist could shape my hair around it all the way down to the six-inch platforms that put me at a hair’s breadth below seven feet. “What are you talking about? I look exactly like Jiujiukun.”
Denny’s glare says he disagrees with me, but seriously, I’ve got the afro, the weird winged brow thing, the chesthalter, the thong, the boots. All the Mokushiroku things. And it’s an ultra-obscure anime. Even at Wilmington Ani-Con, I’ll be lucky if ten percent of the people who take my picture actually know what show I’m from. I like it best that way. I don’t get to be anonymous nearly as often as I’d like. People talk to me like a normal person pretending to be something great instead of the face of a ten-billion-dollar sports franchise, revered and reviled in equal measure.
I tell people I’m a plumber if they ask. God help everyone who’s ever asked me for actual plumbing advice.
Denny hooks the back of my thong and snaps it along my asscrack. “There’s this girl I’ve worked with a couple times,” he says, and I’m assuming he means on a movie set. I met him in the bathroom at a BDSM masquerade where I was fighting hell with my mask and about to bail on the event entirely. I really didn’t want to get fired for getting recognized in a dungeon, because my mask fell while I was doing whatever weird shit I happened to get into.
I’m down for anything, I don’t give a fuck. You want to be whipped? You want to whip me? You want to link our wrists together with rubber bands and attempt to escape each other while comically snapping back together every time? Whatever, let’s roll.
Denny saved my ass with this spirit gum shit, but I couldn’t exactly hide who I was from him when my face is plastered on billboards all over the city. He’s been cool since then, though. He might actually be my friend. Awkward as fuck and gay as all hell, but we hang out and watch anime or even the drag stuff and have a great time. It’s cool having a friend who’s not into football.
“She’s a costumer,” he continues. “Makes some really nice stuff.”
I look down at the gold thong with just enough fabric for me to hot glue a cup inside it to make a codpiece — with the help of Denny’s spirit gum — and the boots he made me walk in every day for two months so I don’t roll my ankle and ruin the season. “This isn’t exactly a fancy costume.”
“No, but she could have made a proper codpiece and rigged it so it wasn’t all lumpy in the back.”
I flare my nostrils as I look once again in the mirror, and sure, okay, it’s not perfect. The fabric has a lot of elastic in it, but it’s on the loose side. I wouldn’t call it weirdly lumpy, but I see what he’s talking about. “Man, you know what my schedule is like. I’m not flying a costumer in to measure my dick just so I get a better fitting codpiece.”
Denny snorts, hiding the sound with the spray of an aerosol can that emits a slightly sticky spray smelling of alcohol and vanilla. Dive club stripper. It evaporates the moment it touches my skin, and when I wipe my hand over the dark matte cream Denny used to contour my bicep, the makeup stays in place. Neat.
“She’s local. Lives right in Wilmington. And she’s always looking for extra work. I think she’s got a sick relative or something. Really sweet girl, though. And her work is top-notch. Like, Emerson Michaels insists she makes every one of his costumes regardless of which movie it is.”
“Sounds dope.” I have no idea who Emerson Michaels is. Not good with names. Gotta remember too many already. Whole freaking team plus every other team I’ve ever played for. The way Denny says it, I’m sure he’s well known, but not by me.
“If you want anything made for next year’s con, just let me know, and I’ll get you her contact info. You can tell her I sent you.”
“For what, a good deal? Man, I have more money than God.”
“Nah, so she’ll put up with your shit and come bitching to me about how much she hates you.”
“I’m very lovable.” When I want to be.
“When you want to be.” Denny looks at his phone. “It’s seven. Maybe you should hang in the room until the decency rules drop at ten.”
“My dick is covered,” I point out. And everything is glued down well enough that it’s not escaping. I can be just some random underdressed guy in go-go boots. It’s my greatest dream.
Denny spritzes my back once more. “At least you waxed your ass for this.”
“You should see my balls.”
“Don’t threaten me with a goodtime.”
Chapter 2
