But it cracked something open inside me — something I’d been ignoring for years.
I clicked “delete all history” before I could think too hard about it.Not to hide it.Not to deny it.Just...to give myself space to breathe.
“Rob, dinner’s ready!”Mum called up the stairs.
I set a defrag to run, adjusted my jeans to hide the evidence of my existential crisis, and headed downstairs.
Dave shouted, “Rob, are you coming sometime today?”
I glanced down at my now-wilting erection and muttered, “Not anymore,” before joining them.
ASHTON
Things had been goodrecently.Better than good, actually.My Instagram following was growing, my website was finally looking like something I wasn’t embarrassed to show people, and for once, I felt like I had a grip on my life instead of the other way around.
But the thing about life?
It always finds a way to remind you that you’re still alone.
I sipped my tea — lukewarm now — and scrolled through my DMs.Big mistake.Half the messages were sweet; the other half were...well.Let’s just say some guys think “I’d wreck you” is a compliment.And then there were the ones who treated me like a walking fantasy instead of a person.
Case in point: the guy from the bar a few weeks ago.
Tall, handsome, charming — right up until he invited me back to his flat to “meet his friends.”Which, apparently, was code for me being the main course at an all-you-can-eat buffet.
Aka: an orgy.
I’d run so fast out of there I could’ve qualified for Team USA.
What is this judgy misconception that just because I take nude photos and shoot a few videos, I’m down for anything?It took me days to pull myself out of the funk that little encounter put me in.Being treated like a prostitute by guys who think they’re woke?
Reality check.
And yeah, maybe I needed that wake-up call.Maybe my work isn’t “artistic” in the classical sense.But it’s still a hell of a lot classier than sending a guy a dick pic and calling it foreplay.
I’ve got lighting setups, editing software, a booking form, and a tax ID.I’m not just some guy with a ring light and a bedroom mirror.
Still...it gets lonely.
I don’t talk about that part much.Not online, not with clients, not even with the guys I hook up with — when I bother to hook up at all.It’s easier to pretend I’m fine.Easier to keep my romantic life and work life separate.Safer that way.
Because the truth is, dating someone like me?
Most guys can’t handle it.
They like the idea of me — the fantasy, the confidence, the curated version of myself I put online.But introduce me to their parents?Bring me home for Sunday dinner?Let their mum ask what I do for a living?
Yeah.No.
Suddenly they’re “not looking for anything serious.”
One of these days, I’m going to find a bloke who isn’t chicken-shit about being seen with me.Someone who doesn’t treat me like a secret or a kink.Someone who sees me — the real me — not just the version with good lighting and baby oil.
Maybe he’ll be a keeper.
But until then?
I’m focusing on building something that lasts.My site.My brand.My future.Because I can’t do this gig forever.And when the day comes, I’ll happily hang up my jockstrap, wash off the baby oil, and get a job in a museum or an art gallery.
