This must be love. There’s no other way to describe such a peculiar malady, a condition that’s as physical as it is mental. The poets and pop stars were right, and as the infamous Holly Hamilton once said, my knees get weak, my brain gets fuzzy, and my heart goes pitty-patter whenever he is near.
Less celebrated but not to be overlooked are the raging boners my beloved inspires. Whether working out or showering or just sucking back one of his protein slurries, Adam is the scantily clad pin-up model of my adolescent fantasies brought to life. The ripped jock who climbed out of my wall posters and fell to his knees before me, begging to be used and gagging for my cock.
#AmBlessed
But it’s not all fun and orgasms for this happy couple. Acting as Adam’s manager, I work in tandem with his agent to negotiate additional compensation and more perks for Adam while on set, now that he’s one of the show’s frontrunners. I welcome him to his private dressing room with champagne on ice and a dozen red roses, and he repays me later that evening with a truly stellar private show. I contract my digital guru Teddy Wilkes to boost Adam’s online algorithm, and employ a professional publicist to lay the groundwork for what is promising to be a breakout role. I also set up a fan-based Instagram account that is simply Adam greeting dogs in the street. He does it whenever we’re out, walks up to just about anyone with a dog and asks to pet their animal. It’s adorable and wholesome and excellent content for his brand. I keep a bottle of hand sanitizer on me for his grubby boy hands.
When Adam arranges for me to join him for filming on the set ofWrecked,I finally get to see him in action. He makes it look so effortless, channeling an arrogant pretty boy like it’s second nature. Only I know the hours upon hours he spends rehearsing in front of my mother’s mirror and workshopping scenes with Jean-Pierre. One of Adam’s most admirable attributes is his work ethic. If I really were his manager, I’d be raking in the cash hand over fist.
The casting director who knew my mother (or was a fan of my mother) offers me a bit-part in the production, but I’m not interested in stepping into Adam’s limelight, not to mention it sounds an awful lot like work. Instead, I use the time to catch up with Lucia and perfect my choux pastry and observe Elliot’s artistic process, which includes smoking copious amounts of ditch weed and waxing poetic on my boyfriend’s virtues before making a few half-hearted strokes on his canvas, then passing out with paint smears on his face. At this rate, he’ll never finish a single portrait, but maybe that’s been his goal all along.
Most nights Adam is dead on his feet from the long day of shooting when I pick him up from the studio. I care for all his bodily needs—I bathe him, shave him, feed him high-protein, low-carb meals with lots of fiber. I apply product to his hair and moisturizer to his face. Then I coax him into bed and fuck him until he’s so wrung out and exhausted that he sleeps like a baby.
And as I gaze at his slumbering, princely form with a face that was surely carved by angels, I have the most romantic notions, such as asking my lawyers to draw up a pre-nuptial agreement and debating on where we might spend our honeymoon—Sitges would be great for some steamy beachside orgies but the men in Mykonos are known for their truly magnificent cocks. I get hard just thinking about all the ways I’ll debauch my future husband.
They release the first season ofWreckedlate in the spring, and Adam’s performance is well-received by critics and fans alike. The season finale ends on a cliff-hanger with Adam in mortal peril, so naturally everyone is speculating as to whether or not his character will survive. Spoiler alert: he does.
“They’re calling me a dark horse,” Adam says looking pleased as punch while scrolling through his feed one morning. He does a little hip shimmy and pumps his fist like a frat boy. “I stay winning.”
“Yes, you do, darling. It doesn’t hurt that you have both male and female romantic interests on the show.”
“They can’t pin me down,” he says smugly. “I’m a sexual enigma.”
I taught him that word,enigma, and I’m pleased to see he’s using it correctly.
“Little do they know you’d fuck a fire hydrant if it paid you enough attention,” I remark.
“Hey there,” he says and jabs my shoulder. “Only because they’re red and dead-sexy.”
“You could make an inanimate object come, Adam. That’s your superpower.”
“You think people masturbate to my performances?” he asks, getting handsy with himself now. It’s always sweatpants season around here, which means Adam is forever trying to play with his junk on the sly.
“Probably not as much as you do.”
He barks a laugh. “You’re just as bad. I sat in your chair in the movie room the other day and it was sticky as hell.”
Guilty. Though I do try to clean up after myself. Adam’s idea to film a few low-budget pornos was a stellar one, and I’ve been making good use of my home theater.
“It must be from all the Diet Coke you’ve spilled,” I counter.
“Something spilled but it sure as hell wasn’t soda.”
Our banter dissolves soon after when I bend Adam over the back of the sofa and nail his ass to the Italian leather. Elliot watches from the veranda. He must have come out of hibernation for a rare glimpse of daylight and stuck around for the show. I don’t mind the audience and Adam doesn’t either. Our spontaneous exhibition ends with Adam ambling off to the bathroom with his hole wrecked and a satisfied smile on his face.
Yes, it’s a heady time indeed.
That summer marks our one-year anniversary since we officially became a thing, so I rent a place in Malibu to give Adam some much-needed rest and relaxation during the show’s hiatus. His swimsuits get increasingly skimpy as the days wear on, which is by design. I invite a few close friends over to party one evening, and Adam demonstrates his special talents for our guests. He’s gotten so good at deep throating he doesn’t even need the muscle relaxer, but I give it to him anyway. I’m careful as always. Discretion is key, now more than ever because all around us are clues to his rising popularity—photographers trailing us when we go out, random people on the street asking for selfies, offers of free food and drink. Adam takes it all in stride, remaining good-natured and humble about his burgeoning fame.
And now that the show is a bonafide hit, and the media is buzzing about him like flies on a fresh corpse, the offers start rolling in. I revieweverything. In fact, Shondra calls me rather than Adam because he’s so often passed her off to me anyhow. She knows my goals for Adam’s career already, so she only comes to me with the choicest proposals. So far, I’ve booked Adam to do a commercial for high-end menswear and a photoshoot for a popular French fragrance because it doesn’t hurt to increase his international exposure. He no longer panders for likes on Instagram either. That desperate little dog and pony show is over. It took a lot of small words to convince him, but he finally understands the importance of not cheapening his brand.
So, when an offer from a well-known studio comes in, one that will potentially cast him as the central character for a multi-movie, action-adventure franchise, Adam isn’t the only one creaming his pants.
“They’re promising to make me the next Jason Bourne,” Adam says, delighted by the prospect. He transfers his dumbbell from one fist to the other and continues curling, mouthing his reps while scanning over the proposal. “Soldier of Chaos,” he muses. “That’s a good title.” He adopts a deep, gritty voice and says, “I. Am. The soldier of chaos. Yeah. What do you think, babe?”
“The devil’s in the details, dove. Let’s not get our hopes up just yet. The script could be absolute trash.”
“But as long as the fight scenes are good, who the hell cares?”
