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“I’m serious. No feelings, man. You work the room, you get your tokens, you keep it moving.”
“I didn’t say anything about feelings.”
“Like hell.” He leans forward, elbows on knees. Real talk position. “Look, it’s okay, right? I’m as straight as you are, but even I’ve caught a little feeling here and there. You just move through it. Camming is a job, not a friend group.”
I look down at my bottle, annoyed because I want him to be stupider about this. I want Zane to laugh it off or say something useless about jerking off buddies so I can pretend I asked the wrong person and none of it matters.
Instead, he’s almost right.
“He isn’t like the other guys,” I say before I can stop myself.
Zane groans.
“Shut up.”
He shakes his head. “No. Absolutely not. You sound like a girl who got stood up for prom.”
“Prom can fuck off.”
“It can totally go fuck itself—but, dude, you’re cam-crushed.”
“I am not cam-crushed.”
“You are.” He shifts toward me like he’s going to gently touch my wrist or brush nonexistent hair from my brow. “I get it. You’re in a weird spot. The Becca thing, the lawyer shit. Mystery gay dad issues.”
That should not make me laugh.
“I’m saying don’t let some viewer become the place you put all that.”
I stare down at my beer, sweating and half-empty.
Too late, maybe. I’m sitting in ninety-degree shade asking Zane for advice without admitting I need any. That definitely feels like too late territory.
“He ghosted anyway,” I say.
Zane winces. “After you said too much?”
I don’t answer.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “That sucks.”
The simple sympathy is worse than the jokes.
“It’s stupid.”
“Still sucks.”
A breeze moves through the amphitheater, weak and hot, barely enough to shift the air.
Zane finishes his beer.
“Just work the main room,” he says. “That’s the hard line. Give ’em dick, give ’em ass, don’t give ’em feelings.”
“That your business model?”
“No, just wisdom. My business is coconut oil and hand jobs.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling.
