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I can’t believe any of this. The room starts to spin.
Spatula laughs uncontrollably, reaching into his back pocket for a smartphone. “You seen the newest one I found?”
Beastman looks down at his crotch. “Dude. Not the time. You know those videos make me soft.”
Nothing on this hulking man’s body is soft. He looks like Jason Momoa crossed with Kingpin from Spiderverse.
“Heh.” Spatula mercifully puts his phone away. “Fine. After we’re done shooting, I’ll show you.”
“After we’re done shooting, my balls will hurt plenty,” Beastman says, his half grin somehow sad and proud at the same time. Kind eyes meet mine. “But this new lady will help that.”
“Mallory,” I gasp. “I’m Mallory.”
“Call her Mal,” Spatula instructs. “All her friends do.”
“Mal?” Beastman gives me side eye. “That means ‘bad’ in Spanish.”
“You know so much trivial crap, Beastman,” Spatula says. “You’re a walking encyclopedia.”
“No, dumbass. I just paid attention in school.”
“So did I,” Spatula defends himself. “Paid attention to the tramp stamps on the girls in front of me. That’s all the education I needed for this industry. That and home ec. We baked some awesome shit in there.” He points to Beastman’s penis and looks at me. “Here you go. We talked about the look we’re going for. We want all the height we can get, Mal.”
Beastman cups his balls, his half erection looking about as crestfallen as I feel.
“I can’t arrange that!”
“Why not?”
“It doesn’t fit any of my color palettes!”
What am I saying? Sweat blooms instantly between my breasts, under the soft curve of my overly tight, bound breasts in this too-small bra. I can’t stop staring at the half-limp penis resting on the pale inner thigh of a guy in his dressing room on a cooking show set. Undressed.
They should call it an undressing room.
“You don’t need to arrange it.”
“I don’t?” Maybe this is an elaborate joke.
“You need to make it look better.”
I shake my head slowly, sorrowfully. “No can do. Sorry.”
“What do you mean, ‘sorry’? It’s your job,” Spatula growls, his demeanor changing fast. Eyes that were friendly turn cold. “You’ve got five minutes to make this happen.” He looks at his phone. “I’ve got talent that needs Narcan in another location.” The doorbell rings. “He’d better be tight and gleaming when I get back. Jasmine’s on her way to film with him, and she likes ’em ready to ride.”
“Jasmine?”
“Yeah. The star.”
“When is she coming?” I ask.
“On cue,” Spatula says with a smoky laugh. “Now get Beastman looking better, like I said.”
“Then it’s an impossible job. Penises are just plain ugly,” I lie, trying to say or do whatever it takes to get out of this surreal moment. “No amount of styling will change that,” I call after him, slightly dizzy as all the different parts of me try to put this together into a whole that makes sense.
“Don’t call my junk ugly,” Beastman protests, looking genuinely hurt. Guilt pours through me, tugging at my heart. “You can’t let that get into my psyche. It’ll ruin filming. Most of this job is in the mind.” He looks down at his member. “Maybe ten percent happens with him.”
“Oh, no! I wasn’t calling your, uh, member ugly! It’s not you! Don’t be offended. It’s all men. It’s a universal truth that all penises in search of visual validation will be disappointed,” I blabber on.
