Fluffy(14)

Seventy-six of them.

I rub my eyes and try to focus. That can’t be right. Normally I have four or five, and three of those are links to ketogenic recipes for bread from Perky, who doesn’t understand (or care) that gluten-free brownies aren’t free carbs that don’t count because she has celiac disease.

I open the notifications.

I click the first one, expecting a recipe for some low-carb piece of juicy meat.

And I’m right.

Only it’s a picture of Beastman on top of me, shiny and exposed like a bodybuilder, my face squarely in Will’s crotch, mouth open like Kathleen the AlwaysDoll.

I close the link.

I bury the phone under my pillow.

And I blink.

I did not see that. That picture does not exist. Nope.

If I tell myself I did not see that, then it didn’t happen.

Bzzz.

It’s Mom, my mother types in her text that appears on the screen that says MOM at the top.

I know, Mom. I’ve told you a thousand times, I double thumb back. You’re in my phone as Mom.

I knew you needed money, honey, but this? she replies, adding a high-five emoji, followed by Oops! and a frown.

I sit up so fast, I fall off my own bed, the phone sliding onto the floor, staring up with the blue glow of shame.

What do you mean? I reply.

The picture of you with two men, she answers. One is very naked.

What picture? I text back.

The one all over the local news, she says, adding a ghost. Mom really needs to up her emoji game.

“There's a picture of me on the news?” I gasp, scrolling quickly to find the expected text from Perky.

And there it is.

As a photograph, the pic is actually not half bad. You can tell Spatula knows how to frame a scene.

If anyone should, it’s him.

On the left, you see nothing but gleaming, oiled-up, tanned skin in bulging rolls of muscle that make Beastman look like a human challah bread that was brushed with egg and butter, then baked.

I’m in the middle. Kinda. Sorta. He’s behind me, his crotch on my hip. It was snapped as the dog toy – er, anal beads pushed against my ass, so we’re twisted in more ways than one. He’s almost on his knees.

My hair looks damn good. Of all the times to have perfect hair.

And I am facing Will Lotham’s suit-covered crotch. Will’s bent down, his face in an unfortunate freeze frame of intensity that makes him look like he’s a Dom ready to go in for the kill.

Perky’s text after the pic: Our high school valedictorian is a porn star. We need to name the new high school swimming pool after you. We’ll call it Double Dip Mallory.

Where did you get that picture? I text her.

Ah, you’re up! Got it from Fiona, she replies.

And where did she get it? I start to hyperventilate. Air won’t get into my lungs. Tiny white dots appear in my vision. I can’t black out. I can’t.

Wait. If I black out, I won’t have to feel any of this.

Hyperventilation is highly underrated.

I can’t believe you didn’t tell me about this, I read, and start to reply to Perk.

Until I realize it’s from Mom.

I’m sorry. It’s a long story, I type, realizing that I use that phrase a lot these days.

I’m sure it is, Mom replies. Just know that we love you no matter what, sweetie, and we’re going to do whatever it takes to cure you.

Cure me? I text back.

Of your porn addiction. I’ve spent the last hour online, doing searches. It turns out this is a thing. Mom adds a heart, then a shooting star, to her text.

Mom, I’m not a porn addict, I reply in a blind panic. Besides, that’s not how porn addiction works. It’s not about making porn.

No one ever thinks they are. The first step is admitting you have a problem, sweetie. She adds a poop emoji.

The only problem I have is unemployment, I snap back.

You don’t need a job, Mallory. You need help. We can move you back into your old room while you go to twelve-step meetings, she responds.

For what?

Porn addiction! Haven’t you been reading? Oh, no, is this part of it, too? Is there some cognitive decline we need to know about? She adds another heart, as if that will somehow make up for her basically suggesting I'm losing my faculties.

There are twelve-step meetings for that? And no, my brain is just fine! Aside from bursting inside my skull at this conversation. Mom, I swear I am not a porn addict. I’m a house fluffer. I went to a job and it turned out they were filming pornography there, I try to explain.

A few dots, and then: Mallory, this is your dad.

Hi Dad, I reply. My shame is complete.

You’re not a porn addict? he types. Bear in mind, my father has his own phone. He could text me separately. But I routinely get texts from Dad on Mom’s phone. They also share the same Facebook account. You know the type. Their name is SharonandRoyMonahaninAnderhill.

No, Dad, I am not, I reply, ready to pull out the big guns and use ALL CAPS.

I told Sharon! I tried. She wouldn’t listen. I told her you have some perfectly reasonable explanation for being featured in a threesome picture with a naked porn star covered in oil and our old high school quarterback playing with a dog's chew toy, he writes back.

My eyes land on the item in question, sitting on a table by the front door. In the bold light of morning, it looks less like a pet novelty and more like what it is. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before.