Fluffy(8)

“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.

“What the hell does that even mean?”

So much for my attempt at a witty Austenism.

“Um, where is the furniture I’m supposed to work with?”

“Furniture? You mean the special wedges?”

“Wedges?”

“Or the Sybian?”

“Isn’t that a kind of bread?” I ask, confused. Why bring Middle Eastern baked goods into this conversation?

“You know. Sybian.” To my horror, he begins rocking his hips toward me.

Not bread. Okay. Got it.

I feel a little faint now, but I pull it together and ask, “Where is the bedroom? Why don’t we start there?” Maybe I can escape through a window.

“Nah. The living room this time. But I like the bedroom, myself. On my other jobs, that’s where we always start,” he says, nodding as if I’m finally on the same page. “And end. And it’s pretty much where the middle happens. Unless we’re doing a casting agent thing. Then there’s a desk and the girl wears glasses.” He squints at me. “Hey. You’re wearing glasses.”

“Yes, I am.” I touch one of the arms.

“You sure you’re just the fluffer?” His eyes roam up and down my body. “Because with that rack, you could make some serious bucks with pearl necklaces.”

From artisanal bread to fine jewelry. This place is about as hipster as you can get.

“I thought this was a cooking show. Not jewelry.” I look down at his lap. “Unless you count those as family jewels.”

He chuckles, then moves to a small chair where he manspreads. If there were a pageant for naked manspreading, he’d be world champion. I wonder what the crowns for that contest would look like?

“You’re funny.” His grin widens. “So what kind of lube did you bring?” His gaze moves up to my mouth. “Other than spit.”

My jaw drops.

“Man, that’s freaky,” he says as he leans back, his legs spread, and makes it clear what he expects me to arrange. With my tongue.

“Excuse me?”

“The way your mouth just made a big O like that. You look like Kathleen.”

“Who’s Kathleen?” I squeak.

“The blow-up doll. You know. The AlwaysDoll?” He clears his throat and says, in a radio announcer’s voice. “She’s always ready for you.” His chest puffs up like a peacock. “I did the demo video for that, for the sex-toy company. It went viral.”

“I’ll bet you’re viral, all right,” I mutter, my skin on fire as it really sinks in that I’ve walked into a porn set in an obviously rented house in the fanciest part of town. A porn set. Pornography is being made right here, right now, and I’m smack dab in the middle of it.

And I’m expected to elevate the talent. I mean, I believe a rising tide lifts all boats, but this guy has an aircraft carrier between his legs.

Porn set.

A flash of the last day of senior year hits me. My best friends covered my car with streamers and “balloons” made from condoms.

And as a joke, painted the words “Most Likely to Become a Porn Star” on my windshield. It was a joke because I turned out to be valedictorian.

Joke’s on me now.

Just then, Spatula walks back in. “Hey! Great! You two are getting along nicely.” He thumbs toward me. “She said in the interview she was willing to use spit.”

“I said spit and polish!” I protest.

“Even better,” Beastman says suggestively, looking at my hands.

“No, no, no. Not literal spit! I’m not spitting all over his–” I gesture toward Beastman’s crotch.

“Hey, Mal. You know how it goes. You’re a pro. You do whatever it takes to make Beastman perform at peak,” Spatula explains, voice going low and dangerous.

“That’s not a peak,” I say. “That’s Mount Everest.”

“Any tape residue left on the tip?” he asks Beastman.

“Tape?” I gasp.

“I have to tape it to my leg when I wear jeans,” Beastman explains. “Sometimes it messes with the close-up shots.”

“Do people comment on that? I mean, are viewers of porn really looking that closely?” I blurt out.

“Of course! We get tons of fan mail and reviews.”

“Reviews? People review porn movies?” I’m imagining Yelp pages for that.

“Sure. All the time. Holds us to higher standards.”