Page 2 of MOM

Up until now, we could wear briefs for the posedowns. I always wore black, loose-fitting ones, which did a pretty decent job of hiding what I'm packing. In this flimsy G-string, I can't hide shit.

On the plus side, showing off the goods could be good for socials. There are at least seven social channels I'm aware of dedicated to watching my crotch.

No. Bad, Rocky.

Growing my social media following is what's led to some of my most recent PR fails.

The copy-paste disaster where I posted the suggested captionandthe instructions from the clothing brand. By the time I realized what I'd done and updated the wording, it had been screenshotted and gone viral. Public verdict:I'm an idiot.

Or the time I did a livestream for an organic brand of ice cream and when asked by a viewer what my favorite ice cream was, without thinking I replied honestly and said Ben & Jerry's. Public verdict:I'm dumb.

Or the first time I filmed live on the beach on a very windy day. The wind did me dirty, pressing my shorts into my body like cling wrap, and hello, visible penis line. Imagine my horrorwhen I discovered why #boardshortsstuck was trending. Public verdict:I'm a manwhore.

Maybe I really am dumb because I don't get how being well-endowed automatically means I'm promiscuous.

But whatever.

Does it hurt that the internet thinks I'm nothing more than a gaffe-prone bodybuilding himbo? I'd love to say no, it doesn't. That I'm stronger than that and can rise above it.

But the truth is, I'm human, I have feelings, and itdoeshurt.

Thank god I've got my BBA brothers. They've always been there for me and have helped me through some of the worst fallout. They know the real me. Whatever misconceptions the public may have, at my core, I'm a normal, quiet guy whose idea of a perfect night is recreating the crochet designs I find on TikTok.

"You're on, Summers," one of the event crew calls out.

I glance nervously at Rasmus.

He lifts a brow…then the duct tape.

I shake my head.

He shrugs. "Drag queens do it all the time."

"Good thing I'm not a drag queen."

Ignoring the crease between his brows, and my own intuition that maybe I should man up and duct tape my privates, I head out to face the media circus.

I keep thinking to myself, what's the worst thing that can happen?

The universe delivers its answer not less than ten minutes later.

During a front lat spread to be exact.

With every single camera and cellphone aimed my way, and with my hands behind my back, flaring my latissimus dorsi muscles to accentuate the wide V-taper from my shoulders to mywaist, the flimsy strings on my underwear give way, and the tiny patch of material covering my dick and balls tears off me.

I'm so in the zone of the pose, I don't notice the gasps, only becoming aware of the dickslip when a crewmember from MoM races over and valiantly covers my exposed junk with a brown clipboard.

Heat floods my face, and my entire body feels like it's been set alight, the humiliation burning through me with a fiery intensity.

I can't think.

Can't breathe.

Can't do anything but follow in a daze as the crewmember snatches my wrist and steers me straight toward the exit.

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Decker