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Chapter Thirteen

Bradley

T he bed creaked every time I moved. The mattress was lumpy. Smelled like sweat, Febreze, and despair. I’d shoved a towel under my hips to avoid feeling the springs in my spine, but it wasn’t helping.

It was way past midnight, and I was still wide awake.

I stared at the ceiling through the darkness, letting the low hum of distant traffic try to lull me into something resembling sleep.

It wasn’t working. My brain was on some kind of loop, replaying tonight over and over.

Not the stand-up set. Not even Barbie Malibu or the glitter curtain or the whiskey that left a buzz in my blood.

Just… Nico.

The way he walked, all lanky confidence and twitchy nerves. The way he talked like someone had uncorked his thoughts and they were all tumbling out, hilarious and way too real. And the way he looked under the stage lights—hair messy, eyes lit up, grin so big it dared you not to smile back.

And he was funny. Not just “made me snort beer through my nose” funny, but smart funny. Weird funny. Clever, sharp, fast funny. The kind of funny that made me forget where I was for a few seconds. Made me forget what I’d done, where I’d been.

And I liked him. Like, actually liked him. For real. Not in that “he’s hot, I’d hit it” kind of way, though—okay, that too. But it was more than that.

It’d been a long time since I’d made a friend.

Like a real one. The kind where your guard doesn’t feel like a requirement.

The kind where you don’t have to measure every word before you say it.

Hell, the only people who’d ever gotten past my walls were Liam and Jack.

And that had taken years, a jail sentence, and a lot of messy shit in between.

But Nico? He’d slipped past my defenses like it was nothing.

A creak from the bunk across from mine pulled me out of my spiral. One of my roommates—didn’t know his name, just that he snored like a dying engine—sat up and padded toward the door in socks. He left without a word, the door clicking shut behind him.

Probably off to jerk off in the bathroom or raid the vending machine. Honestly, same.

I sighed and rolled over, squeezing my eyes shut. Focus. Sleep. You need rest. Big day tomorrow. Just a normal, average work day.

... If your average work day involves being naked, surrounded by dudes all stroking it while aiming for your face like you’re a damn carnival game.

Thank goodness we weren’t shooting tomorrow, but I had to go in for rehearsal.

Like, how do you rehearse a bukkake scene?

My stomach did a full somersault. I pulled the scratchy blanket up over my head like that could block out the intrusive mental image of the scene I’d agreed to perform.

Why the hell did I say yes?

Because the money was good. No—great. Because half my debt to Riley could vanish in one messy, humiliating afternoon.

Because it might be the fastest way to get out of this damn hostel.

And once I paid her off, I could breathe again.

Eat something that didn’t come in a paper bag or a vending machine.

Sleep on a real mattress. Not jump every time someone walked behind me.

I opened my eyes, staring into the dark, and took a slow breath.

This was my life now. Again.

But this time, I wasn’t flinching or fighting it. This time, I was going to lean in. Embrace the chaos. Embrace the porn and the absolute ridiculousness of being a human cum target for rent money.

Why not?

If I was going to survive this weird-ass chapter of my life, I couldn’t do it halfway. No shame, no regrets, and no pretending I was still the person I used to be. That version of me didn’t exist anymore, and maybe that was okay.

Maybe this version of me, broke, bruised, and rebranded, wasn’t so bad. And perhaps if I leaned hard enough into it, I could make something out of it. Maybe even make a career that lasted.

I let the tension bleed out of my shoulders and pulled the blanket tighter around me.

I thought about Nico. About his laugh. About the way his arms felt around me earlier, like I belonged there.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, I drifted off to sleep, not dreading tomorrow.

* * *

The next morning, I stepped into the Boys On Film offices feeling about 60% human and 40% panic burrito. I hadn’t slept more than four straight hours, but hey, at least I hadn’t dreamt of tidal waves of jizz. That was something.

The front reception area was chaos.

There was an actual line of guys along the wall. Some were in tank tops, others wore leather harnesses, and a few were clearly fresh from the gym and still glistening. One dude was wearing flip-flops and socks, and I don’t know why, but that upset me the most.

Petry was behind the front desk, a human caffeine tornado. He was frantically asking names, scribbling stuff on forms, and handing out clipboards like they were raffle tickets.

“Next! You with the eyebrow ring and Born to Squirt tank top. What’s your name? No, your legal name, please.”

I blinked, taking in the scene, and quietly slid over to where Dimitri stood, arms crossed, watching the parade of dudes like he was at an aquarium he hadn’t agreed to visit.

“What the hell’s going on?” I muttered.

Dimitri shrugged. “Auditions, I guess. No one tells me anything.”

I glanced back at the wall of men. Some were stretching. One was shadowboxing. Another was doing vocal warmups, like he was preparing for a cum-themed Les Mis.

Oh my god.

These were the guys.

The ones who were going to stand in a circle and… you know. Do the thing.

On me.

I felt my stomach try to crawl out of my body like, “Nope. Not today. Find another host.” But if I was gonna get through it without combusting, I had to stop cringing and embrace the madness.

Before I could decide whether to laugh or run screaming into traffic, I heard someone call my name.

“Bradley!” Laura, looking annoyingly fresh-faced for this early in the day, was crossing the room in her usual ponytail-and-glasses combo, clipboard in hand. She smiled, waved me over, and then looped her arm through mine.

“Thanks for being on time,” she said, already steering me down the hallway. “These guys are just finishing up their paperwork and then we’ll start auditions.”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “You’re really saying that like we’re about to cast a regional Guys and Dolls revival and not… you know.”

She just patted my arm. “Bradley, the only revival we’re doing here is your bank account.”

Fair.

We reached the main studio and pushed open the double doors and walked into bedlam.

Moira was flailing near the lighting station, her giant hair already defying gravity and logic. “You want me to make up how many guys?! Jesus, I ain’t got enough sponges for this! What do I look like, Sephora on steroids?!”

Nessa was barking orders in every direction like a Broadway stage manager on her fourth espresso. “No, not those towels! They’re for faces, not dicks! And someone please find the good lube, not that off-brand strawberry crap. That shit stains.”

As soon as she spotted me, her eyes narrowed like a heat-seeking missile.

“Well, well, if it isn’t Bradley Mitchell,” she said, strutting past with a stack of folders in one hand and a coffee in the other. “About to become the most decorated pastry in porn history.”

Then she vanished into the next room like a chaotic queen, leaving behind only the scent of vanilla perfume and judgment.

Before I could form a comeback—or at least a facial expression that wasn’t pure regret—Liam and Jack appeared, looking equal parts awkward and earnest.

“Hey,” Jack said, giving me a small smile. “How are you holding up?”

“Ask me again in an hour.”

Liam stepped forward, already blushing. “So, uh, we were thinking… it might be nice if you got to choose the guys who, you know…”

I raised an eyebrow. “Who what, Liam?”

He turned redder than Moira’s nail polish. “You know. Do the, uh… finishing part.”

I almost felt bad for him. Almost.

“Well,” I said, deadpan. “It’s good to be involved in the creative process.”

Jack stifled a laugh and clapped me on the back. “Honestly, you’re being a champ about this.”

“Oh, totally. This is the dream. I mean, who doesn’t fantasize about casting their own bukkake lineup?” That’s when I turned to Laura, who had somehow remained terrifyingly serene through all of this.

“Wait. Just to be clear, this is just the audition, right? We’re not doing a full rehearsal? Like… they’re not gonna get naked and start cranking it?”

Laura blinked at me, calm as a Zen monk in a porn studio. “God, no. This is just to get a sense of presence, vibe, chemistry. You’ll meet the guys, see what kind of energy they bring. Actual shoot’s tomorrow.”

“Right. Right.” I nodded, smiled. “Totally normal. Just casting dudes to jizz on me tomorrow.”

She gave me a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. “You’re doing great. Just lean into the ridiculous. That’s the only way it works.”

I looked around, scanning the room as the chaos swirled and started to settle, and something hit me. Nico wasn’t here, and I hadn’t seen him all morning.

I turned to Laura. “Hey… where’s Nico?”

She didn’t look up from her clipboard. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, is he not, um, he’s not auditioning too?”

That got her attention. Her eyes flicked up, and for a split second, something smug passed over her face like a cloud drifting in front of the sun. “Why? Do you not want him to do the scene?”

“What? No. I mean—yes. I mean—he’s funny. People like him. And I’m sure he, uh… wants the money?” I could feel myself turning red, heat rising like someone had just opened an oven full of shame.

Laura raised an eyebrow and smirked. “Mm-hmm.”

“I just meant that, you know, if he’s not here, I mean, shouldn’t everyone audition?”

“Sure,” she said, still smirking, “but you get to choose. Remember? Liam and Jack’s orders. So if there’s someone you’d rather not…”

“I want him there,” I blurted. Then realized how that sounded. “Professionally.”

Laura let the silence stretch just long enough to make me want to die, then finally rolled her eyes.

“Jesus, Bradley, you’re worse than a gay Hallmark movie.

” She swept out of the room, leaving a vapor trail of superiority and subtle perfume, and a second later I heard her voice float in from reception:

“Alright, gentlemen! We’ll be bringing you in one at a time. Yes, you heard me. No, stop that! Keep your dicks in your pants. For now.”

I could already hear someone saying, “Wait, for how long?”

A moment later, Laura returned with the first auditionee.

He was… beige. Like, offensively beige. Beige T-shirt. Beige cargo shorts. Beige energy. I could practically hear him talking about his fantasy football league and his favorite mustard. He looked like a sad Sims character someone gave up on halfway through customization.

“This is Carl,” Laura said, not bothering to hide her lack of enthusiasm. “Carl, this is Bradley, the star of tomorrow’s shoot.”

“Hi!” Carl said, way too chipper. “Big fan of, uh, the genre.”

“The genre,” I repeated.

“Yeah. Bukkake’s kind of my thing.”

“Oh.” I swallowed. “Good for you.”

“We doing, like, eye contact or more of a ‘look into the void’ kind of vibe?”

Laura pinched the bridge of her nose. “Carl, sweetie, this is just the audition. Keep your pants on and just… show us your energy.”

Carl did a double thumbs-up, then proceeded to flex his biceps like he was auditioning for an Old Spice commercial and not a jizz volcano.

I made eye contact with Laura and mouthed, No thank you.

She nodded and gently guided Carl out like she was releasing an animal back into the wild.

Next up was a guy with a man bun and neck tattoos of various vegetables. He introduced himself as “Rawgan.”

“Is that… your legal name?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But it’s my truth.”

He then launched into a monologue about tantric breathwork and “the spiritual connectivity of mutual ejaculation.”

“I believe in closing the loop,” he said solemnly.

“I believe I’m good, thanks,” I said, and Rawgan nodded like I’d just handed him a vision.

Guy three? Had one eye and a support ferret. I didn’t even ask.

Guy four showed up in a mesh onesie, dropped to one knee, and whispered, “May I call you my canvas?”

“No.”

“Copy that.”

One guy brought a slideshow. Another one brought propsLike. One guy recited poetry. Like really bad poetry. I was somehow both horrified and wildly entertained, like I was judging America’s Next Top Ejaculator and nobody told me the prize was trauma.

I was losing it. Fully on the verge of breaking down when Laura returned with a clipboard and whispered, “By the way… Nico’s here. Just got him out of wardrobe.”

I felt something weird flutter in my chest. Relief? Excitement? Dread?

All three. Cool.

But before I could say anything, Laura pointed to the last guy in line. A wide-eyed twink with a fully made-up face, latex gloves, and a backpack that looked suspiciously medical.

“This one,” she said, “says he has a ‘surprise skill.’ I’m not sure if I’m legally allowed to ask what that is.”

“Do I want to know?” I asked.

The guy pulled out a squirt bottle and said, “Hydration is key to performance. May I demonstrate?”

“Absolutely not.