like to see started.
I step out from behind the bar and catch her checking me out in a mirror. I knew she was into this butt. Now the only thing left is for her to realize it. I don’t have a plan quite yet, but I’m getting there. And by getting there , I mean in her—well. You know.
Swiftly, I adjust my pants before tossing open the dressing room door.
“Am I up already?” Peter is lifting weights. Why is this an accepted thing to do between dances, but researching mass media law is not? Strip clubs, man. I’m telling you.
“Meredith is here with your pictures.” This gets the attention of everyone in the room.
“Hey yo, the professional dick pics?” Sebastian perks up and puts down his magazine.
“The very ones,” I say.
“This means Rob’s giiiiirlfriiiiend is here,” someone else sings. Eep!
“You can’t say that! She doesn’t know yet.” This means the rumors have already started. Sweet!
The general consensus in the room is that no one really understands professional dick pics, and that everyone needs to do some light gawking. Fair enough. If I hadn’t witnessed it, I’d have no idea about this business either.
A group of half-naked dudes follow me out to the bar, where Meredith is innocently sipping from a cup. That I didn’t give her. Ah well, the occasional (frequent) free drink is a small price to pay for her company. I motion her over to a table near the back so we don’t distract the audience from Emilio’s next little ditty - a pelvic thrusting routine set to Enrique Iglesias. It’s not half bad, and I make a note to ask him how he does that roll so slowly without moving the rest of his body.
Meredith shyly opens up her folder and pulls out a series of photos, layering the table with them. Some are black and white, some are full color, and all are frankly astonishing. Peter lets loose a low whistle and picks up one, surveying it. I find myself surprisingly nervous for her.
“My dick looks goddamn incredible.” Peter picks up another. “I may be the new Ron Jeremy.”
A dancer named John studies a few. “Can you make me look like this?” Not unless she’s a wizard with Photoshop, I think to myself.
I have to run back to the mic to announce the next act, but I keep an eye on them. The entire table is bragging on her skills, and I’m so proud of her. My shit-faced shit-talk never ends up this successful. I glance at a spot on my hip where a tiny tattoo of an earthworm hides beneath my pants. Luckily for my tips, it also hides beneath my signature heart-prints. See also: reasons I no longer drink tequila.
I set up the music and jog back over to Meredith’s table where she’s setting up appointments for other shoots with the rest of the guys.
That shy façade has cracked, maybe thanks to the drink she stole, and she’s jotting down phone numbers on the back of a cocktail napkin while checking her calendar on her phone. She’s like a brand new entrepreneur, and I’m thrilled. To think this all started because I overserved her. I’ll mention this in our wedding toast someday.
Sure, penis photography is unconventional, but isn’t stripping? She’s making money doing what she loves, which is a hell of a lot further ahead of me than I’d care to admit. I’m still taking my clothes off for horny bachelorette parties while she’s actually using her camera.
It was exciting at first, feeling like the biggest stud your customers had ever seen. After a while, I noticed it wasn’t me at all. It was anyone who gave them a drink and did some bump and grind while telling them they’re beautiful. Now it just feels sort of sad.
How are there this many women so desperate for a man to show them this kind of attention? To make them feel super sexy?
Why wouldn’t a dude do this for his girl in the first place? I’m losing my faith in humanity, to be honest. And then there’s the creepy feeling I get when some extra-handsy partier grabs my dick and doesn’t let go even if
I step out from behind the bar and catch her checking me out in a mirror. I knew she was into this butt. Now the only thing left is for her to realize it. I don’t have a plan quite yet, but I’m getting there. And by getting there , I mean in her—well. You know.
Swiftly, I adjust my pants before tossing open the dressing room door.
“Am I up already?” Peter is lifting weights. Why is this an accepted thing to do between dances, but researching mass media law is not? Strip clubs, man. I’m telling you.
“Meredith is here with your pictures.” This gets the attention of everyone in the room.
“Hey yo, the professional dick pics?” Sebastian perks up and puts down his magazine.
“The very ones,” I say.
“This means Rob’s giiiiirlfriiiiend is here,” someone else sings. Eep!
“You can’t say that! She doesn’t know yet.” This means the rumors have already started. Sweet!
The general consensus in the room is that no one really understands professional dick pics, and that everyone needs to do some light gawking. Fair enough. If I hadn’t witnessed it, I’d have no idea about this business either.
A group of half-naked dudes follow me out to the bar, where Meredith is innocently sipping from a cup. That I didn’t give her. Ah well, the occasional (frequent) free drink is a small price to pay for her company. I motion her over to a table near the back so we don’t distract the audience from Emilio’s next little ditty - a pelvic thrusting routine set to Enrique Iglesias. It’s not half bad, and I make a note to ask him how he does that roll so slowly without moving the rest of his body.
Meredith shyly opens up her folder and pulls out a series of photos, layering the table with them. Some are black and white, some are full color, and all are frankly astonishing. Peter lets loose a low whistle and picks up one, surveying it. I find myself surprisingly nervous for her.
“My dick looks goddamn incredible.” Peter picks up another. “I may be the new Ron Jeremy.”
A dancer named John studies a few. “Can you make me look like this?” Not unless she’s a wizard with Photoshop, I think to myself.
I have to run back to the mic to announce the next act, but I keep an eye on them. The entire table is bragging on her skills, and I’m so proud of her. My shit-faced shit-talk never ends up this successful. I glance at a spot on my hip where a tiny tattoo of an earthworm hides beneath my pants. Luckily for my tips, it also hides beneath my signature heart-prints. See also: reasons I no longer drink tequila.
I set up the music and jog back over to Meredith’s table where she’s setting up appointments for other shoots with the rest of the guys.
That shy façade has cracked, maybe thanks to the drink she stole, and she’s jotting down phone numbers on the back of a cocktail napkin while checking her calendar on her phone. She’s like a brand new entrepreneur, and I’m thrilled. To think this all started because I overserved her. I’ll mention this in our wedding toast someday.
Sure, penis photography is unconventional, but isn’t stripping? She’s making money doing what she loves, which is a hell of a lot further ahead of me than I’d care to admit. I’m still taking my clothes off for horny bachelorette parties while she’s actually using her camera.
It was exciting at first, feeling like the biggest stud your customers had ever seen. After a while, I noticed it wasn’t me at all. It was anyone who gave them a drink and did some bump and grind while telling them they’re beautiful. Now it just feels sort of sad.
How are there this many women so desperate for a man to show them this kind of attention? To make them feel super sexy?
Why wouldn’t a dude do this for his girl in the first place? I’m losing my faith in humanity, to be honest. And then there’s the creepy feeling I get when some extra-handsy partier grabs my dick and doesn’t let go even if
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