On Physique, Perception, and the Price of Being Misread

One thing needs to be said plainly before engaging with this: none of this is misogyny or an indictment of women. I want to be precise about that.

This is a critical, personal reflection on heteronormative dating dynamics - dynamics that have become as demoralizing as they are largely because a percentage of genuinely terrible men poisoned the well for every decent one. Women have every right to approach any man with caution. They have earned every defense they've built, and I genuinely believe dating carries far more disadvantages and dangers for women than for men.

I am not angry at those defenses. I am exhausted at being misassigned to the category that warranted them. Those are different things.

Most of us have been misread at some point. Some of us live it constantly. That's what this is about. All engagement, discourse, and pushback is welcome.

And, yes, I am neurodivergent as you will see later not just through blunt confession but through my behaviors, thoughts and actions. 

I watched a video recently on the YouTube channel HealthyGamerGG, hosted by Dr. Alok Kanojia, an Indian-American psychiatrist whose work I've found credible. In the episode "The Harsh Reality of Women's Attraction," Dr. K walks through survey data comparing men's and women's reactions to a man's 12-week body transformation from a "dad bod" to a chiseled physique. The results were striking, and not in the way most people would expect: men responded positively to the after photo, with 24% preferring the before and 43% preferring the after. Women's responses were almost exactly inverted: 27% preferred the before, and only 7% preferred the after.

I want to be clear: I didn't come to this video looking for confirmation. I came hoping to be wrong. I've spent years fighting my own instincts about this dynamic, afraid that trusting them would make me judgmental, bitter, one of those guys. I wanted the video to tell me I was missing something - some nuance, some complexity that would explain everything away. It didn't. It told me my gut was right. That felt bad. Not vindicating - bad.

This tracks with lived experience. When I run shirtless through my neighborhood with a body that explicitly shows decades of training for intense, athletic competition and not aesthetic, I am largely invisible to women. The nods, the looks, the acknowledgment come almost entirely from other men. I used to question whether I was imagining this. Now I have data. I wish I didn't.

What the video went on to describe was the interpretive layer women placed on the physique itself: the leaner, more muscular man reads as self-obsessed, possibly gay, cold, emotionally unavailable, potentially abusive. One commenter wrote that the dad bod says "I could be your loving, protective boyfriend you snuggle up and have fun with." I understand the emotional logic of that. I genuinely do. But I want to sit with that framing, because I think it contains a fundamental error - one I've been personally paying for a long time.

The Character Inference Problem

Reading character from physique is a cognitive shortcut, not an accurate read. I'll own something here: early in thinking through this, I assumed a disciplined physique correlated with better executive function, impulse control, and provider qualities - the delayed gratification logic, i.e. the Stanford Marshmallow test. And while the body does keep the score, while how you do one thing often reflects how you do all things, and while there is real overlap between physical discipline and life discipline, it is still a correlation and not a determinism. A man can have a dad bod and be the most reliable, emotionally present partner alive. I know this from the people I train every day. The correlation isn't a verdict.

The error I was making is the same one being made about me: reading the container and deciding you know the contents. The difference is that the women in this survey aren't just expressing a preference - they are assigning moral character: cold, selfish, abusive, emotionally unavailable. Serious characterizations made without a single word exchanged. And I thought women prided themselves on not doing exactly this.

No one suspected John Wayne Gacy - the "dad bod" who dressed as a clown and murdered children. No one suspected Ted Bundy, who was charming and soft-featured and raped and killed women. The book-cover logic cuts both ways, and it cuts deep.

The Tax of Looking Like I Do

What might read as a credentials parade in what follows is not vanity - it is armor. Because the presumptions about who I am based on how I look are constant, cumulative, and wrong - and I've learned the hard way that if I don't get ahead of them, I get assigned to a category I don't belong in even before the first exchange.

I volunteer for Planned Parenthood. I canvass in red counties in red states for progressive candidates - as a jacked, cisgender, heterosexual white male, knocking on doors in places where people look at me and assume I'm there to preach the MAGA gospel. Knowing the attributes others assign to me, I use this body and face to engage in dialogues and hopefully change minds where a woman can't. I fundraise. I phone bank. I show up every election cycle and most of it is for a woman's right to choose.

I have been proposed to by a woman and I have proposed to a woman. At least half of my friends are women who trust me and have my back as much as I have theirs. Sixty percent of my clients are women - women told their whole lives that strength, lifting and fitness was masculine and that they should stay small and delicate. I train them to walk through our city at night without fear. I train them to be strong, capable, and unconfined by the limits they were conditioned to accept. I train them to walk into gyms full of grunting, sweating meatheads and not be intimidated. That confidence and competence extends into every part of life and is priceless.

I don't list this to claim superiority. I list it because I've been turned down for a dance by women who then danced with guys sporting man buns and hemp bracelets. I've been called a bro at a gym for lifting heavy by a female boss who already knew I was politically active for feminist causes. I've been at parties full of artists and counter culture types and largely ignored, only to be told afterward - stunned - that I was "a lot more insightful and intelligent" than expected. A gym member once told me - in all seriousness - that I was "pretty smart for a personal trainer." I've had old, white conservative men open with terrible racist, misogynistic, or homophobic jokes, assuming I'd laugh along. I've surprised people at their own front doors who expected someone who looked like me to not give a damn about women's bodily autonomy.

I'm sure a lot of you know how exhausting it is to fight a presumption you never created, over and over, in every new room you walk into - to have to earn the baseline assumption of basic complexity that most people get for free.

The Catch-22 Nobody Talks About

Here is the bind I live in: women say they want a man who is driven, has his life together, has energy and presence and direction. They say they want emotional availability. They say they want a partner, not a project. But then, faced with a man who has built all of those things - including the physical discipline that is the direct engine of the executive function and energy that makes everything else possible - they assign him the opposite qualities based on his silhouette alone.

I get up at 5:30 AM Monday through Saturday. I train clients for four hours, train myself for two and a half to three, then coach clients for another five. I do my own bookkeeping, cooking, cleaning, and errands. I run my own business. I made $225,000 last year as my own sole employee and only missed two weeks for vacation. I read avidly, write, sketch, meditate, do yoga, volunteer, and do therapy in earnest. Fitness is not the enemy of that output - it is the infrastructure of it, born from my earlier years of overindulgence and aimlessness. It is the reason I can now do all of it day in, day out.

But apparently none of that matters. Because I have visible muscles and practice temperance, I am reduced to cold, selfish, emotionally unavailable, and a poor long-term partner.

And here is where the hypocrisy becomes genuinely abhorrent: if a man wanted his partner to make him her entire world, to orbit around him, to exist primarily in relation to him - we'd call it "chauvinist," "controlling," "toxic". But when a woman says the dad bod gives "protective boyfriend you snuggle up with" energy, what she is describing is a man whose gravitational center is her. A man who, by implication, doesn't have much else pulling at him. And that is the romantic ideal? The self-abnegating man with nowhere else to be?

I also hear this from women I train who are far into long-term relationships or marriages, confessing quietly that they're losing attraction to their warm, soft, emotionally available guy. Their partners don't put in the same work anymore. The comfort has curdled into complacency. Fitness and health have youthful effects on appearance and vitality. This is not controversial. And yet pointing it out makes me the shallow one.

There is a monumental purpose to exercise that people who don't do it either forget or misunderstand when they reduce it to aesthetics alone. Fitness and health profoundly affect quality of life, mental and emotional wellbeing, longevity, and reduced comorbidities. Most importantly, it fosters independence in old age - rather than relying on your partner to pick up the slack for ailments that could have been avoided had you not neglected your temple. That is not vanity. That is consideration and effort.

On Emotional Availability and the Ick Factor

I am autistic and BPDII and have been in therapy for decades for it. The result is that no subject is off-limits if I'm being honest about it. When I open up, I am not testing anyone, not performing vulnerability, not looking for a specific response. I state the good and the bad without expecting the other person to carry it or solve it. The truth is the opposite: I have learned to be self-sufficient, sometimes to a fault. Disclosing my feelings is not a strategy. This is just how I am.

And consistently, it lands as the ick. Before we had even met, my last partner nearly swiped left on me on a dating app because she saw my arms - I had intentionally avoided posting shirtless photos for obvious reasons - and immediately filed me under "gym bro douchebag." She only reconsidered because my bio said I was looking for my "soulmate/wifey," and the photos, despite the physique, showed someone being goofy and genuine. She told me later that my insides don't match my outsides. She meant it warmly. I partly received it as an allegation of everything I've been fighting against my entire adult life.

How many people swiped left and never found out? How many decided in two seconds, based on arms, that there was no interior worth exploring?

I've also witnessed the other end of the overfunctioning dynamic - the one where the emotionally warm, available man becomes less attractive precisely because he makes his woman his entire universe. The openness that was supposed to be the draw becomes the liability once the limerence has dissipated. Apparently you have to be available but not too available. Present but not consuming. Which brings me back to the impossible standard.

The pattern I keep running into is not that women can't handle emotional openness. It's that they can't reconcile it with the exterior. The openness reads as incongruent, and incongruence reads as suspicious. Or it reads as weakness, triggering a loss of attraction that has nothing to do with my actual emotional health and everything to do with internalized templates about what a man who looks like me is supposed to be. I am looked at rather than actually seen.

The Overfunctioning Pattern and What It Actually Is

I have consistently been the overfunctioning in almost all of my relationships - historically attributing this to lackadaisical partners who were among the very few able to see and understand me yet couldn't meet me halfway. The truth is I compromised my standards out of desperation for meaningful companionship and the need to be seen for who I am rather than what I appear to be. The languid partners, as smart, talented, and funny as they were, could not put in commensurate effort - whether financially, domestically, or in emotional and physical upkeep.

But overfunctioning is never just about the other person. It is a relational strategy - usually learned - that keeps you indispensable, in control, and protected from the vulnerability of actually needing someone. If you do everything, nobody can fail you. You never have to find out what happens if you stop.

What I know about this in myself connects directly to my history. My avoidance with my first serious long-term relationship - the one who got away - taught me that withholding yourself costs you the person worth keeping. What came after taught me that giving everything gets you destroyed. I absorbed that abuse - the hitting, the screaming, the public humiliation, including being spat on - because I was already running a guilt debt from losing the first one; I thought tolerating mistreatment to the point of self-erasure was what growth looked like. It wasn't. It was self-punishment dressed as patience. And somewhere in my gut, I believed I had it coming. That is the false narrative I am still combating.

The Double Standard, Named Plainly

The research cited in this video confirms something I've experienced: women select masculine-looking men significantly more often for short-term sexual relationships. The same men they characterize as cold, selfish, and emotionally unavailable are the ones they pursue for hookups. The men they publicly assign negative character traits to are the ones they privately treat as disposable flings.

I have been on the receiving end of this more times than I can count. I have been the fuckboy, the one-night stand, the person treated as incapable of commitment before I've made any indication to that assumption. Because I've already been pre-read as the guy who would leave first, they preemptively do. And then the data shows that men who look like me have more sexual partners and invest less in parenting. Yes - because the women who could have built something with us decided we weren't worth the risk and used us instead.

I even dated multiple women simultaneously because none wanted to build something lasting or meaningful. They made their apathy crystal clear - telling me they didn't care if I saw other people so long as I practiced safely. One looked me dead in the eyes across a dinner table and told me she didn't need anything from me other than orgasms. A lot of men would envy that setup. For me it was the opposite: I wasn't getting what I wanted or needed from one person, compensating in the most extreme way possible, and feeling lonelier, more diminished, and more worthless than I ever had. I sometimes knowingly put myself into these positions hoping these women would have a change of heart and actually want a relationship of substance. Sound familiar?

The prophecy fulfills itself.

I also heard from women I dated - years in or after - that they hated walking next to me because I got more looks and ogling than they did. If that is not the absolute apex of shallowness, I don't know what is. A fit man is deemed not emotionally attuned, while the woman is the one weighing everything on aesthetics because she feels less attractive standing next to him. The projection is total.

The Impossible Standard

There is a version of all of this that reminds me of the America Ferrera monologue in Barbie, but as a flipside for men - and I mean that as genuine structural observation, not self-pity. You cannot be fat or out of shape, but you also cannot be so fit that you take attention away from her or so lean that you "won't survive the apocalypse." You have to be emotionally available, but not so much that you look like you have nothing else going on. You have to be a feminist, but also provide, protect, be the emotionally compressed “anchor”, open doors, bring flowers, and pay for dinner. You have to be kind but not so kind it reads as weak. Grounded enough to make decisions, but not so decisive it becomes controlling. Smart, but without opinions that challenge. Present, but not consuming.

I am intense and inexorable. I wasn't always. Like women building defenses against men, this world and my past relationships built the person I am - and then those very qualities get held against me by the people who were attracted to them first. My former partners loved my drive, focus, and determination. Some thought they could osmotically assimilate it, that I would somehow transfer my exhortative will onto them so we could both fix their chaotic or meandering lives. That plan inevitably failed. They couldn't keep up, and I wasn't slowing down. Then the narrative flipped: my drive became selfishness, my focus into distance, determination into stubbornness. The attributes don't change. The story around them does. And that is an unwinnable game.

When relationships go wrong or rejections start aggregating, I bury myself deeper into career and development, fitness and competition, solitude, and practice - a feedback cycle that cuts both ways. Good because it forces self-reliance and a life that doesn't require anyone else to feel whole. Bad because it makes me less relatable, rendering me progressively incompatible for the companionship I still crave but every day I see pulling farther out of reach.

On Being Child-Free and the Selfishness Accusation

One of the attributes women assign to men like me is that our physicality signals indifference or resistant to parenting. I have never been married and have no children - I have no desire for the latter, and I'm increasingly at peace with the same being true of the former. Both men and women have called me selfish for this - some linking it to the same arrogance they attribute to my fitness. I want to address that directly, because it is one of the more infuriating inversions in this entire conversation.

I don't have children because I believe in consent, and you cannot get consent from someone who doesn't yet exist. I don't have children because I carry neurodivergence and am not willing to gamble that on someone who didn't ask to be born into it. I don't have children because there are 8.2 billion people in this world - a staggering number of them food insecure, impoverished, unhoused, orphaned, without medical care, or living under brutal authoritarian conditions. The idea that the most meaningful contribution I can make, or the only way I can express my love for my partner, is adding another person to a planet already straining under the weight of the ones already inhabiting it feels, to me, banal and hypocritically selfish. There are people already here, already suffering, already being ignored. I would rather love or at least take care of them.

Am I selfish because I didn't want to create a human being against their will so that they would have to love me unconditionally - or so I'd have someone to take care of me in old age after deciding to stop taking care of my own body? Am I selfish because I went to therapy instead of forcing my unfulfilled dreams onto a smaller carbon copy of myself? Am I selfish because I chose community over reproduction? Apparently so. I'll gladly wear that label.

Where I Actually Am

I think existence is largely absurd and meaningless. Most people are doing their inadequate best, and everyone dies without their consciousness surviving to experience whatever legacy they leave. Yet this does not stop me from trying. When I was canvassing and phone-banking for Harris in 2024, I knew she was going to lose months before anyone went to cast their ballots. I could hear it in the phone calls to swing states, in the doors slammed in my face in formerly blue areas - the support simply wasn't there. I kept canvassing anyway, kept making the calls, kept hitting the streets with pamphlets and forced optimism. I couldn't live with myself knowing I quit before the fight was officially over. Even when the odds are one in a million, I hold on to that one.

Partnership is the one place I have stopped doing that. And I know why. Every other kind of rejection - a bombed lift in competition, a lost client, a PhD program that didn't work out, a job rejection - is a rejection of one dimension of me. A thing I did or didn't do. I can audit it, address it, fix it. Partnership rejection is a rejection of the entire person in four dimensions. It is you, not your output. And I have been rejected as a full person enough times, by enough people who liked the idea of me but couldn't sustain the reality of me, that the cost-benefit has shifted.

I am still working on whether that shift is wisdom or a wound wearing the mask of wisdom.

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The Reacher-Around

 

“Did you hear about this?!” Maddox says, raising the newspaper up high as if it gives him away.

Dana walks over from the refreshments table with her morning caffeine fix. The rest of the office is hustling at 7 am as if time means nothing. The 24/7 news cycle prohibits rest for journalists and staff. Cup in hand and amidst the commotion of the living, breathing, eukaryotic room, Dana takes the newspaper from him and examines the front page. 

“Interstate 5 undergoing major closure starting…” she reads.

“No, not that one!” He says. Again, as if Dana would know. “12, Business Section: Real Estate.” 

With meticulously manicured fingernails and smooth hands, Dana proceeds to that section. “Yeah, Maddie, how would I know?” Turning to the aforementioned page, she peruses. “Oh dear, God, Maddie, seriously? Scientology? Again? Oi.” She reads from the black and white Times New Roman text, “Scientology Church to Open up Low-Income Housing to Combat Homelessness and Convert.” 

            Already a pressure cooker containing himself, Maddie runs both hands through his bird's nest of hair. “I hate them, Dana. I hate them.”

            Semi-squinting, and putting the paper down in front of him, she sits across from him in a rolling wooden chair. In torn up jeans and a white button-up shirt, she crosses both legs. “Maddie, what’s wrong? Who hurt you?” 

“Nothing, no one, never mind, shut up!” He says, taking his hands from his head and slapping them down on his matching, disheveled desktop.

“Yeah, I believe you,” she says, sedate and taking a sip from her coffee oversaturated with sugar and cream. The liquid’s noticeable viscosity hugs the sides of the ceramic as she puts it back in her lap.

Maddox interlocks his fingers and puts them down in front of him, his receding hairline accentuated by how he exasperatedly pulls back on his head when he is stressed out. Dana often wondered if his pocked complexion on his forehead and widow’s peak were a cause of or a symptom of his irked moods. 

Working in a dying industry was like bailing a sinking lifeboat, stressing the inhabitants keeping it afloat, akin to the oval office in accelerated aging, though with much less thanks and status. 

Dana was able to keep her youthful good looks by having a steady diet of coffee, stimulants, nicotine patches and deep breaths of air. She even kept a cot in an unused janitor’s closet. When days got stressful, her parasympathetic nervous system involuntarily switched on. When this happened, she retreated to the leaky, mildew-ridden closet for a cat nap, woke up with a fresh mind and got back to the task at hand. These naps were more like resets: her mind overwhelmed with too much, unable to come to a solution, she would hit the off switch like a computer and then reboot with a cooled system, RAM and Processing power freed up for answers and strategies. 

Then there was Maddox - or Maddie, as Dana called him - who subsisted on the office’s free pastries.  Maddie navigated the crises and deadlines by riding the crest of one insulin spike or another. He would crash, reup with another donut, chocolate or cheese croissant and then get back to the controlled chaos of the office. Dana was convinced that he had not had a decent home cooked meal during his tenure at the Times. He had a wedding ring, though she never heard him talk about his spouse or whoever. 

As investigative journalists, they did not get paid well. With the amount of time that Maddie worked, the hourly rate must have been abysmal. Yet she knew he lived in a swank, downtown Condo. There were so many different scenarios that could have explained Maddie’s place, though with all of Dana’s keen sleuthing, how he sustained this passion pursuit of journalism remained mysterious: external wealth from a previous field; inherited wealth; spousal or ex-spousal support; or maybe he wasn’t married at all and didn't really have a penthouse. Maybe somewhere in the Variety building there was another hidden, derelict room that served as his sleeping quarters, much like Dana’s. Two ships passing in the night, converging at the overcrowded piers at random hours of the day to tackle the next big lead. 

Maddie looks up at Dana, who continues to sip her syrupy, sucrose-enriched elixir. After much delay, she finally takes the bite. 

“Okay, Maddie, why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you. You don’t tell me much about yourself and we’ve been working together - or at least - next to each other - for the past three years. You can at least regale me with the details of why you hate Scientology so much. I mean, we all make fun of it, but you seem to have a strident passion for it.” 

“Dana…”

“Purging time: right here, right now, Maddie. Out with it, while I still care.” 

“Okay, fine,” reluctance saturating his voice like the sugar and insulin coursing through his veins. “I was a member of the church.”

“Excuse me?!” Luckily Dana had swallowed the coffee before she could do a spit take, instead spewing her surprise.

“Shhh!” Maddox lowers his head. “Yes, you heard me. I was in the church. Dianetics, thetans, Xenu - all that shit. I was deep in their administrative dealings. Sort of one of their executive CPAs, I guess you could say.” Maddox leaned back, wiping the powdered sugar off of his baby blue polo shirt, his mildly staunch gut shelving over his taut belt.

“What happened?” She says, leaning more intently towards him as he rested behind the mounds of folders, loose paper, empty coffee mugs and crumb-filled napkins of his desk. The idea of an actual, functioning desk was somewhere buried in the disarray. 

 “How much do you follow the church?”
            Dana thinks, not taking her gaze off of Maddox as she searched through her internal hard drive, trying to dig up as much as she could. All she could unearth was the ridiculous mythology, L. Ron Hubbard’s legacy as one of the most successful con men of all time and the process by which members were recruited, having to pay exorbitant fees to be audited for whatever sins or negative energy they carried with them.

“Oh, it’s so much more than that!” Maddox’s whispers were barely so. Like a banshee, even his lowered voice seems to shriek and reverberate in the office. Luckily everyone else is hooked into their bluetooth headphones, in a virtual meeting or deep in work. “The church practically lives off of blackmail. Forget the old church schtick of taking gullible people’s money for indulgences; the Scientologists get everyone’s secrets and use them as leverage. Once you’ve been suckered in, there’s no backing out - you give up all of your sacred information to them. If you try to leave, they threaten you with divulging all of that surrendered information: sexual orientation, encounters and infidelities, corruption, drug use and dealings. It’s a fact. There are plenty of documentaries and investigative reports from credible sources - not just entertainment sections or the Hollywood Reporter. We’re talking New York Times, Washington Post, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.” 

“Okay, so why did you leave? How did you leave?”

“I had a good lawyer and enough accounting information spanning over a decade that I could have ruined them with all the extortion money they received and had to launder. Church and state separation and tax-exemption made it possible. But we came to an impasse - they could have ruined me. It was a stalemate. The agreement was my silence in exchange for a cushy lifestyle for as long as I lived.” 

“Holy Xenu.”

“Well, Xenu was actually the villain in the texts, but, yeah, holy shit. Anyway, this approach isn’t anything new for the church: coming to the sheltering, clothing and feeding of desperate people and then, at their most vulnerable, trying to convert them when they’re on hands and knees, begging for biological needs to be met.”

“So then what?”

“Glad you asked.” Maddox excavates through the mess on his desk, finally reaching for an envelope that in no way looks any more conspicuous than all the other papers on his desk. He pulls out a handwritten letter, taking up several pages. “We have a new Deepthroat, here. In a very literal sense: a male escort living in West Hollywood.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dana closes her eyes briefly and shakes her head. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“In my spare time, on top of all of these other deadlines that have been bludgeoning us - “

“You really don’t sleep, do you?”

“I managed to track down a specific call boy - one who says that he had a transactional encounter with someone powerful and prominent within the church.”

Silence billows between them.

“Come on Maddox, enough with the theatrics: just tell me who.”

“Tom Cruise.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, seriously.” He comes off with more insistence and conviction, holding up the letter, again, showcasing and giving theatrics to what could just easily be a casual conversation. 

Dana likes Maddox’s flair for the dramatic, even though it always seemed pressured, like he was trying to draw attention to them even when being low key and inconspicuous was a priority. Clearly the man had watched too many movies - maybe even soap operas. Where certain politicians imitated their favorite actors’ quirky, erratic pauses, Maddox was no better. If only someone followed him around with a keyboard to inject dramatic tones when he was about to reveal something. Sadly, that composer never showed up. 

“So what do you plan on doing with that information? I mean, how do you even know it’s genuine and not just someone trying to jerk your chain?”

“That’s the thing: I’m not doing anything with this information - you are!”

Dana laughs with jitteriness. Maddox holds his gaze, letter still in hand. “Wait, you’re serious?”

“Absolutely serious.”

“What do you expect me to do? You have more information on this than I do. You’re the one with the vendetta.”
            “There was a team of lawyers, Dana, that created an airtight NDA for my silence. I could be hauled to court for disseminating any kind of information. You, on the other hand, are removed from this. You could be the one to get a stranglehold over the church with interviews that compromise the Church’s biggest poster boy. Er, man, I guess.

“Hmm…” Hesitance downtunes her. 

“Think about what kind of kickback we could get if we had leverage over the Church. And if we did decide to run the article if they didn’t play ball, this could be the biggest story in entertainment all year. Proof that Tom Cruise is a closeted gay man; procuring services from a West Hollywood call boy; the church having control over him and his finances if his secret were to get out; having a decades-long leading man come out of the closet would be revolutionary for the industry. There is no losing here.”

“All right, Maddox, in theory this is all great, but we would need hard evidence - “

“Ha! Hard.” 

“Yeah whatever… hard evidence that this escort did in fact have relations with Hollywood’s most prominent leading man. Even if we did, who’s to say that such a powerful entity as the Church of Scientology won’t come for us? Remember what happened to The Boston Globe when word got back to the church about the newspapers investigation into child sexual abuse?” 

“Yeah, they exposed them and the church hasn’t really recovered their reputation since then.” 

            “Right, and the staff got harassed and threatened by the church before they ran the story.” 

            “Okay, but the only people who know about this are us three: you, me and the escort.”

            “Westfield doesn’t know about this?”

            “No, Westfield is too busy covering all of the perfunctory bullshit awards shows this season. Also, the Oscar race is on, it being the Fall going into Winter and all. Besides, I know about the far-reaching influence and power of the Church. Mum's the word if we really want to do this right and without repercussion.” 

            Dana looks up in the air, tapping the edge of the ceramic cup with her index finger. 

            “Okay, fine, I’m in. When will we meet this escort?”

            “Glad you asked. What time is it?”

            “Are you serious?”
            “You keep asking me that - yes, I’m serious. We’ll meet him today.”

            “How long have you been talking with this guy? And how did you know I’d be on board?”

            “You’re too young not to be on board with this: you need a big break. This is it. Hook, line and sink.”

            “You sly bastard. Where do we go?”

            “We meet him outside in one hour. I’ve secured a private meeting room in the building - no cameras, audio equipment and a noise-canceling audio device. It’s perfect.”

            “We have rooms like that here?”

            “We do now.” Maddox goes to his desk and opens up a drawer, presenting a series of wires and a bolt cutter. More theatrics. 

            “Those could have been from anything,” Dana says, rolling her eyes and finishing the rest of her coffee.

 

            Dana and Maddox watch the traffic go by like a lazy river. Most commuters make their way from Wilscher, the street in front of the Variety building, onto the 405 . Even for a late November day, the air is crisp and comfortable with the right amount of layering. By lunchtime, it will be comfortable to wear just a shirt and slacks. The trademark LA haze has yet to make its ascension and meet-up with the low-latitude sun.

            “So you don’t even know this guys’ phone number?”

            “Very analog and off the grid. Just like the old times.”

            “How did you find him?”

“Sometimes a man gets lonely.” 

“Oh.”

“What - you didn’t know?” 

            “Well, I - “

            “Yes, Dana, I’m a gay man and I eat carbs. A lot of carbs. We don’t all come with chiseled physiques.” 

            “But, what about your wedding ring - I mean, yes, I know you can get married and all - but why go to a call boy?”

            “We’ve been separated for a while now. Nothing is official. He’s on the East Coast and I’m stuck here, living out of his penthouse. For many legal and convenience reasons, we stay together. He does his thing, I do my thing. It’s a pretty common arrangement.” 

            “Well, I’m sorry it’s not ideal.”

            “Are you kidding? It’s totally ideal - I get an allowance, the penthouse and I get to pursue my passion in spite of the terrible pay.” 

            A nondescript yellow cab pulls up to the sidewalk while the two talk. A handsome, chiseled-featured blonde gets out of the back seat and walks to the front passenger-side window, handing the driver a wad full of cash. After the transaction is complete, he turns towards the main entrance where Maddox and Dana wait. He struts up to the two in his black high tops, fitted jeans, gray form-fitting t-shirt and a black leather jacket. The sun is barely up yet he sports Ray Ban Aviators, his hair combed to his right. Not a single fly-away strand in his hairdo. He looks fresh, like he has already been awake for hours. 

            “Hello, Maddox. Nice to see you again in a non-business setting.” He says.

            “Likewise. Jordan, this is Dana, my friend and colleague.” 

            Dana reaches out her hand to shake Jordan’s. He holds out his but at the last second makes a fist and plants it in her palm.           

            “Paper beats rock,” his smile beaming through his aviators.

“Right, paper beats rock,” the volume of her voice softening before she has a chance to finish. 

“Not quite what you expected, is it?” Jordan says. 

“No, not at all,” Dana says. 

“Well aren’t all expectations just being shattered this morning?” Maddox looks at Dana,

smirking slightly. “In either case, we have some business to discuss. Jordan, Dana, follow me to the quiet room.” 

            Maddox leads the two through the corridors of the Variety building. The halls are alive and thriving with frenetic, pop-culture obsessed journalists, spouting big names like “Bradley Cooper” and “Kate McKinnon”. Most of them are dressed in nondescript business attire, walking mechanically but torrenting a million words a minute. Others strut around in pop-art t-shirts with torn up jeans, casually going about their day with vascularity in their eyes.

The three get to the quiet room. It looks like any other conference room in the building: gray, carpeted floors, generic hotel art on the walls, a massive round table surrounded by rolling chairs. This is the first time Dana has ever been in this room, not even knowing its existence until now. She looks around, noting there are no intercoms or phones. Wires hang out of the wall where the speaker system had been removed.

The three take a seat, Dana and Maddox on one side and Jordan on the other. Jordan keeps his aviators on despite the only light source being the overhead fluorescent tubes.

“Bright in here?” Dana asks without any hint of sarcasm.

“Oh right, the aviators. They’re prescription so I have a tendency to keep them on. As my little sister asks, ‘is it bright in Doucheville?’” He laughs.

Maddox laughs. Dana can tell it’s probably a courtesy laugh, that her friend is flirting with their source. Jordan takes off his aviators and hangs them on the neck of his shirt. He leans back in the chair, crossing his legs and placing his folded hands on his knees. 

“So, you have information for us?” Dana says, hopefully interrupting the flirtation.

“Absolutely,” Jordan sits lax in his chair. “I have been cleaning Tom Cruise's pipes for months now.”

Dana closes her eyes momentarily and shakes her head. “Beg your pardon? I assume we’re not talking about actual plumbing here?”

“Oh absolutely not. The guy is into some kinky stuff. I had to sign all kinds of NDA and privacy notices before I was able to meet up with him. Usually he goes for guys in their 20’s. Says they’re more virile and physically fit.”

“So why you, then?” Maddox finally speaks up. 

“He says he likes my discipline. I keep my body clean: no alcohol; strict diet; rigorous exercise routine. He says I would make a great addition to the Church. That’s the only thing he holds against me - not being a follower. Well, never mind - it’s the only abstract thing he holds against me. He says I could be ‘cleared’ if only I could start being audited.”

“Great…” Dana rolls her eyes.

“Even more interesting, though, is that he says that using such a clear receptacle as me to purge, I am osmotically in the process of being cleared. Like his essence is so pure that I am inheriting his ‘clear’ parts. I guess he meant both the fluid and solid ‘clear parts’.” Jordan laughs. 

“Oh, God.” Dana says. 

“Come on, Dana, don’t be such a prude.” Maddox says. 

“Anyway, I think he’s making all that shit up. I’ve read a lot of Scientology texts and nowhere does it sound like one can become free of engrams - your neuroses and toxic memories - simply by having sex with someone as ‘clear’ as he.”

Jordan keeps surprising Dana; she did not expect a blonde, West Hollywood, muscle-bound escort to be so clever and inquisitive. She has seen many strange things in the realm of the Hollywood elite and has grown jaded. A bit of relief sweeps over her that she could still be stupefied from time to time.

“When you say ‘clear’,” Dana asks, “what do you mean?”

“I can field this one,” Maddox turns to her, “being ‘cleared’ is the objective of any living thetan - or person - who enters into the church. By auditing, one is essentially having therapy and trying to rid themselves of their toxic memories, whether they be from their alien ancestors or even traumas in their own lifespan. To be ‘cleared’ is to ascend pure in the afterlife as a thetan, or spirit.” 

“That’s stupid.” Dana says. 

“Well, aren’t all religions if that’s the case?” Jordan asks.

“Not all of them?”

“Why, because they’re older, therefore make more sense?” Jordan says, slightly intensified.

“Um…” Dana stumbles, trying to find a proper response. She had been in the hot seat before with a subject but there is something a little more intimidating about Jordan that she can’t identify. 

“Sorry - I’m a bit irritable today,” Jordan says, noticing her discomfort, “and I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder about religion in general. As a gay man, Christianity wasn’t too kind to me so I look disparagingly on everything that elicits cultish behavior.”

“In either case,” Maddox steps in as the mediator, “we need something that can bring the church down a peg or two. Namely with Mr. Cruise. We were thinking…”

“You’re not going to take the church down. It’s too powerful. Especially not with a gay scandal and its top, prominent member and his members. But…”

Dana rolls her eyes, sensing the flair for the dramatic in Jordan as she does in Maddox.

“But what?” Both Dana and Maddox ask in unison.

“I can get you what you need. But it’s not going to be what you expect.” 

“We’re all ears.” Maddox leans in. Taking out her notebook and pen, Dana puts her empty coffee mug on the table and listens intently. 

 

Jordan enter’s Doan’s Bakery. He walks across the large-tiled, tan floor, aviators still on, black denim jacket with punk rock pins festooned to it. The staff has been hard at work for the morning rush, having been there since 5 am prepping croissants, muffins, cupcakes and other tantalizing treats. Taking steps between the sparse seating and the counter up against the left wall, this highly-intelligent, pop-cultured hipster approaches the main counter.

At the cash register, he takes a menu. His inquiring mind heightened at this time of morning after too much pre-workout, he begins reading in detail the history of Doan’s. He has never been here before and he could see why: the walls are adorned with corny, Kinkade-ish art. Potted and obviously fake flowers dot in strategic places throughout the room. Tacky, to say the least. And, of course, delectables too taboo for his strict diet and regimented lifestyle, commensurate to his client’s ways.

He reads the brochure: Established in 1984, this hidden gem on Ventura Boulevard in Hollywood Hills, CA is home to the white chocolate coconut bundt cake.

‘The Bundt Cake!’ Jordan squeals in his head, his eyes widening as if to stand on a motherlode and yell ‘Eureka!’ ‘This is it! I’m actually here!’ Neurons fire and sense is made. The establishment dwelled in the Hollywood Hills inconspicuously. The reasons become clear as to why Jordan’s client would frequent here: no one would suspect an A-lister to be stepping foot into this quaint bakery. Barely seating a few dozen people - at the most - this place must have been a culinary secret up until its noteworthy mention on James Corden’s show in 2018.

Looking into the display case embedded within the light green counter, Jordan peruses the other delectable items on display that his paramour - for lack of better words - restraints from on a yearly basis. This paramour visits not for himself but for friends, family, employees and coworkers. The shelves display such delicacies as white chocolate raspberry cake, pecan shortbread, lemon bars and - 

“Oh my fucking god,” unable to contain his inner thoughts any longer. There it is - the holy grail of decadence and refined sugar: the white chocolate coconut bundt cake. As described in the brochure, ‘a moist, soft, porous, torus perfection with hearty chunks of white chocolate, clothed righteously in a silky layer of cream cheese frosting and then flurried with a mountain of shredded coconut.’

‘Forget the cherry on the cake,’ Jordan thinks to himself, ‘the coconut needs to usurp grandeur.’ 

“I’ll take one of those,” Jordan says, pointing at the perfect, angelic cinquecento tire-sized dessert behind the glass. Always a dream to point out the puppy behind the window, this would do him satisfaction for today. Though the intentions were malicious, his schadenfreude was much like the topping on the cake of his wanton submission. More baked today than just pastries and muffins in Doan’s. 

“That’ll be $150,” says the gentleman behind the counter. His name tag reads ‘Eric.’

Many thoughts rush through our highly alert escort’s brainwaves.

“150?! Why - does it come with a complementary blowjob?”

Eric blushes. “No, sir, it does not.”

“What about a handjob? I could settle for one - even a so-so one.” 

“No, sir, there are no sexual favors included with the purchase of this bundt cake.” 

“Then why the astronomical price tag?”

“You see, sir, the bundt cake is the most expensive item in our bakery because…” 

Eric is cut off as the door slams open, the bell ringing as if to signal the hounds of hell to dinner time. An older gentleman, wizened and in attire suggestive of a custodian - baseball cap, gray jacket and all - bellows: 

“I’ll cover the cost of the boy’s bundt cake!” He yells with a fervor of a fiending sugar junkie. Surprising poise and an aggressive gait, he controls his motions to the counter, as if about to break into a sprint. In one swift movement, he extracts two hundred dollar bills from his Dickies pockets, slamming them down onto the counter. “Keep the change! Also, is there a restroom in this joint?!”

“Uh, yeah,” Eric says, abashed, “It’s outside. You’ll need a key…”

“Then hand it over - I’m a paying customer! Cough it up, boy - chop-chop! That liter of water I chugged earlier has come to pass like a riptide!” 

Eric reaches under the counter, pulling out a spatula with an attached key. Before he can even fully extend his arm, the hyper old man snatches it and darts out the door with equal haste with which he entered. His gray, ear-length hair blows behind from under his cap as if unable to keep up with the swift, almost mechanical movements. Grabbing one of the unoccupied chairs from the outside dining area, he disappears out of sight. 

“Is he a regular?” Jordan asks.

“Dah - I’ve never seen him before in my life. Weird that he paid for your bundt cake. Also, I guess, nice of him?”

“If you’ll excuse me…” Jordan squints. Grabbing the bundt cake within the plastic container, he makes his exit, following the steps of the old man. Outdoors is nothing but strip malls and suburbia. A concrete purgatory. He goes under the archway, into the parking lot and then the dumpster area. The bathroom door is situated to the right of the back entrance. Behind the wiry door the staff labors and toils with tools and ingredients.

Jordan’s face squints slightly at the thought of how well this bathroom may be kept. Neither Dana nor Maddox told him the conditions of the lavatory. Sighing, Jordan knocks on the brown door. It immediately flings open with just enough space for a hand to reach out, grab him by the jacket collar and pull him in. Forcefully.

Unphased, he looks around, examining the sterility of the space, not too concerned with the grizzled old man sitting on the confiscated chair. Somewhere in this room is a hidden camera and microphone, courtesy of Jordan’s inside people at Variety.

“So, what are we getting into today?” Jordan asks. He puts the cake box onto the air dryer hanging from the wall and goes over to the sink, avoiding eye contact with the codger. Turning on the faucet, he scrubs his hands thoroughly. 

“Are you clean?” The old man asks.

“Thoroughly. Douche and everything.” Jordan says, rinsing off his hands and then wiping them on his denim. “Also, can I request that we not do this with the mask on? It’s weird; even I have my stipulations. I’m top shelf price for a reason.”

“Fine,” the old man says, taking off his hat and placing it on the spotless floor. Reaching into the collar of his Guns N’ Roses shirt, he grabs a hold of something and then pulls back, revealing skin underneath the wrinkled latex. Some of the natural skin underneath hangs on as the mask is pulled back though eventually lets go. Underneath reveals a much more taut, handsome middle-aged man. Though not a young heartthrob as he was in Top Gun or Born on the 4th of July, Tom is the apotheosis of aging like fine wine. His salt and pepper hair hangs thick and full. Where most men his age fail with the more unkempt look, he is able to make it his own   brand of distinguished pulchritude. A unique beauty, like the oranges, browns and reds in the Northeastern Seaboard’s Autumn. Though in the autumn of his life, Tom maintains a solid, thick and hearty physicality. Sinewy, limber, agile: all the things that most men - even those decades younger - would kill to have. “Speaking of the top shelf,” he continues, still in the chair. He drops the rubbery mask to the floor. “I’m going to tap that taut ass like a keg but drink it like the smooth, top shelf spirit it is.”

“Oh my,” Jordan takes off his jacket and places it on the coat hanger within the stall. The urinals gleam bright white, reflecting the full spectrum from the overhead fluorescence. “What do you want me to do, Mr. Hunt?”

“Call me The Firm, you grimy manwhore.”

“Oh, so we’re The Firm today, huh? How do you want me, Firm?”
            Tom stands up, removing his gray jacket first and then his t-shirt, flinging both on the ground, its cleanliness disregarded. His cut, defined body never loses its effect on Jordan, whose skin turns to gooseflesh upon gazing upon its glory. With uncharacteristic patience, The Firm steps towards him, coming within inches of his nose. He looks up at our escort, who stands 5 inches taller than he. “Say. The. Whole. Thing. The Firm.” 

“Okay, The Firm. How do you want me?”

In silence, The Firm aggressively turns our escort boy around. “Grab the cake.” He says with an intensity to match his sculpted physique. Jordan reaches for the cake. “Slowly. And place it on the ground at your toes.” 

Jordan obeys. “Do you want me to…”

“Shut up.” He commands. “Open the container.”

Again, Jordan obliges. He gets down on his knees and opens the clear, plastic lid. Two popping noises are made from where the two, pronged seals come undone. Like the satisfying sound of opening leftovers from last night’s takeout. “Get on all fours. Above the cake.” 

Jordan assumes his doggy style position, face over the cake. He can smell the sweet aromas strongly. Normally unable to smell anything, there is a moment of delight in being able to intake the aromas of this culinary masterpiece. 

“Yes,” The Firm says, “inhale its fresh fragrances. How does it smell?”
            Jordan remains silent.

“It’s okay. You can talk. Tell me. How does it smell?”

“It smells like bliss.” 

“That’s right,” The Firm says. Unable to see what he is doing, Jordan hears what can only be the sound of an unbuckling belt. Followed closely is a light popping and then a zipper. Pants and accouterments hit the tiles. “Bliss,” he repeats. “Now taste it.” 

“But it’s got sugar in it.” Protests the escort.
            “You will eat it! The Firm commands it!”

Still on all four, the escort dips his finger into the thick, succulent frosting. He inspects it. White, creamy, sweet and all too familiar. He leads the frosting into his apprehensive lips. 

“That’s it. Lick your finger clean. Then do it again.”

Jordan does as he is told: slowly scooping one fingerful of frosting into his mouth. Delicately, slowly, as if handling a snowflake one at a time, lest it melt in his warm hand.

“What does it taste like?”

“It tastes like cheesecake filling.” 

“No. Describe it abstractly.”

The 37 year-old thinks to himself. Pausing, he peers at the round perfection. The cake sits there placidly, its art, science, craft, and history buried within centuries of secrets passed down from German-Jewish chefs. Confectioners’ artisan skill was the foundation of the pyramid, building one augmentation at time, coalescing to the apex, yielding the masterpiece within the St. Louis Park, Minnesota’s Hasidic community. The Bundt Cake carries with it a history of clashing cultures: that of the Germans, French and the Jewish people. The product of the Gugelhupf, a round and hollowed, traditional cake indigenous to Germany; the brioche, a French creation; and the mastery of a Jewish chef in a 1950’s American Midwest; brought to prominence by two Swedish brothers acting as both businessmen and chemists. A testimony to collaboration and synergy and contrast to the violence and brutality that was World War II. When forces come together in spite of a taboos and social mores, beautiful things are made. 

“It smells like everything that could be pure and blissful in this world,” Jordan says, “if only we could all put our differences aside.”

“Yes. Food. It is that which brings us together. But even then, we go to war over food. Pastries even. Take a big bite of that cake. I want you to chew it thoroughly and then spit it into your hand.” 

Jordan is about to take a bite out of the cake when The Firm’s forceful hand shoves his face into chef Doan’s triumph. He nearly chokes but manages to take a large mouthful. Putting up no resistance, he starts chewing the delectable, though barely, as he has quite literally bites off more than he can chew.  

“Pastries. The war of 1838-1839 when France first intervened with the adolescent country of Mexico was over a pastry shop being looted by Mexican soldiers.”

Jordan munches. His arms are stiff but the rest of his body is relaxed and malleable. The Firm tears the callboy’s pants and underwear down to his knees as the object is down on all fours. Reaching his hand down to the quadruped’s face, he says “spit the cake into my hand.” He does so. 

“A French pastry chef, known only as Monsieur Remontel, files a complaint to the King Louis-Phillippe, demanding compensation of 60,000 pesos. Have some more cake,” The Firm says, as he continues to exert the submitting boy’s face into the cake, practically choking the reluctantly consenting object. Though as The Firm has asserted many times over his escort, ‘reluctant consent is still consent.’ “In answering to Remontel’s complaint,” continues The Firm, “the French Prime Minister demands 600,000 pesos in damages to all the businesses that were looted around the time of Remontel’s violation.” He takes the chewed up cake and paints it on his nether regions. “When no payment was made from Mexico, France sent a fleet to blockade any and all imports and exports to and from Mexico.” Slathered in the cake, The Firm orders the boy to “say the lines” that they rehearsed.

More connections are made. The lines that his client sent him makes sense in context now. “I won’t!” He protests through a mouth over occupied with the treat.

“Say it!”

“Okay fine,” he muffles, “give it to me in the bundt!”

He thrusts into the boy aggressively. In spite of how many times The Firm gives it to him, the object never gets acclimated to it - The Firm is too large. Jordan often harkens back to what his brother-in-law says about Afghani torture of making the captives sit on a coke bottle. Except this is repeated again and again over the course of each tryst. At least the client has the decency to use whatever makeshift substance as a lubricant. 

“Even though the blockade is strong and holding, the Mexicans are crafty; able to circumnavigate it and find ways to smuggle via Corpus Christi.”

While Jordan is being thrust into and then backed out, he wonders in that moment what was better; The Firm’s colossal… firmness, or the reciting of French-Mexican history. He wonders if The Firm had really read up on the esoteric event and had it fully memorized beforehand. Or if this was a special script for this particular encounter. In either case, Jordan is impressed. His demi- and sapiosexuality elicits in him his own bloodflow. The discipline and commitment that The Firm had for his films and projects, he brings to their encounters. 

Despite the initial discomfort, he warms up - figuratively and literally - to the inexorable thrusting. He pulls his shirt off, showing his bare backside to his dominant partner. The dom slaps his bare skin, leaving a handprint.  Jordan becomes more excited, continuing to eat the cake as best he can. With his body rocking to and fro with repetitive entering-exiting, it’s challenging though he manages. He takes handfuls from the cake, and puts them in his mouth. His partner abstains from the sweet decadence as he continues ravaging. 

“Now say the other line!”

Jordan swallows the cake, “You can ride my tail anytime.” 

“Am I your wingman?!”

“You’re my wingman! You can ride my tail anyday” The boy wonders how much more of the script he is going to have to bellow. He also ponders the caloric density of the cake and how much cardio work he’ll have to do in order to break even for the day. He projects around 125 calories per ounce. But this cake is especially rich, so probably 175/oz.  

“Get up and on your knees with the cake and face me!” The Firm pulls out.  

Jordan follows suit, the half eaten cake in hand, shirtless, pants around his ankles and the cake on his face and rear.

“What do you want me to do?” He says, looking up at him from the floor. He imagines this may be another camera angle that a director could use to make the subject look bigger to the audience - both in endowment and stature.

“Put more cake on me.” The boy does as he’s told, completing covering the endowment until it looks like its own delectable pastry pegged onto a carved, man’s body. “Lick it off… Now how does it taste?”

“Savory and sweet.”

“Tell me it’s delicious. Better than the cake by itself.”

“Mmm mmph mmph…”

“Idiot - take your mouth off of it and tell me.”

“It tastes better than the cake alone. The cake was already the best thing I had ever

put into my mouth. Now it’s you and the cake. The combination is unparalleled.” 

“Beautiful,” he says, pushing Jordan’s face onto him and gagging him. “That’s it, enjoy every inch of it.” He grabs his hair, pulling it and then pushing his face onto it, forcing his mouth to take all 10 inches of it, down the gullet with bits of crumbs, frosting, white chocolate chunks and coconut. At every chance he has, Jordan swallows, reveling in the soft sucrose and hard flesh, admiring the juxtaposition and collaboration of both working in his throat and mouth. 

Tonsils massaged with The Firm’s glans, eventually Jordan relaxes, able to take it all in without so much as a shudder. Sitting on the floor, cake in one hand, taut, bare cheek in the other. Every so often, The Firm pulls out, orders more cake on him and then recommences once he’s re-frosted. 

Jordan goes to take care of himself, but The Firm does not allow it. The former is forbidden to have any kind of release, allowing it only for The Firm in these rendezvous. The Firm was never an easy client to take in in any way, but Jordan was always up for the challenge, the former favoring his agony with ecstasy. He always got left full and incomplete, needing to release after The Firm had his way with him. The escort liked the control, the domination. Sometimes his celebrity lover wouldn’t even allow Jordan to touch himself at all in between meetings, making him save it for occasional moments of bliss in which The Firm would give him what he called “The Reacher-Round.” Today would be different.

“Give me a handful of cake.” The Firm commands. “I’m going to go in your mouth. Take care of yourself. We’re going to go at the same time.” 

Jordan had his oral skills down solid. He had done this for The Firm so many times that he could time it just right. He also hadn’t released himself in weeks since his last encounter with The Firm. This would be simple. The subject had the cake in his hand, standing over Jordan, who began moving his head more quickly over his hardness. He takes his own in hand and starts brandishing it.

“Yeah, just like that.” He affirms while Jordan takes him in. “Keep going. Nearly there.” 

‘Oh, I know,’ Jordan thinks to himself slyly, working his mouth and his hands in enviable dexterity and balancing the two body parts’ motions. 

“Say the line!” 

Jordan takes his mouth off The Firm, cake burdening his speech. “I want the juice!”

“You can’t handle the juice!” The Firm’s body spasms and hunches over, again shoving into his receiver’s mouth. Jordan doesn’t feel it amongst all the warm cake bolus but he recognizes his liege’s familiar climax movements. Clutching himself even tighter, the underling follows suite. As always: Master first, subservient second. Even if The Firm didn’t want it this way, this still matched Jordan’s predilections.

The Firm staggers back, sitting into the chair, his pants around his ankles. Breathing heavily with his head against the wall, he looks at Jordan who is still on his knees. Their eyes meet.

“Don’t you fucking look at me.” He exhales. 

“Yes, The Firm.” Jordan looks down. 

Standing on both feet from the chair, he walks over to what little bit of the cake is still on the floor in the container. With good squatting form, he crouches down and takes a chunk out of the dessert with a pinch of his middle and index fingers and thumb. He stands and holds it up to the light. Cake is still slathered and slurried all over his nether regions. Pieces of crumb occasionally fall. He tastes the cake in his grasp. 

“Wow,” he chews, “forget that perfect ass of yours. It’s secondary to this delicacy.” Closing his eyes, he patiently masticates, as if its clarified essence is seducing him, massaging his gustatory nerves all the way to his sensory cortex. The fingers are licked clean.

‘Son of a bitch,’ Jordan thinks to himself.  

The Firm puts his rubber mask back on followed by his shirt and jacket. Reaching into the inner pocket of his custodial coat, he presents a thick, manila envelope and throws it at his object’s knees. Still kneeling, he begins to wipe the frosting and crumbs off his face.  

“Leave it there.” He commands. Jordan drops his hands. “You were good today. Not great - but good.” The mesh hat replaced, he goes to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly, even taking a small bottle of antibacterial ointment out followed by a bottle of scope. Gargling for a minute, he spits out the alcohol-based solution into the sink, rinses the receptacle and doffs his hat to Jordan. 

“Call me in a day however you need to.” He says and then exits. For a brief second, the outside light slices through the room, compounding the brightness. The slamming door quickly blunts it.

Getting up off his knees and wiping off his cheeks and lips, Jordan pulls up his pants and re-secures the belt. Walking over to the sink, he looks at the drunken, sloppy expression on his face and sighs with incommensurable satisfaction. He opens up his mouth and sticks his tongue out, looking at the crumbs and remnants of frosting and The Firm’s essence. He washes his and uses paper towels to clean up the mess on the floor as best he can. Jordan is not sure if this destination is a one-time thing. In either case, he worked retail before and does not want to leave the wanton mess for the staff. After all, the bundt cake was, in fact, delicious. Jordan may have been focused on other more pressing things but actually did enjoy the creation.

Picking up the envelope, he looks inside and sees the neatly folded and tied wads of cash. $10,000 for a combined hour and a half of driving and work. In his line of work and payment method, Jordan has become adept at looking at the thickness of bills and estimating the grand total. 

Jordan exits the room and walks back to the storefront and returns the key to Eric. 

“Where did your cake go?” Eric asks, replacing the key under the counter.

“It was delicious.” Jordan says.

“You ate it all?! Already? Usually that thing is shared between four people.”

            Jordan pats his stomach with his hand. “What can I say - I was insatiable. As I said: delicious cake. Compliments to the chef.” 

            “Thank you!” Eric exclaims, standing up straight and smiling. “It’s been in the family recipe book for decades.” 

            “Well, keep up the good work. If you’ll excuse me, I have a date with the stationary bike. Punishment for my thetans.”

            “Beg your pardon - thetans?”

            “Oh never mind. You wouldn’t understand. Ta-ta!” He salutes with the envelope to Eric and walks back to his car.

 

“Well, you sly weasel - you did it,” Maddie says, freeze-framing the video. “It’s almost too perfect.” 

“The frosting on the cake,” Jordan says, sipping coffee. 

“Can we please stop watching it?” Dana says. Had she an appetite she probably would have lost it even upon first viewing of the tape. 

“The crazy thing is,” Maddox continues, “is that no one else even needs to see this. Looks like Tom has two extortionists now: us and the church. And good ‘ol Tom paid handsomely for our silence. The man gave over enough to pay for Variety’s rent for the next couple years.” He turns to the escort.  “Congratulations. An OT-8 eating refined sugar became a bigger scandal than outing him. You got some weird trivia and inquisitions, Jordan.” Jordan  shrugs with a smug expression.

“You did your homework,” Dana says, crossing her arms, ever more impressed with their literal deepthroat. Integrity goes out the window. Her moral compass spins out of control. As much as she wanted ethics, black and white journalism - particularly in the entertainment niche - is slowly dying. That janitor’s closet she slept in is a testament to the sacrifices she has made for Variety. Declining paychecks, layoffs and downsizing had already sacked the company’s esprit de corp. At least now they wouldn’t have to worry about losing their facility. ‘The moral quandaries of hopeless idealists,’ Dana thinks to herself, making sure she doesn’t manifest her ponderings aloud. 

“The budget for Variety is robust for the next couple of months. It’s unethical to give compensation to a source, but we can make an exception this time,” Maddox says to the call boy.

“That won’t be necessary,” he responds as he sits on the edge of the war room-like table, feet up on a chair. “We’ve already broken a bunch of moral and ethical codes and maybe even a few laws. Let’s not sprinkle more coconut on the cake or spread more frosting on the dick,” he giggles, as if he only speaks for the sake of amusing himself, present company’s comfort be damned.

“Right.” Maddox makes an uncomfortable expression.

“Oh, come on, you prudes - you already saw the video. I think we’re way past formalities at this point,” he drinks the rest of his coffee and puts the cup on the table. “Anyway, I used to be a freelance writer.” 

“You did?!” Dana exclaims.

“Yeah, why else do you think I’m a male prostitute? The pay was shit as a writer. A person has to subsist on things other than his parents’ charity and spare bedroom.” He puts the coffee cup down on the table. “Consider this a bit of community service - or donation - to the newspaper. I admire the work you do and don’t know how you do it at the intensity and consistency you do. But keep up the good work.” He looks at his watch. “If you’ll excuse me - my Uber is almost about to get here. Gotta hit the iron before my date tonight.”

“Anyone famous?” Maddox asks. Jordan taps his nose and then shakes his head.

“NDA, yo.” Jordan waves and then finds his way out. 

“Are you going to get a new cot for that janitor’s closet?” Maddox says, biting into an eclair. 

“Oh no! They’re actually going to let some more employees work from home so that clears up office space for a siesta room.” Dana rubs the nicotine patch hiding underneath her shirt. 

“No way! That means I can get out of that boiler room area and onto a nice recliner. At least I’m hoping it’s a recliner. I wonder if they’ll do that or have sleeping pods? Those would be nice too! Noise canceling ones so that snoring won’t be an issue.”

“Don’t count on it - we got a lot of money but not that much money to make a mini Japanese pod hotel.” 

“Well, a man can dream. Even if it’s just cots it’s better than where I’m napping now.”

“Same. It’s a good thing I don’t smoke anymore - God knows what kind of mildew I’m inhaling whenever I nap in that closet.” Elsewhere on Dana’s mind was the possibility of having a better work-life balance and not even needing the siesta room. That last disclosure of Jordan’s experience as a writer made her a bit envious: here she was doing work that was not necessarily the acme of journalism. She had hoped the aspirations would lead her to the Times. 

As she sips her coffee, she imagines Jordan waking up in lavish hotel rooms next to whatever closeted Hollywood dreamboat hired him. Oddly, Jordan’s niche is in a stereotypically female-dominated profession that lands him the big gigs. Yet here’s Dana, in a typically male-dominated field, struggling to climb the ladder. Both she and Jordan have college degrees but leverage them in completely different ways. Opposite sides of the same coin.

“Maddox, how much do you think I could charge for someone to have sex with me?”

“What a ridiculous question.”

“I mean, do you think I would be a street-walking ho or would I be elegant, call girl-type status?”

Maddie ponders for a bit. “I think you have enough brains, talent and good looks to be

anything you want to be.”

“Oh geez, never mind.”   

“What?!” Maddox laughs exasperatedly, confronted with what he sees as implacability. 

“Nothing. Let it go.” Dana sighs. 

 

            Once he is back at his home in the West Hollywood neighborhood, Jordan finds one of the last surviving payphones. Going through his satchel, he pulls out his contacts booklet. Looking through the pages, he finds “Jerry M.” He puts loose change into the slot and then dials the number. 213 first: Beverly Hills. The phone rings and eventually the other end answers. 

            “Hey, Maverick, it’s me.” Jordan’s voice is sultry and beckoning. 

            “Hello, smelly goat-boy.” Maverick is on the other end. Jordan loves all the demeaning nicknames Maverick gives him right on the spot. “I’m feeling a little bummed. I need to be around people. We’re doing something saturday.”

            “What were you thinking?”

            “A party. Be waiting at your house in two days time at 8 pm. Wear a black cloak, mask, tuxedo and a nice pair of shoes. Sequined thong underneath all of that. You’ll get further instructions this afternoon. Be waiting for the courier to arrive with the specifics .”

            “Sounds good, Maverick.”

            “And don’t call me Maverick for the time being. Call me Dr. Bill Harford. Understand me.” He doesn’t ask.

            “Yes, Dr. Harford.” 

            “See you soon.”

            Both lines hang up.

 

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