Excerpt:
CHAPTER 1 - The Dick Cake Guy
Cue: Darude – Sandstorm.
Wait. 99 Luftballons. That's a much better intro song.
No. That's not how I want to start this shit show. Or is this supposed to be a romantic comedy? You know, happy ending, lots of tissues, laugh-out-loud dialogue. Brilliant and sweet, with well fleshed-out, dynamic characters. Because that's usually a thing, isn't it?
And I'm already rambling.
How the hell do I start this? I'm twenty-four. Name's Bailey Finch. Yeah, that's a good name – it's not just my actual name, but it also looks damn good in print. A good, solid protagonist name.
And the guy? There's always a guy. I know you're waiting for the guy.
Well, what to say: Tall? Check. Muscles? Sorta-check. Tattoos? Check. Wry grin and one of those devious smiles akin to Ian Somerhalder? Check and check. One-thousand checks.
His name is Elijah Mattox. He's twenty-eight years old. Favorite things that I've scrounged up so far include Asian-fusion cuisine, Single Malt Scotch, and perfecting his purposely tousled hairstyle. He's an actor, trying to break into main-stream, silver screen, accolades and Oscars.
As for now, well – he's only the most renowned Porn Star in the country. Over three-thousand films. Yeah, no kidding.
And here I am, sitting at my desk, pen in hand, trying to conjure up some questions to ask him that don't consist of how many tits he's seen and what his thoughts are on the real-to-saline ratio. How many times could he climax in one session? Was his relationship with sex boring now? What is sex like once you've made a career out of using your cock?
Was he worried that working in porn might affect his career as a mainstream actor? This isn't some one-time Kardashian sex tape. Even though I'm sure he's got one of those floating around somewhere. The guy has history.
Then again, I've never actually seen his stuff. Never been much into porn. Even the soft-core variety. I mean, I've done a few Google searches in my time. I technically know what a penis looks like. One time in fourth grade, me and my old best friend, Ginny Weirkowitz, looked up Two Girls One Cup, and refused to eat for the rest of the day. Whatever you do, don't do it. Don't Google it. My eyes went to hell.
But IRL, I've never seen the real thing. I'm a virgin. And I don't say that to sound interesting, either: I've wanted to get laid more times than I could count. I have a vibrator, thank you very much. Have you ever used a Hitachi Magic Wand? Let me tell you...
I've just, you know, never had a real dick. I've never made love, had intercourse, fucked. Real hands, rough, desperate, passionate. Body-crushing. Mouth-on-mouth action. My only real kiss was Sophomore year of high school, on a dare, and that same guy ended up pouring an open container of spaghetti into my backpack after I reminded our Geometry teacher that he had forgotten to collect our homework.
I tapped my pen against the edge of my desk, glancing around the office: large windows, exposed brick walls, and blown-up copies of magazine covers from over the years, largely featuring notable men and women of the celebrity variety.
This was Come's first porn-star. Clever magazine name, I know. Come as in, welcome, enter. Come as in...orgasm.
We were known for our sex tips and relationship advice. That said, it's been agreed upon that fucking in the shower just doesn't really work. I've never even fucked a guy before, and even I can tell you that I know for a fact, unless maybe you've got one of those shower-bath combos or a seat in your shower, it's freaking impossible. I'd like to put out a request: if you're a woman who has had mind-blowing shower-sex while standing up, please write to me.
I grinned unabashedly, outwardly, probably looking ridiculous. I hadn't accomplished a lick of work in the past two hours. I couldn't concentrate. I was hungry: one of those gripping, all-consuming, carb-salt-sugar craving hungers. I wanted a pretzel, doughnut, and Diet Coke, stat.
What do you ask a porn, star, though? What are the questions?
I don't know, Bailey. Maybe treat him like a normal human male. Like a person. Like you.
I flushed at the thought. Like me, a virgin. A big-mouthed mope of a virgin, with brown hair that was frizzy on good days and unhinged on bad days. Shoulder-length. I wore loafers and slacks to work, button-downs with quirky designs. Today was yellow ducks. But Bailey Finch, as a whole, was painfully unquirky. I was a poser. Inauthentic. Maybe a little too self-deprecating. I was most authentic at home, in bed with my laptop, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, leggings, and cabin socks. The fluffier the socks, the better.
I wondered briefly what Elijah would think of me in comparison to the girls he'd been with on-screen. Did that even matter? No, of course not.
Still, I wondered. Maybe I should flat-iron my hair, or wear shoes with wedges. Lip-gloss vs. lip balm.
Procrastination: I typed out on the keyboard. Failure to concentrate. Here are some random facts: Scotland has 421 words for 'snow'. Elephants are the only mammals that can't jump. The first oranges weren't actually orange. The most common name is Mohammed. Cats can hear ultrasound. Children grow faster in the springtime. Karaoke means 'empty orchestra' in Japanese.
Delete. Roll eyes. Sigh heavily.
As I sat there, staring at a blank Word document, my boss Deborah – a tall, all-limbs woman, popped her head into my cubicle.
“How are the interview questions going?”
Her expression was vaguely fatigued despite remaining without a single crease or line; her face was elongated, elegant. She had the most delicate bird-face. Long, a pointed nose, elven cheek-bones. Her eyes, two silver buttons, were wide, perpetually surprised. Her foundation was light enough that I could still see the subtle, natural gloss of oil on her forehead. She was, all said, pretty in a pained sort of way. Her ash-blond hair was always styled as if she were ready to step out onto a runway. She wore Louis Vuitton stilettos and a tailored houndstooth-print suit.
“Excellent,” I lied. “I'm wrapping them up now, actually. I'll email them to you in a minute.”
I'll email them to you in a minute. Panic. My heart jumped. Why did I always do this? I was a people-pleaser to my core, and it always, always ended up biting me in the ass. I lived in constant pause-or-panic.
“Awesome,” she was indeed pleased. Her smile showed a bit of rose-pink lipstick on her front tooth. “Don't feel the need to get too detailed with them. Let him lead the interview, if you can. He seems talkative enough in past interviews. He did a very informative interview with Cosmopolitan last fall – we want to go deeper than that. Deeper than male skincare, workout regimens and how to maintain an erection, at least.”
“Do you want me to confirm how many inches he is, exactly?” I inquired.
Deborah laughed.
“These are the imperative questions,” she said. “Yeah. If you can get his favorite lay, too, there's a good one. Best orgasm story.”
“I doubt his best orgasm has been on-film,” I quipped. “I mean, porn is technically work.”
“Then in a relationship! I don't really care. I just want the details and we can Jane Doe or John Smith the rest.”
“Gotcha,” I nodded. “I'll keep it professional. I'll keep it sexy.”
While still focusing on the fact that he was now looking to step away from the Adult Industry. Maybe he wouldn't want to talk about anything sexual. He possibly wouldn't. Maybe he'd find it offensive – like a strain on his shirt that he was hoping nobody would notice, or an unruly cowlick.
Deborah scurried off in the direction of her next to-do, and I shook my head, a common mind-reset practice of mine. Like one of those Etch-A-Sketches.
Elijah Mattox, who are you, sir?
My fingers lingered on the keyboard, hesitant. I pressed my lips together, gave another heavy sigh, and then began typing. Twenty-minutes later, I had produced something palatable. Questions sure to please Deborah, keeping it sexy, keeping it professional, keeping it to the point: Elijah, the whole person. Not just the lead in I Didn't Know She Was Your Mom: Anal Edition.
I sent the email off. As soon as I hit send, my pocket vibrated. It was also a known fact about myself that I wore pants loose enough to permit for large pockets. I hated purses. I had one, of course, but it contained mostly my wallet, a few old receipts, loose change and three Chap Sticks. I hated fishing for my phone, or taking the time to search for anything, really. Pockets simplify. It's a beautiful thing.
The text was from Charlie, my roommate.
Charlie: Important. Come to the shop immediately. Consider this urgent.
The shop, as it were, was the bakery Charlie worked at. It was infamous for its cupcakes and house-brew. It also offered a wide array of customized-confectionary.
I clicked my tongue, typing out a response.
Me: At work. Will stop by after.
Charlie's reply was instant.
Charlie: THERE'S A DICK CAKE HERE. YOU NEED TO SEE THIS.
Charlie: BAILEY.
Charlie: I KNOW YOU AREN'T WORKING. YOU HAVE THE WORST WORK ETHIC OF ANYONE I KNOW. HOW DID YOU EVEN GET THAT JOB?
Calendar Editor, and through an excellent referral at university. It was more of an administrative role, entry-level, truth be told. I worked on the weekly calendar of events for the publisher. This was, officially, my first stint doing an actual interview. My first written-piece, scored through the fact that I just so happened to be replacing the original auteur, who was on Maternity Leave. Everyone else was swamped. This was my one chance, and it had to be good.
My phone vibrated again.
Charlie: THAT WAS MEAN. I LOVE YOU.
I tossed the phone into my purse with a soft thud, forgetting my pocket sentiments. Somewhere out there – that somewhere actually being a bakery in East LA – a Dick Cake existed, which apparently was a must-see. Akin to the Seven Wonders of the World. The Pyramids, or Stonehenge. A Dick Cake. Enough said.
The bakery smelled like burnt blueberry scones and buttercream. Baristas were pouring coffee from French Presses, their hair in updos – even the guys. Long hair was a thing here. They served pastries on small ceramic plates depicting clever quotes and tiny paintings of animals or flora, and espresso, tea, coffee from plain paper cups. No lids. Names were scribbled on the side hastily in black ink. One time I was Bali. Another time I was Bobby. I've been Bailie, Baley, and SO CLOSE – Baile.
Charlie was at the counter, grinning ear-to-ear.
“You best not be wasting my time,” I told him. “I've got an interview to prep for.”
“Oh, since when do you prepare for anything?” his tone was joking. He was an asshole, but a loving one. “I've got a date I should be grooming for, but I'm here, slaving away for the corporate giants.”
“This place is a family-owned. There is literally no other Pastries & Coffee in Los Angeles, or anywhere for that matter. Also, great business name. To the point.”
“Whatever. My pubes look like my dick has a bad perm.”
I shot a quick look over my shoulder to make sure he wasn't blabbering to listening-ears. Etiquette Police. The shop was quiet, with only a few sitting by the windows, lightly chatting, drinking their drinks and eating their croissants or danishes or tiny, adorable tea cakes.
“Who is it this time?” I asked. “Also, where is this aforementioned Dick Cake that you insisted I come here and see?”
He motioned for me to follow him behind the counter, into a small back-room. The counter was covered in frosting (I might have tasted it – vanilla marscapone) and cake scraps. A squat fridge sat in the corner, holding the awaiting custom orders.
I stole a cake scrap and popped it into my mouth. Ginger-lemon. Score.
Charlie carefully pulled the cake from the fridge, resting it on the counter. We both took a step back, just looking at it. Taking it all in.
There it was. Indeed a cake, shaped like a giant dick. Pubes and all.
“Well, shit, you weren't kidding,” I muttered, candidly in awe. “Who is this for?”
Charlie shrugged. “Don't know. But the inside is almond and there's a chocolate-ganache filling. I wouldn't mind a slice of that D.”
“You are the worst,” I said. He slid the cake back into the fridge, and we walked back out to the storefront. “I'll take a coffee, black, and a Bear Claw. And tell me about this date.”
“Their name is Sacha. Pronoun: they. Likes watercolor, wearing combat boots, and The Aquabats. Most importantly, DTF.”
“DTF,” I said. “What, are we still in high-school?”
“They literally said it,” Charlie said defensively, whipping out his phone. There it was, a text from Sacha, reading: whatever you want to do. I'm DTF. “Besides, I'm not expecting anything. Just hopeful. Really hopeful. If not, we'll enjoy the extended version of Lord of the Rings: Return of the King celibately, and I'll enjoy my blue balls.”
“Follow your bliss,” I told him, taking my coffee and pastry. “Just be safe about it.”
“And you watch out for tall men in sunglasses,” he replied. “Behind you, Bailey. Oh God.”
I turned, completely oblivious, and knocked straight into said Tall Man in Sunglasses.
The sharp sunlight cast shards through the window, and in the brightness I couldn't really make out his face, but I knew he was grinning. Grinning and soaked in hot coffee. Hot coffee that I had spilled, all over him, because of course I did.
“Ohmygod,” one word. I chocked. “I'm so sorry! Do you want a napkin? No, a towel. I could get you a towel.”
Charlie tossed a rag over the counter, and Tall Man grabbed it with an acknowledging nod.
“It's fine,” he said, blotting the fabric. “Trust me. It's a shirt. I have others. Besides, this isn't the first time I've dealt with a spill.”
“Oh.”
Great reply, Bailey.
“Me either,” I stuttered. “I spill stuff all the time. I'm pretty much a walking mess.”
He laughed. I tried to find his eyes behind the sunglasses, but I couldn't.
“You're a little weird, aren't you?” he said, placing the rag on the counter. “Like one of those girls who wasn't very popular in high-school because they preferred wearing a Harry Potter house robe instead of normal clothes, and hung out in the teacher's lounge, and watched BBC at home with your cat.”
“What the fuck kind of person says that to a complete stranger?” I snapped. “You don't know me, dude.”
Tall man laughed.
“You're right, dude,” he said. “So tell me, what house are you?”
“Hufflepuff.”
“Of course you are,” he said, and then: “I'm a Slytherin.”
“Bullshit.”
“I have a Sorting Hat on my keychain. Here, look:” he pulled his keys out of his pocket, and there it was. It glinted in the sunlight. “See? Guys can watch BBC at home with their pets, too.”
I studied him. Dark hair, obviously fit. Even though it was a wretchedly hot day outside, he wore a black T-shirt and gray hooded sweatshirt, so I couldn't quite see his body. I tried to fill in the spotty imagery in with my imagination: sinewy, strong, not an ounce of fat. He didn't look like a guy that ate carbs. No bagels. No muffins. No Bear Claws, obviously. What a miserable life.
His smile was coy. His lips pulled at the corners teasingly. From over the counter, Charlie was on his phone, unphased. The shop had emptied; the afternoon lunch drizzle having dried up.
“Enjoy your afternoon,” he said. There was a distinct conclusion to his tone. The conversation was over. A sense of tension hung in the air; I was intrigued at how someone, with a simple three words, could be so commanding and yet apparently had a nerdy streak.
How nerdy? I wondered briefly. Like, cosplay nerdy?
“You too,” was all I could say. I didn't bother asking for another coffee. I could feel the paper bag wrinkle in my fist, still holding my pastry. My stomach grumbled. “See you around.”
I wouldn't, of course. He was just a passerby. I decided it was best to leave.
From behind me, as my hand touched the door, I could hear his brief banter with Charlie: light, nonchalant. And then, as if by some stroke off magic, he said:
“Just here to pick up an order. I'm the Dick Cake Guy.”
I smiled inwardly, pure satisfaction: like the first pop of a pretzel bite into your mouth. Buttery, delicious, so unhealthy but oh-so good.
See you never, Dick Cake Guy.
