It is my sincere belief that this world explicitly exists to make people hate themselves. That's why self-love, the latest in the cycle of impossible concepts such as Nirvana, Completeness, and sticking to the recommended serving of potato chips, is such a bullshit goal. Now, I can't remember what being a baby was like, but I have to imagine it was kind of rad. I mean, you get to just eat, sleep and, if your parents are cool, watch too many cartoons, all while lacking the cognitive function to realize that the world around you is on fire and nothing is actually okay. Now that's nirvana right there. But the moment you gain the sentience required to truly be a person, it starts. You notice that some kids are treated better at daycare, or that some are complimented on everything while the only "compliment" you received was being told "oh, you look just like your father." Damnit, Darlene, I was five not blind! I knew that was less a compliment for me and more a reassurance to my dad that he didn't need to call Maury Povich, despite looking like a sock puppet with less personality.

 

But I digress. Between the media constantly flaunting standards of beauty that can never be met or success stories of young people that are fueled by nepotism and dumb luck, everything in this world has been meticulously curated by malicious forces beyond our comprehension to tear us down and make us feel like disgusting pieces of shit. It makes me fucking sick.

 

"You disgusting piece of shit. You make me fucking sick!" Hisses Erika, my best friend of almost two decades, as she yanks on the chain attached to my collar. Now you might be thinking, was that entire spiel some thinly veiled cry for help? Nope. Couldn't be further from the truth, really. Hilariously enough, when the two of us aren't "on the clock," Erika is just about the only person that makes me feel like I'm worth a damn in this crazy, hectic, altogether unpleasant world.

 

Dropping to my knees and meeting my friend's long, thick, veiny strap-on at eye level, I'm confronted by two thoughts: First of all, how the hell am I supposed to unhinge my jaw to swallow Dick-zilla here while not making the entire process look incredibly unappealing for the cameras set up around the room? And also, what would it truly take for me to love myself?

 

That's enough introspection. For now, we’ll skip to a more PG-13 part of the evening… 

 

*A Couple Hours Later*

 

"Ugh, can we retire dick-zilla after tonight? I always get jaw cramps after gagging on it for too long." Rubbing the offending muscles that'll more than likely be sore for the next day or so, I slowly continue disassembling our set.

 

"Hey, viewers like seeing you go to town on the thing. Not my fault people specifically request the monster dong for scenes." Erika laughs, putting on actual clothes and not the latex facsimiles thereof that she dons for our side business.

 

Yes, we make porn. Erika is incredibly gorgeous and has a kinky side that'd make the Cenobites blush like anime schoolgirls, and I'm the only person she's willing to share this side of her with… and willing to participate on camera for a decent chunk of change. As far as my looks… well, it doesn't matter much, does it? The more generic I look, the easier it is for our audience to mentally edit me out and superimpose themselves in my place. This might be the one industry where being unassuming, ordinary little Felix is a massive plus. Well, this or being a secret agent, but MI:6 has been dodging my calls, so I'm pretty sure they went with that loser Bond guy instead. Their loss. 

 

"All I'm saying is that one day I'm gonna end up accidentally biting it off and because it's already so far down my throat, I'm gonna end up swallowing the whole thing. When, not if, when that happens, you're gonna be the one that explains the situation to whatever poor doctor has to pump my stomach."

 

Still balancing like a flamingo on one foot while trying to shove the other through the leg hole of some jorts, Erika starts hysterically laughing at the mental image of my intense humiliation and grievous health complication. This causes her to flop onto the floor, reassuring me that karma as a concept isn’t completely dead. I’ve mentioned that she’s my best friend, yes? Just want to make sure that little fact isn’t forgotten. “Is that supposed to be a threat? Dude, I’d pay to see some lab coat wearing hoity-toit’s face when they hear that story.”

 

Deflating, just like the air mattress on the floor, I sigh. “Yeah yeah, laugh it up, chuckles.”

 

“Oh come on, it’d be kind of hilarious. Just imagine lifting up your shirt and having an obvious dick-shaped protrusion on your stomach looking like the world’s horniest Xenomorph trying to hump its way out.” Speaking of hump, now that she’s fallen on her back, she’s flopping around hips first like an oddly limber turtle trying to defeat her current denim adversary. 

 

Unplugging the lights from our overloaded power strips and internally cheering that our living room is almost equipment-free, I shoot Erika a deservedly harsh look. “See, you’re imagining this like a Saturday morning cartoon while I’m thinking it’d be more like ‘Next on Discovery Health, the dipshit who bit off more than he could chew.’”

 

I can see Erika’s face turning red as she fights a losing battle to contain the laughter trying to battering ram its way through her tightly pursed lips to freedom. “Just go for it already. Don’t hurt yourself!”

 

Didn’t need to tell her twice as she immediately unleashes another stream of intense bellylaughs, no doubt picturing the entire documentary and her cameo as a woman with a blurred-out face and a distorted low voice talking about how she knew me when. Three minutes later, I’ve finished breaking down everything. Alone. Again. While my friend barely manages to calm herself down and finish rolling through her entire wardrobe. A familiar quiet takes over our home as the two of us bask in the awkwardness of not really knowing what to say after another successful shoot.

 

“I know I’ve already asked a few times and you’re probably getting sick of hearing this already, but… I didn’t go to far today, right?” Erika asks for the umpteenth time since we wrapped production for the night.

 

“For the last time, everything’s fine. I appreciate the concern, but I’ve heard a lot worse without ever getting my utilities paid in return. We’re totally good, okay?”

 

Hugging her knees, Erika half-heartedly smiles in my direction. “Good. Sounds good. I just– it feels wrong not providing any aftercare. It’s really kind of cold, don’t you think?”

 

Honestly, yes, it absolutely does feel cold and impersonal and empty. Unfortunately, that’s kind of the point. I’ve known Erika since elementary school. The two of us grew up basically joined at the hip, going through similar phases of nerd-dom, fashion statements, and intense nihilism. My feelings for her are platonic with a capital PLA which conveniently enough is an anagram of pal. That’s all we are, all we ever will be, that’s it, finished, finito, end of discussion.

 

Hell, our mutual understanding is the only reason our little side business works at all. It’s performance art, theater, the same as two awkward thespians kissing in a production of Romeo and Juliet… or another play that doesn’t completely suck dick-zilla. So, when our first couple of videos made enough money to justify continuing this venture, I made some hard and fast rules to follow to make sure this didn’t implode into some failed romantic dramedy B-plot nonsense that could ruin the good thing we got going.

 

Felix’s Commandments:

 

1. No pillow talk, cuddling, or idling about after a scene.
2. No watching old movies we’ve made once they’ve been edited and released.
3. Avoid as much physical contact with her outside of the scenes as humanly possible.
4. Always remember February 7, 2011.

 

Four simple rules to save my soul. Huh, this must be how religions get started. This means I do have faith and my parents can stop trying to re-convert me to their mopey, chanty, self-flagellation-y church.

 

“Earth to Felix, you still with me?” Snapping back to reality, I see that Erika has managed to sneak up on me like a goddamn ninja. An impressive feat as I’m naturally an incredibly perceptive individual. “Yeah, you kinda zoned out. Were you monologuing again?”

 

… “No?”

 

Scoffing, Erika lightly hits my forehead with the pads of her fingers. “You spend way too much time in your head, I swear.”

 

Oh, I call bullshit on that one, for one thing–

 

*One Monologue Later*

 

– Alright, so she might have a point. Ten minutes later, after I’ve returned to reality once more, I find Erika curled up on the couch snoring away while some horror movie plays in the background. Damnit all to hell. For every time she’s told me to “be more present” I’ve told her to stop falling asleep on the couch. She knows she has a bad back and that spending the night like this is gonna make her miserable for the next couple of days.

 

Immediately breaking rule three just as easily as I explained it, I pick Erika up off the couch and start walking her over to her bed, thankful all the while that we can only afford to live in a small apartment. Between snores, Erika groans and speaks nonsensically. “I wanna go to six flags and punch my governor.”

 

“Everybody does.”

 

“I need pancakes so I can breathe.”

 

“They are delicious and life-bringing.”

 

Putting her down as gently as my admittedly weak arms are able, I turn to leave her room. “I’m sorry, Felix.” Hearing this, I double-time it out and close the door quickly and quietly to avoid hearing anything else. Ten to one odds, she was about to apologize for selling my giraffe or some other gibberish. On the off chance she’s lucid enough to form a coherent sentence, I really don’t need to hear what’s coming next again.

 

*The Next Day*

 

Barely dragging my beaten and broken body up the five stories of walk-up bullshit I deal with every day to reach my apartment, I dream of the wonderfully relaxing night ahead of me. Nice hot shower, bowl of instant noodles, putting powder on the wicked heat rash between my legs from sweating too much while hustling people’s food to their tables for pennies… so much relief, so much catharsis, just a few measly steps away. 

 

The moment I open the door to my sanctuary, I’m nearly bowled over by an excited Erika hopping up and down and projecting an energy I’m unable and unwilling to match. “Guess what guess what guess what!?!?!?”

 

"What?" I half-groan out, just wanting to walk through her and into my beautifully boring night.

 

“Guess!”

 

“No, what!?”

 

“We got another commission, and the payment is FAT!” she says, nearly hyperventilating as I’ve only seen her do when lining up to meet her favorite Japanese voice actor at our local con.

 

Nodding and forcing at least a small wry smile on my face to appease my beaming roommate, I nod. “That’s great. How big a payday are we talking?”

 

“Rent, for three months.” My jaw drops and nearly dislocates itself without even the influence of my phallic friend from yesterday. “Uh-huh, you heard me. Three. Months.”

 

Stymying my excitement for a moment and reminding myself that the world is a cruel and fucked up place, I clear my throat. “All right, give it to me straight… how fucked up is the request?”

 

“Come on Felix, it’s not cool to kink-shame. Besides, what really constitutes fucked up? Is it something we’ve never done before? Yes. Does it heavily involve you? Also yes. Am I stalling because I’m a bit nervous to ask you if you’re willing to do this because this money would literally save our beautiful asses? One hundred percent.”

 

Inhaling and exhaling, as I was once taught to do by some dude at a bus stop that claimed he used to be a therapist, I calm myself down. “Just… just lay it on me, please?”

 

“It’s really not that bad. I know some guys would have a serious hang-up about it, but really when you consider everything we’ve done it’s totally on the milquetoast end of things. Like seriously, it probably won’t even rate in our top ten most memorable moments. Complete snooze fest, won’t even make the highlight reel.”

 

“Erika!”

 

“Fine!” Taking a deep breath and looking at the wall behind me, she asks in a voice altogether too innocent for the situation, “You ever hear of forced feminization?”