I love my job.

Getting paid for fucking or getting fucked is great and all that, but my job at St. Francis Hospital means ten times more to me. I’ve worked here for two years now, and I pick up as many shifts as I can between classes and my other job. The pay is utter crap, of course, especially compared to what Bear pays me, but I’m not doing it for the money. I’m here because I honestly love spending time here, learning new stuff every day.

Because I can only work flex hours around my classes and my Ballsy Boys commitments, they rotate me through departments to fill in wherever there’s a need. I actually like that since it’s given me the opportunity to learn how the various specialties work.

This month, I’m stationed on the internal medicine wing, which means a lot of elderly patients. They’re not everyone’s favorite, as communication can be complicated what with hearing deficiencies or deteriorating mental health, but I don’t mind.

A lot of what I do, aside from helping them with eating, personal hygiene, and getting dressed, is helping them move around for a bit. It’s important seniors stay mobile as much as possible. Once elderly patients become sedentary, their independence decreases rapidly, and even if they did live independently before, they often have to be admitted to a nursing home after.

Earlier this morning, I walked Mrs. Morris—Nina, as she insisted I call her—a ninety-three-year-old woman up and down the hallway for twenty minutes. She’s recovering from a nasty fall due to hypoglycemia, an extreme low blood sugar. The poor thing has been diabetic for the last several years and messed up her insulin intake, injecting too much.

You should have heard the stories this lady could tell. It was like snapshots from another time and age, another life. She grew up here in LA, unlike me, and she remembered the glory days of Old Hollywood, as she called it. She worked as an assistant for a director for years, and boy, did she have some whoppers of stories.

I’m still thinking about her as I give Mr. Jordan in room 415 a sponge bath. He’s only half awake for it, still recovering from a bout of pancreatitis, and he isn’t really in the mood to chat. That leaves me alone with my thoughts, which I don’t mind after the crazy week I’ve had.

That scene with Tank yesterday was...something else. Say what you want, but we had some explosive chemistry. I’m sure it’s gonna turn out well. Not that I’ll ever watch it. I rarely watch my own videos, and I have zero desire to watch Tank take his frustration out on my ass. I still feel it, so no need for visual reminders.

I look up as Kate, the nurse’s manager, walks in with what looks to be a new resident. He’s cute with his messy dark hair and a tall, lean body. He’s also making my gaydar go off like a fire alarm. Not that I’d hook up with him or anything. I never mix sex and work here. I get enough of that in my other job where sex is my work.

“Every room is equipped with… Oh, hi, Micah,” Kate says when she spots me.

The resident focuses his attention on me, and I see his eyes widen. Oh, fuck. He is gay and moreover, he knows who I am. “You’re—”

“Micah Evans,” I say quickly, extending my hand. I need to nip this in the bud right away and hope that the guy gets the hint. “I’m a CNA.”

He hesitates for a second before stepping in and taking my hand. “Oliver. Dr. Reed, I mean. I’m the new surgical resident.”

He’s flustered as hell, and I’m mentally begging him to keep it together. I’ve tried hard to keep my porn-life and my work-life separate. There are a few people who know, mostly gay nurses, but they’ve been really good about it and have helped me keep it a secret.

“Nice to meet you, Dr. Reed. I hope you’ll have a wonderful residency here,” I say, squeezing his hand one last time before I let go.

Kate watches us with an amused smile. So, she’d picked up on something, but either she doesn’t know what I do, or she’s chosen not to comment on it. Either works for me. She knows I’m gay, and Dr. Reed here is not exactly a covert member of the club, either, so maybe she thinks it’s sparks flying.

“Let’s continue,” she tells Oliver, and after one long last look in my direction, he refocuses on her. His cheeks are slightly red, and he’s flustered, but at least he didn’t say anything. Thank fuck for small favors.

I run into him in the employee bathroom two hours later when he’s taking a leak in one of the urinals. He blushes all over again when he sees me. It’s annoying as fuck, because it draws way too much attention. He needs to get the fuck over himself. I merely nod, but, of course, it was too much to hope he’d pick up on my earlier hint, and he starts talking to me, while tucking away his dick.

“I wasn’t expecting to see someone like you working here.”

I quickly check the stalls, which are blissfully empty. “Someone like me?”

There’s something about the way he said it that makes me uncomfortable.

He laughs as he walks over to the counter to wash his hands, but it’s a bit of an awkward laugh. “You know, someone famous.”

“Dude, I’m not famous. Few people here know what I do on the side, and in case you hadn’t picked up on it, I’d like to keep it that way.”

“I can imagine,” he says, and there’s that tone again. I can’t put my finger on it. It can’t be that he has an issue with gay porn, because first of all, he’s gay as a unicorn, and secondly, the mere fact that he recognized me means he’s watched our videos. But there’s a subtle disapproval that rubs me the wrong way. So I merely shrug, hoping that’s the end of it.

It seems he really can’t take a hint, however. “I’m curious why you’re even working here in the first place. I mean, your other job must pay way better.”

“I’m not here for the money,” I say, not willing to explain my reasons to him. It’s absolutely none of his fucking business.

“Then why are you? It’s an odd job for someone like you.”

I grind my teeth. “I thought we already established I’m not quite as famous as you think I am.”

He pats his hands dry on a paper towel and gives a dismissive gesture. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant more, like, you’re Brewer, you know? You fuck for a living, you have this…” He waves his hand up and down to indicate my body, “This perfect body...I mean, I’ve seen you, so I know what you look like under that uniform. It seems like such a waste of your…assets to pretend to be serious about a real-life job.”

Pretend to be serious? Holy fuck, I wanna rip this asshole a new one. Which I can’t, obviously, because I don’t want to lose my job, and I’m pretty sure knocking a surgical resident out cold will get me fired, no matter how much of a dick he is. Doesn’t mean I’m gonna let it go just like that, though.

“Just because I have a perfect ass and the best cock in town, doesn’t mean my brain is empty, dickwad.”

I debate adding my almost perfect GPA in high school but decide to let it go. It’s useless trying to convince people I have a brain when they’ve already decided I’m nothing beyond a hot body.

That’s as good as it’s gonna get as far as parting words go, so I quickly make my exit.

I shouldn’t let it bother me, opinions of people like him, but it does. I don’t mind being seen as sexy or having people rave about my Ballsy Boys work. It comes with that job, and as weird as it may sound, I’m proud of the videos we make there, just as I’m proud of my body. Fuck, I work hard enough to keep in good shape.

In a club, where I simply hook up with men, I couldn’t give a flying fuck what they think of me beyond that they wanna fuck me. But here, in this place where I work so hard to do a damn good job, where I try to be the best that I can be, it’s different. I hate not being seen for who I am. I hate that this asshat comes in and makes me feel like an imposter. As if I needed any help with that.

I’ve only taken an intro-level course in psychology so far, but you don’t need a fucking degree to see where it stems from. One more thing to thank my parents for. We’ll add it to the list. Sigh.