“Did you say medi-spa? As in medical spa?” Josh looks like I asked him to eat a lemon-covered bug. “Please tell me this is a female-only mystery shopper gig.” He takes a finger and pretends to gag himself with it.

“The instructions are gender neutral. The spa has services for men, too.” I don’t tell him that I’m offering a spot on this mystery shopping evaluation to help him. A few weeks ago, Josh confided in me that he’s become a “tugger,” a man who stretches his foreskin to make it return to a longer length, covering everything uncovered by circumcision.

I see your face right now. I know. I made that face, too. But the more I thought about it, the more I came to view it as body modification. His body, his choice. So when the medi-spa service menu showed a certain something that could help him, I decided to act.

“Services for men? Like what? Manscaping? I already have the perfect tool for it.”

“I do not need to know about your trimmer recommendations.”

“His name is Raoul down at Trim Your Hedges. A great little metrosexual laundromat I adore.”

“Metrosexual laundromat?”

“Yes! Two-in-one men’s hair shop. Wash and dry while you get a shave and trim.”

“I’d hate to see the lint traps in those dryers,” Carol mutters as she reads her copy of the mystery shop instructions.

Josh makes a face at her. “Why would a man need a medi-spa anyhow?”

“Medical spas offer more invasive treatments. This one has Scrotox, for instance.” I peer at the list, scanning quickly, the word out of my mouth before my mind has time to catch up to its meaning.

“Scrotox?” Marie and Josh say the word in the exact same tone.

“Do I dare ask? Is that Botox for the boys?” Josh’s euphemism is adorable. And sickening. A little of both.

“It’s injections of Botox directly into the sac,” I explain.

“Like, it freezes their scrotums so they... what? Can’t smile?” Marie asks, long eyelashes batting against her cheeks as she tries to understand. Marie signed on to do the mystery shop with me when she heard some of the options were eyelash extensions and neck sculpting.

“Who smiles with their balls, Marie? That’s absurd.” Josh gives an involuntary shiver, his shirt falling open slightly, revealing another aspect of his, um...extracurricular activity. In order to stretch that which does not wish to be stretched, Josh wears a complex series of elastic and cone-shaped devices held together with wire and duct tape, under his clothing. We pretend not to notice.

But he knows we know.

“Well, Botox freezes your brow so you can’t smile. What are they freezing down there on a man?”

Josh and Marie turn to me as if I have the answer.

Before I can read from the description, Carol interrupts, holding her phone.

“I googled. You get Botox in your nuts so they’ll hang lower.”

“Why would I want the boys down around my knees?” Josh reels back. “No one gets a spa treatment to look older.”

“I assumed they’d make ’em high and tight,” Marie muses. “Old man balls are saggy. Who wants them to hang lower?”

“TMI, Mom.” Carol says this in a blasé tone, as if she’s said it a thousand times before.

Because she has.

“Can we move on?” Josh grabs the paperwork from me and reads quietly for a few seconds. Suddenly, his expression changes to sheer joy and he shouts, “Foreskin restoration services!”

“Fourscore and what?” Marie asks.

“Foreskin restoration! They offer medical techniques to stretch your foreskin! They help you tug!”

“Tug?”

Josh lets out a long sigh, clearly fighting with himself over whether to say something. “I’m a tugger.” His eyes catch mine. “I already told Amanda a while ago, after that unfortunate wardrobe malfunction incident.”

“Wardrobe malfunction?” Carol asks me.

I just shake my head.

“Oh, honey, that’s nothing special. All men are tuggers! Masturbation is nothing to be embarrassed about.” Marie looks at his package.

“Or to talk about at work,” I add through gritted teeth.

“Tugging,” Josh says, raising his voice as if giving a lecture, “is the art of do-it-yourself foreskin restoration.”

I’ve never seen Marie go so silent, so fast.

Carol speaks first. “Do they surgically attach one to you? Like organ donation? Does someone die in a car accident and they cut off his foreskin so you can...have one?”

“You think I would let a surgeon attach a piece of cadaver penis to me? What kind of person do you think I am?” Josh is offended.

“You’ve just described yourself as a tugger in a room full of co-workers, Josh. We know exactly what kind of person you are.”

“‘Tugging’ is the technical term for using various techniques and devices to stretch your foreskin back to its original shape,” he informs us.

“Devices?” Marie perks up. “Like sex toys?”

“No! We use rings and constrictors to stretch the skin.”

“You’re...serious.” Josh isn’t pulling our legs.

He’s pulling something else.

Er...tugging it, that is.

“I am serious.” His chin raises and he cocks one eyebrow. “I am an intactivist.”

“Oh, I fully support breastfeeding too, sweetie,” Marie says, patting his hand.

“That’s a lactivist, Mom,” Carol corrects her. “Josh is an intactivist.”

“I don’t believe in routine male circumcision,” he explains. “I’m already cut, but I believe in bringing back what was taken from me.”

Carol gives him a once-over. “I’d say you’re in decent shape, but you’re not ‘cut.’”

“I don’t mean cut, as in ripped, with muscles. I mean cut, as in my penis.”

We all grimace.

“And I can’t do anything about what happened when I was an infant -- ”

“Hold on,” Marie says. “You’re trying to stretch something that doesn’t exist.”

“Like Grandma Celeste’s sense of empathy.” Carol nods in sympathy.

“It exists!” He says in a mixture of indignity and triumph. “I have taken myself from a C2 to a C3 in just two months.”

I am afraid to ask. Carol, on the other hand, isn’t.

“What’s a C2?”

“There is a rating system.”

“For penises?” Marie waves her hand. “Everyone knows that.”

“For foreskin restoration. C1 to C10.”

“And you’re a C...3?”

“P O.” I can’t help myself. I can’t.

Carol starts giggling helplessly. “And when you get to a C4, does that mean you have explosives in your pants?”

“Make all the fun you want,” Josh replies, “but my efforts are working. The guys at my NORM forums are really encouraging.”

“NORM?”

“National Organization for Restoring Men.”

“There’s an organization devoted to this?”

“It’s serious,” he says, nodding. “I told you. We share tips, follow each others’ journals, buy and sell used devices – you name it.”

“Share ‘tips,’” Carol snickers.

“It’s our own little subculture,” he elaborates, pointedly ignoring her.

“Of penis stretching,” I clarify. Is the room getting a little spinny, or is it just me?

“You keep a journal?” Carol asks.

“Everyone does. It’s how we measure progress.”

I giggle.

“And you include pictures?”

“Yes. But it’s all anonymous. I don’t use my real name!”

“You’re a model of discretion.”

“Back up. Did you say you buy and sell used devices? Devices men put on their penis to turn their remaining foreskins into taffy?”

“Yes. Everything from cones to tuba mouthpieces.”

Marie gently sets her paperwork down and gives her full attention to Josh.

“Did you just say tuba mouthpieces? As in the musical instrument, the tuba?”

“It’s a major homemade system for protecting the glans while you stretch the foreskin over the metal bell.”

“I am trying to envision this and I just can’t wrap my head around it.”

“You don’t wrap your head around it, silly.”

“You buy someone’s used tuba mouthpiece and put it on your penis.”

“I boil it to sterilize it first, of course!”

There is a very fine line between function and fetish. I do believe we’ve crossed it.

“Do you have a tuba mouthpiece in your pants right now?” Marie asks.

Josh blushes.

“I’ve heard it called ‘low brass,’ but damn.” I can’t help myself from making a sound like an injured animal.

“How?” Marie asks, still eyeing Josh.

“How what?”

“How do you tug your chicken to give it more skin?”

Josh’s cheeks turn pink, eyes cutting away from her to the mystery shopping instruction sheet. “How about I do this mystery shop with you at the medi-spa and you can ask them?”

“How did you learn about this tugging thing?” Marie asks, skeptical.

“On reddit.”

Carol and I groan. Of course. You can find anything on reddit.

“You just searched for ‘how to regrow your foreskin’ randomly one day? Like looking for a new chili recipe?” Carol asks. “Gee, today I think I’ll try something with black beans and oh! while I’m at it, I’ll torture my penis a little.”

“No. Not at all. It started because Geordi and I were Facetiming one night.” Geordi is Josh’s long-distance boyfriend. They met last year in Vegas when we almost married each other. Don’t ask.

“Geordi wants you to tug your foreskin? That’s where the idea came from?” Marie asks.

“No, but he is one hundred percent supportive,” Josh explains.

“Is he a tugger, too?”

“No. He’s intact.”

“That’s how you got the idea! From an intact boyfriend.”

“Not quite. It all started when we were both looking at the ‘critique my dick pic’ tumblr one night on a Facetime date -- ”

Carol’s palm flies up in the air, right in Josh’s face. “Stop! There is too much dysfunction in that sentence for me to absorb without a pause.”

“Oh, please,” he counters. “You’ve lived with Marie for your entire life. You’ve heard way worse than that.”

“The man has a point,” Marie agrees. She appears to think she’s in on the joke.

And not the butt of it.

“Back up,” I insist. “You were on a website called ‘critique my dick pic’?”

“Yes.”

“On tumblr?” Carol’s searching furiously on her phone. “Found it!” she calls out.

“It’s not safe for work,” Josh warns.

“Seriously?” I stare him down. “You are talking about a website that involves evaluating penises and you’re giving us an NSFW warning? You’ve been promoted from Captain Obvious to Colonel Obvious.”

“Just saying!”

“Oh, my GOD!” Carol shoves her phone screen within an inch of her eyes. “It really is a tumblr devoted to nothing but penises. And the woman who runs it charges the men!”

“And women,” Josh points out. “Look at number three today. Someone sent in a picture of her girlfriend wearing a strap-on.”

Timing really is everything, because at that exact moment, Andrew and his trainer, Vince, walk past us, the words “girlfriend wearing a strap-on” hanging in the air as they walk by.

“Looking at pictures of your sex life, Andrew?” Vince asks him.

I am the recipient of Andrew’s glare. Why me?

“What the hell are you all talking about?” Andrew asks, coming to a stop outside our doorway.

We go dead silent.

He looks at me. I shrug.

“Do I want to know?”

“No.”

“We’re talking about women who get paid to evaluate penises,” Josh blurts out.

“And this is...work related?” Andrew can’t help himself.

We all nod.

“Okay, then. Carry on.”

“Wait!” Vince stops Andrew from fleeing. “I have some questions.”

“You really don’t, Vince. Trust me on this, man,” Andrew tells him.

“There are women who get paid to evaluate penises?”

We nod.

“Like, hookers?”

I shake my head.

“Like, doctors?”

“No. A woman who got tired of being sent free dick pics. She decided that if guys are going to hit on her all the time by sending unsolicited dick pics, she might as well make some money off it. Now she tells people that for about $25 each, she’ll review their dicks.”

“Review them? Like on Yelp? Stars and everything?”

“Yes,” says Josh, voice dripping with sarcasm. “There’s even an option for checking off whether your penis is gluten-free or vegan.”

“I’m in the wrong field, man,” Vince mutters as they disappear down a stairwell.

“That was awkward,” Carol mutters.

“You think? The CEO of the company finds us looking at pictures of penises on a site devoted to monetizing dick pics and we claim it’s a work project?”

“I’ve been caught doing worse,” Carol says with a shrug.

Everyone nods and grudgingly admits that she’s right.

* * *

We’re not really here to mystery shop, but I can’t tell Marie and Josh the truth. They can’t keep a secret. Anterdec is considering adding some of the more popular medi-spa treatments to the menu at the O Spa, one of our properties, and we need to covertly check out the competition.

When Anterdec acquired Consolidated Evalu-shop from Greg, I assumed it was Andrew being a controlling ass. Turns out, he really valued the company as a good investment. My ego took a slight bruising, but as we assimilate and my role broadens at Anterdec, part of my job involves using Greg’s old company – and by extension, Carol, Josh, and all the mystery shoppers who come along with the shopper base – to spy on our competitors.

Which is pretty brilliant.

The medi-spa we’re investigating is housed in a metrowest suburb that starts with a W, which might as well stand for Wealthy, given the money that drips from the street signs here. The spa itself is nondescript, in a lovely three-story saltbox building that looks like any other house on a side street off the town’s main drag. We pull into the parking lot and sit in the car for a minute, rehearsing our parts.

“I’m here with my mom to ask some questions about looking better for my upcoming wedding.” I look at Josh. “And you’re here to tug your penis.”

“I am here to ask about foreskin restoration services.”

“What kind of rings do they put on you to make the skin stretch? Is it like those disc earrings for earlobe holes that punk rockers wear?”

“No.”

“Do you get your penis pierced? Do they add weights to it?”

“I am not talking about my penis with you, Marie.”

“Now you develop boundaries? Now?” I elbow Josh in his bony ribs. “You spent all this time telling us about your status as a puller -- ”

“Tugger.”

“Tugger, and now you want to put it back in the privacy box? Sorry, Josh, it doesn’t work that way. Your penis is now a topic of conversation forever.”

“Why do you want a foreskin?” Marie asks.

“Why?” He’s incredulous. “Because it makes sex more pleasurable!”

“How do you know?”

“Excuse me?”

“How do you know? You’re never had sex with a foreskin on. How would you know whether it is more pleasurable or not?”

Josh’s jaw hangs open.

“Marie’s got a really good point.”

“Shut up. Both of you. Let’s get in there and get this over with.” In a flurry of bony elbows and outraged limbs, Josh climbs out of the car, smoothing his suit jacket. He looks just enough like Buster from Arrested Development that I do a double take.

“I, for one, can’t wait to get this removed.” Marie grabs her loose neck skin and practically turns it into a cape. Hmmm. If she had some of that loose skin removed, could they surgically attach it to Josh’s --

“We’re only scheduling services today. This is a multi-step shop. We come back for most of the actual procedures later.”

“Of course,” Josh says. “They have to take before-and-after pictures to measure progress.”

“Measure,” Marie snickers.

“We need aliases. They’ll ask for names.”

“Right. How about Peter?” Marie suggests, without a hint of irony.

“Peter?” Josh starts snickering.

“And you can be Ethel,” Josh tells Marie.

“Ethel? No. How about Peggy?”

“Peggy?”

“I always wanted to be a Peggy.”

“Fine. You’re a Peggy.”

“And you’re my son, Peter.”

“Fine.”

“Peggy procured professionals to pick a perfect pecker for Peter, her poor progeny,” Marie chirps, clearly pleased with her alliteration skills.

“You can stop now, Peggy,” Josh orders.

“How many perfect peckers can Peggy’s progeny Peter pick?”

I slice my finger across my neck as I look at Marie.

“I know! Neck surgery. Can’t wait.” She frowns. “I should have fit ‘prick’ in there somewhere.”

“That’s what she said,” Josh cracks.

“Shhhhh.” Trying to shush them is a fool’s errand, but I’m a fool.

A fool for bringing them on this evaluation.

I look at him. “You’re gay. Shouldn’t you say ‘that’s what he said’?”

“Yes, but people don’t get the joke if I do that.” He makes a sad face.

The spa reminds me of a much bigger version of our chain of O Spas, except the medi-spa isn’t about female pleasure. The focus is on medical procedures that lead to aesthetic and/or psychological improvement. Botox, liposuction, foreskin restoration, chemical peels – if it makes you feel more attractive, they offer it.

A woman who reminds me of a much older version of Chloe Browne, our Boston O Spa designer, floats into the room. She has pure white hair pulled off her face, with big, round eyes deep-set into her face. Thick eyeliner highlights her long lashes and her cheekbones are so prominent, they might as well be doorknobs.

“Hello, and welcome. I am Helené.” She pronounces it hell-eh-NAY. “May I get you some coffee? Tea? Cucumber water? Kombucha?”

I feel like I’m at Grind It Fresh!

“I would love a cucumber water. The natural lithium in cucumbers is so good for mood,” Marie says.

I give her a sharp look.

“What?” she whispers as Helené pours some from a crystal pitcher. “If Pam can say scientific-sounding things she reads on the internet, so can I. And it’s true. There really is lithium in cucumbers.”

“Then we need to force-feed them to you by the truckful,” I murmur back, before shutting up as Helené returns with a smile and the waters.

“What brings you here?” Helené asks.

Marie answers before I can. “Esther here is getting married.”

I am apparently Esther now. So much for Ethel as my cover name.

Helené’s eyes light up. “Congratulations! We have some wonderful wedding spruce-up packages that I am sure you’ll adore.”

“And we’re here to make poor Peter’s penis bigger,” Marie declares to Helené, whose eyes immediately flit to Josh’s crotch with a pitying look that would make any guy shrivel.

“What? No! My penis is plenty big,” he cries out. “Really! It’s larger than average. I’ve checked.”

You’ve checked? I mouth to him.

Shut up, he mouths back.

“I see. Well, sir, we don’t do enlargements. That technology is beyond our medical licensing. However, we do foreskin restoration. Are you circumcised?”

“Isn’t that a little personal?” Marie gasps, fanning herself with her hand, as if embarrassed.

Josh pinches the bridge of his nose.

“We’re medical professionals, madame. If we cannot talk openly about our beautiful bodies in a medi-spa, then where can we?”

“I am interested in foreskin restoration,” Josh declares.

Helené nods and turns to a small iPad on her desk, tapping discreetly. She looks at the screen, which is now covered with pictures of flaccid penises.

Marie homes in like a paparazzi drone outside my window.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“Those are penises,” Helené explains patiently.

“I know what they are, for goodness sake! I’ve been married for more than thirty years.”

“Many women who have been married that long haven’t seen one in years,” Helené points out.

“Not me! Jason and I have sex nineteen times a week, combined!”

Josh looks a little queasy.

“Nineteen!” Helené seems impressed. “That’s wonderful stamina for people your age.”

Marie’s eyes narrow at the ‘your age’ comment.

“What do you mean, ‘combined’?” Josh asks. My arms stay by my side, but I look at him with eyes like an air traffic controller’s, flailing lighted guiding devices that say MAYDAY! MAYDAY!

Don’t ask.

“You know – combined,” Marie says, frowning as if Josh is an idiot for not understanding. “We have sex together twice a week, and all the other times add up to nineteen.”

Josh turns to me as if I can rescue him.

“I don’t understand it, either.”

“Lovers?” Helené asks.

“What?” Marie gasps, offended. “Of course not! I don’t cheat on my husband!”

“Then how do you get to nineteen?” Helené asks.

“Please stop drilling for details,” I whisper to no one in particular.

“Anyhow,” Josh says in an arch tone, “I’d like to learn more about your restoration services.” He points to a picture of a flaccid penis on the iPad. “I am a C3.”

Against my better judgment, I look. Ten pictures are in a grid on the screen. Pictures of penises with varying levels of turtleneck to them. Each one looks increasingly weary, as if the weight of the foreskin gives them bad posture. It’s like looking at a row of eighth-grade boys at a middle school dance, all lined up against the wall.

C1 is no turtleneck. More like a crewneck. V-neck, even. The small print is hard to read, but this seems to be the level with the least foreskin. C10 looks like a full-blown elephant trunk.

I can’t help it. I make a mental comparison with Andrew and pick a number.

“Were you always a C3?” Helené asks, her manicured fingernail sliding against the glass screen over to C1.

“No. I’ve made it from C2 to C3.”

Her eyes light up with approval. “Ah, good progress. That portends well for future stretching. Which devices are you using?” She taps the screen a few times and a new grid appears.

“This isn’t a joke?” Marie marvels, watching Helené and Josh. She pulls me aside. “Men actually do this?”

“I guess so.”

“And pay good money to have someone tug them?”

Helené overhears us and walks over, smooth as can be. “Yes. We are a judgment-free zone, Peggy. People come to us because they sense a void inside themselves. Something needs to be changed. They’re missing something.”

“Like a foreskin?”

“A sense of completion. For some people, it’s asymmetry.” Helené eyes my breasts a little too closely.

I cross my arms over them.

“For others, it’s lost youth.” She looks at Marie for a second longer than is comfortable.

“Thanks goodness I don’t have that problem!” Marie says with a chipper smile. “Everyone I know says I look ten years younger than I really am!”

“You look fabulous, Peggy, for someone who is clearly in her seventies — ”

Flash! Click! Before Helené can continue, the main doors fill with a burst of lights and cameras.

“Damn it! Paparazzi followed us here?” I say with a growl.

“Why would this place be any different?” Marie asks, fluffing her hair. She turns to the main doors, sucking in her gut, jutting out her boobs.

“What are you doing?” Josh and I are being ushered down a private hallway by Helené, who is motioning for security guards to come help.

“Giving them what they want! Pictures of beautiful women. I am Declan McCormick’s mother-in-law, after all.”

“You realize no one out there knows who you are,” Josh hisses. “They’re here for Amanda.”

“That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t look good! No one wants a double chin in high-def on a computer screen.” Marie angles her face and grins.

Flash! Click!

I grab her by the arm and yank her down the hall, hoping no one got a good shot of me. Fury pounds through me, heart hammering in my chest. My every move is being tracked by these stalkers, isn’t it? I know it in theory. I even know it in practice. But every time they appear, invading my life when I least expect it and have my guard down, it’s too much.

No one can be expected to handle this. A pang of sympathy for mega-stars rips through me.

“Poor Kanye West,” I murmur.

Josh hears that and comes to a halt. “Did you just say ‘poor Kanye West’?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because the drones follow him, too.”

Josh blinks rapidly. “Do they talk to you through the order station at the Starbucks drive-thru, too? Send signals through the coffee stirrers?”

“It’s true,” I insist. “The paparazzi use air drones to take videos and pictures of celebrities.”

“That’s a thing?”

“Yes.”

“Is that how they get all those naked celebrity photos of people on yachts and canoeing? Because praise Orlando Bloom in all his glory. And I mean allllllll.” Josh looks down at his own package. “Orlando’s parents left him intact.”

“And I’ll bet Katy Perry wishes she had a good throwing arm for taking out the damn drones,” I grouse. “Or a trained hawk.”

“You’re putting yourself in the same league as Orlando, Kanye, and Katy?”

I pull him aside and whisper, “Not in the same league, but in the same circumstances. I can’t even do a mystery shop without being followed! Yesterday I found them rifling through the garbage at my mom’s house!”

“Did they find anything good?”

“A few used tampons of mine, some junk mail, and Mom’s old inhaler.”

“Bringing sexy back, Amanda...er, Ethel. You’re bringing sexy back. Perez and TMZ are salivating.”

“What would they find if they went through your trash? A bunch of adhesive tape, fishing wire, and bad porn?”

“I don’t look at bad porn!”

“You still have a New Kids on the Block poster in your bedroom.”

“How would you know?”

“It’s in the background of your Facebook profile photo.”

“It’s a collector’s edition.”

“I’ll bet it is. It collects whatever doesn’t make it into the sock.”

“Now you’re just being mean.”

“But am I wrong?”

“Shut up.”

“You shut up.” My temper is flaring. It comes out like a rare orchid, blooming for a short time and then disappearing.

“I’m telling the boss on you.”

“I am your boss.”

“I mean your boss!”

“My boss is my fiancé. Good luck with that.”

“This is why workplaces have strict no-fraternization policies.”

“Says the guy who is also dating an Anterdec employee.”

He opens his mouth to argue, holds his breath, then pouts. “Fine. You’re right, Geordi works for Anterdec. We’re both walking sexual harassment cases waiting to happen, aren’t we?”

“What does that have to do with the paparazzi chasing me everywhere?”

“Nothing. I just needed to say something that makes me win this argument.”

“You didn’t win!”

“Did too!”

“Did not!”

It slowly dawns on me that Helené and Marie are watching us, Marie’s eyes wide as can be, with a look that tells me Helené definitely heard Josh blow our cover.

“Anterdec?” Helené’s perfectly threaded eyebrow rises. “You’re with Anterdec?”

Oh, no.