I’m used to photoshoots. Probably enjoy them more than anyone else in the band except maybe Nicky, because he always loves an excuse to fuck around. And the photographers generally encourage us to be goofy unless the shoot is supposed to be all sexy and brooding, which we can also pull off pretty well. I’m not sure what mood they’re going for here. Maybe the photographer doesn’t know either. But they usually have “a vision.”

What I do know is that it’s pretty freaking weird to be stripping down to my birthday suit with nothing to cover up my junk but a book. And I guess one of those sock things they give us, but honestly? I’ve been friends with these guys since we were kids. They’ve all seen my johnson more times than I can count. And all the people working on set have said they don’t give a shit.

I do tug on a robe because I don’t know how long the setup will take, and if people want to talk to me, tweak my makeup, all that stuff, then it does start to get a little awkward that my dick’s just there. Plus, Rowan’s on set and we like to at least pretend to be civilized when she’s nearby. But when I poke my head out from behind the screen, Nicky’s already doing naked cartwheels around the perimeter of the courtyard, because of course he is.

Benji’s wrapped up in a bathrobe like mine and talking to Stan, and Zane’s in his own robe, standing off to the side of the set chatting with Rowan. Because of course he is. Could my guys be any more predictable? Zane and Rowan, though—I get it. They don’t get to see each other a ton, but when Rowan’s around, they’re basically sealed together with ass glue or something. She’s a cool girl, and I actually like her a lot, but it makes me glad that we don’t all have partners and that she can’t tour with us or move to LA. Yeah, I’m a selfish fuck. What can I say? I like my friends, and I don’t want to share them all the time. I guess I could hang out with some of my other friends, but my friends outside the band are people I can go out with for a night and have a good time. I don’t actually know them very well, and they sure as hell don’t know me.

Christian isn’t anywhere to be found, but that’s not a surprise. He always shows up when he’s supposed to but not a minute before. Even though he’d been the one to say he thought we should do this. We get a million invitations for shit like this, and this is the one he chooses to go to bat for? Whatever, dude.

I like Christian, and if I had to pick someone in the band to be stranded on a desert island with, it’d probably be him. I’d toss Nicky into the ocean after a couple of hours. Zane and I have always been a little competitive, and I don’t think that’s a good tone to set when you’ll have to stare at each other for potentially the rest of your lives. Benji’s a possibility, but I think I’d prefer Christian. He comes out with the most surprising shit sometimes, and that’s the kinda dude you want to have to roast fish over a fire with.

I chat with some of the people on set, give Zane a noogie, and pick up Rowan in a bear hug. That girl is dense—not in a stupid way, but in an oh-my-god-how-are-you-this-heavy way. But she’s basically pure muscle and could probably kick my ass if she felt like it. Note to self: Don’t make her feel like it.

“Okay, guys. I think we’re ready to get going.” That’ll be Tasse, the fancy-ass photographer we’ve been assigned. She’s done a bunch of famous spreads and looks about the way you’d expect a famous photographer with one name to look: short-cropped, bright white hair, wearing all black except for a ginormous turquoise necklace.

There are a few daises set up with fancy rugs and velvet chaises on them where we’re supposed to arrange ourselves. The lights are all set up and already beating down on where we’ll be arranged to the photographer’s satisfaction.

Tasse is supposed to be one of the best in the business, but we haven’t worked with her before. Probably because she’s on the East Coast and we’re mostly on the West. It just happened to work out that we could all be in Boston at the same time.

She has us all gather in front of the set, and when she counts us up, realizes there’s only four of us.

“Where’s—”

Right on cue, Christian comes out from his partitioned-off dressing area. He’s got a robe on too, and it’s too big for him. Looks almost like it could get wrapped around him twice. It doesn’t help that he’s as pale as always and his hair’s dyed black with some blue layered in at the front. It looks good on him. I like it better than the blond he’s had for a while. Maybe that’s what my increased…awareness of Christian for the past few weeks has been about. I’ve always liked him, but lately…

Nah. Nothing special is going on. It’s just a blip or something. Maybe that haircut. Sure as hell doesn’t have to do with the phone call he took the day before yesterday. Or his subsequent obsessive checking of his voicemail.

Tasse smiles at Christian, and he waves in our general direction. I hope she’s not offended by his lack of enthusiasm. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t like her. He… This isn’t his favorite part of being in show business, is all. But Tasse doesn’t look offended. No, she sets to work.

I expect her to put me on one of the front two chaises—because not to be a dick about it, but I’m usually in the front of the pictures since I work out way more than the rest of these jokers and it’s common knowledge I’m “the hot one.”

But no, she takes Zane by the arm and steers him over to the bottle-green seat at the front. He looks sheepish as he shrugs off his robe, and then he’s standing there in nothing but a sock. Yep, he kept his on. An assistant is there, but he hands his robe off to Rowan who leans in and says something before giving him a quick peck on the cheek and backing up.

That might be nice. To have someone around like that. But I’m not going to think about it much, because clearly Tasse was saving me for the next chaise. It’s a plum purple, and yeah, Zane would never be able to pull that off. But she doesn’t gesture for me.

“Nick? We’re going to put you here.”

Nicky trots up the couple of steps to where she is like he’s Rocky or something. When he gets to the top, he puts his arms up in the air, butt-naked and hopping around, as if he’s ever boxed a day in his life, waiting for Tasse to tell him what to do. She gets him situated in one of those poses that hides his dick and then hands him a book.

“Hey, Nicky,” I shout, cupping my hands around my mouth. “I think that’s the first time I’ve ever seen you hold a book.”

People laugh, and Nicky gives me a cheerful middle finger. “Same, bro. Make sure you’ve got yours right side up.”

Fair enough. I’m not a big reader. I was happy when I got my GED, and then I was done. I know everything I need to survive this business, and that’s about all I have use for. I’d rather play video games or hang out than read. Especially a book. They’re so…long. I mean, really, what’s the point? It’s like trying to have a conversation with someone, but they’re the only one talking, forever.

And Tasse, I’ve heard you’re a genius, but what the hell? Putting Nicky in front of me isn’t a genius move. I am far, far studlier than Nick.

Then she’s putting Benji on the burnt-orange chaise above that, and I’m resigned to being in the back. Does she hate me?

At long last, she calls for me, and I head up to the platform she’s standing on. I jog over, taking the long platforms like they’re steps. Once I’m there, I toss my robe aside, and she sets me up, arranging my limbs like I’m one of those drawing figures Christian has. At least the way she gets me settled isn’t uncomfortable. Arm draped over the curled back of the way-too-fancy-for-the-likes-of-us furniture, one leg bent at the knee and the other stretched out. My legs are so long my foot still hangs over the edge of the navy-blue velvet. Yep, big, dumb Teague who doesn’t fit quite anywhere.

The only thing that feels unnatural is the book in my hands I’m covering my package with. It even feels a little, I dunno, rude to be using a book like this? The people I know who are into reading treat books almost like religious objects and surely having one so close to my naked crotch is some kind of blasphemy?

But Christian is one of those people, and when I look down to gauge his expression, he doesn’t look any more troubled than he usually does at these things.

Tasse goes down to fetch him, and I give him a thumbs-up as he passes by. His perch is half a level up and not far from mine, which is cool because I’ll be able to make faces at him while we do this. He doesn’t strip off automatically like the rest of us, but waits until Tasse actually asks him to get out of his robe, and then there he is.

One of Tasse’s assistants must’ve cranked the lights, because while I’ve been warm under the bright bulbs and in the humidity of Boston in July, I feel like I’m getting flushed, and my skin prickles. Christian is…well, he’s standing there. He’s not doing anything special, aside from looking awkward because I get the feeling being naked for a photoshoot isn’t his fondest desire.

He’s trying to be cool, but the way he fidgets with his hands and arms gives away that he’s faking; it’s an act.

It’s not as though he has anything to be self-conscious about. He’s one of those thin guys who actually can pull off skinny jeans. I’m glad they aren’t an essential for dudes anymore because they were not meant for guys like me. Made me feel like I was gonna bend over and my butt was going to full-on Hulk right out of them. Christian’s not scrawny, though. He’s got those ropey muscles and a lack of fat that makes him look incredibly…efficient. There’s nothing to spare on him, just the bare minimum of materials to make a person who’s strong and sleek and kind of…

Why am I staring at my butt-naked bandmate? And why does my throat feel kinda dry and tight, like my voice would come out in a choked rasp if I tried to talk? And holy shit, why, god, why, am I starting to get a hard-on? That’s not okay for a whole heap of reasons, beyond which, what the actual fuck?

But I can’t take my eyes off him. He’s pale, like could-play-a-vampire-in-a-movie-without-makeup pale, so white he’s practically translucent, and it makes his muscles and veins more obvious than they would be if he weren’t quite so pasty. Which I’ve always appreciated from a purely aesthetic standpoint, and I bet his tattoo artists have, too. A whole blank canvas. More like the stretched-tight skins of old. Makes me want to take permanent markers to his skin and tell stories on it, but out of the five of us, he’s the artist. I wonder if he’d let me—

A vision of Christian lying sprawled naked on his stomach on my giant bed comes to mind. He’s letting me trace the sinews of his muscles with a black fine-tip pen and cover his veins in blue. He turns his head to look over his shoulder at me and smiles, thin lips stretching wide without showing his teeth, but he doesn’t need to because I can tell from the wash of pink high on his cheekbones that he’s happy, and that… Oh. Oh, my god. Vision!Teague straddles him at the tops of his thighs, and because imaginary me is also naked, I run my throbbing dick between his ass cheeks and—

What the shit is even happening to me? There’s nothing semi about my hard-on now, and I am ridiculously grateful that I have this big-ass book to hide it behind.

It’s not that I never get stiffies. I do. I totally do. And if my partners’ reactions can be trusted, I’m not terrible at having sex. At all. Even though it’s more like a thing I do because I’m supposed to instead of a thing I do because I enjoy it.

I know I’m supposed to feel like a lucky guy because I have my pick of people to sleep with. And I do, I guess? But as a measure of success. Not so much because of how it actually makes me feel when I’m with them. I’ve learned how I’m supposed to react when a hot chick peels off her top or when a sexy guy drops trou. I’m supposed to feel like it’s Tuesday, and I’ve been waiting all goddamn week for that rack of fish tacos that’s sitting in front of me. But honestly? If faced with a choice between tacos and sex, up until almost this very instant, I would’ve rather had the tacos.

Sex has always been this weird…thing I’m supposed to do. That I’ve learned how to perform as surely as I’ve learned how to use the beat I pluck out on my bass as the link between the rhythm and the melody. And yeah, that I’ve worked at to master. Because sex is…work. It’s a performance, the same way getting up on stage in front of an arena full of people is.

I have to think of someone else when I’m doing it. Not even a real person, but Terra Boy. I used to read a lot of comics when I was a kid, and my favorite was The Adventures of Terra Boy and Luna the Wonder Dog. Plus, he had a show and action figures and a movie, and I had a T-shirt with him on it that I wore until it literally fell apart. My mom threw it away one day when I was at school so I wouldn’t try to rescue it from the garbage, and I cried.

But I used to have all kinds of fantasies about him. First, we were best buds who would go places and do stuff together. I’d retell all of his stories with me in them, and I had plenty of source material to work with. But somehow it turned into us holding hands, and then when I got older, in my imagination he got older, too. There was kissing, and then doing more than that. Touching each other’s dicks, making each other feel good. The first time I ever woke up having come in my sheets, it was because in my dream he’d given me a blowjob.

I’d thought maybe that feeling would transfer to someone in real life, and the first few times I found myself in a position to get laid, it was really fucking confusing and disappointing to realize I…didn’t. So, yeah, to this day the only way I can get into it is to tell myself a story. It’s like an adult, Triple-X version of the comic books I used to read until the pages fell apart. The Pornographic Adventures of Terra Boy.

But I wasn’t even thinking about him when I got hard just now. I was thinking about Christian, and then…

A loud series of claps gets my attention. Tasse is down on the ground level with her camera on a tripod, and apparently she’s ready to go.

Good. That’ll give me something to focus on instead of trying—very obviously—not to pay attention to Christian and how looking at him laid back on that lounge chair covered with a dark silver fabric makes me want to…do things to him. With him. What even is that? These, these… I feel like I’m having pants feelings. Or would be if I was wearing pants.