I never answered Tyler’s text. I probably should have, but once you pass that day mark, well, it’s just weird. Not that I would have known what to say to him. Hey, I totally get why you didn’t tell me you were a porn star, but I still hate you a little right now. Or maybe: Go fuck yourself.

What’s beyond amazing is that right now I am strutting up to a beautiful skyscraper in downtown LA and why? Oh, to go help my porn star, ex-boyfriend make a mold of his huge dick so thousands of women can shove a silicone replica of it up their vaginas.

I sling the door open, and the cool air from inside hits me in the face. My heels click on the marble floor as I make my way to the elevators. It took me an hour to pick out this outfit, and it’s just a pair of ripped jeans and a fitted designer t-shirt with strappy heels—heels because Tyler likes heels, and damn it, he is going to want to fuck me, and I’m not going to let him. I slam my fist over the buttons to the elevator and wait.

In a matter of minutes, I am going to walk into the office of Dick Doubles and have to stand there with Tyler as he fills out paperwork to have his penis cloned. Fuck my life.

As soon as I step off the elevator, I’m staring at a picture of a cartoon penis with a smiley face. Fantatsic. I pull open the door and walk inside to a smiling secretary who’s basically eye fucking Tyler.

He turns around and glances at me. “Hey,” he says, then faces back toward the counter.

“Hi.”

“Can I help you,” the secretary asks.

“Yeah, I’m here for…” I look at Tyler. “Whatever this is.”

“Ms. Morgan?” she asks.

“Yep.”

“Oh, okay. Good.” She stands up and walks to a hallway. “You both can follow me.”

Tyler and I follow her down the hallway to the last door on the left. It opens to a room that resembles a doctor’s office. There is a sink and counter, a few chairs and an examination table. While she’s busy rummaging through cabinets, I look at Tyler. He shrugs, rubs his hand over the back of his neck, and then sits in one of the chairs

“Okay, so…” she says, placing items on the counter. “Basically, once he gets erect you’ll mix this up.” She tears open a bag and dumps the white powder into a stainless steel bowl.

“I’m sorry…” I say with a slight laugh. “Me?”

“Uh-huh.” Smiling, she pulls a spatula out of a pouch, places it on the counter next to the bowl, then fills a measuring cup with water from the sink. “Just mix this water in until it’s the consistency of pancake batter....”

“Wait, again—me?”

“Yes,” she says slowly while nodding her head.

“Why aren’t you doing it?”

“Men are easy, we generally don’t assist if they brought a helper along with them.” She winks before she holds up a long—really long—plastic tube. “Fill the tube to this mark right here,” her finger skims over a black line etched on the tube, “and just let it set for about five minutes or so.”

All I can do is laugh as I take the tube from her.

“So,” Tyler says. “I just shove my dick in that tube and wait?”

“Yep, but the key is making sure you stay erect. This batter is made to mold over each little vein, every nook and cranny. We want it to look as much like the real thing as possible.”

“Do you need some magazines?” she asks.

“Huh?”

“Visual stimulation…or where the two of you…”

“Oh,” I shake my head. “No, no the two of us are not—magazines.”

The woman leans over, opens a cabinet, and pulls out a basket of crumpled magazines.

“Oh, think of all the great names in porn that have touched those beauties,” I say, stifling a laugh.

“Jemma, really?” Tyler glares at me and I shrug.

The woman shakes her head and reaches for the door. “And make sure you undress all the way. That plaster gets a little messy, and it does stain clothing.”

The door clicks shut. And now, here we are. Alone. In a room with a penis mold in my right hand.

“So,” I say. “Let’s get this over with, I guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. No big deal.”

“Jemma, really,” he says, his voice soft. “Look at me.”

I do and immediately wish I hadn’t because fuck me, he is breathtaking and it makes me feel like a stupid, weak bitch for wanting him. “Yep. Looking.”

“I should have told you.”

“Nah, it’s fine. I overreacted the other day. I was just… you know, shocked and all.”

His studies me. “Yeah, sure…”

“No big deal, really.” I walk to the sink and set the container next to the bowl.

He huffs. “For some reason, I don’t believe you.”

God, I want to slap him. “Tyler, really. We dated in high school. We hooked up because we ran into each other. I mean, shit, you are hot, but it’s not like there’s anything there.”

I see the slightest flinch in his face, and it hits me in the chest a little.

“Yeah…” he mumbles.

“So, drop your pants already.”

His eyes narrow as he kicks his shoes off. When he pulls his shirt over his head, my gaze immediately goes to his broad chest. Now he’s unfastening his jeans and shoving both them and his boxers down. I swallow. He’s naked, and it’s just him and me and this dick mold in my hand. And this is awkward because I cannot stop my eyes from dragging over him. Damn, that body.

When my gaze meets his, he’s smirking, his tongue flicking over that damn lip ring.

“What?” I ask, almost sounding defensive.

“You’re staring.”

“You’re naked.”

“I am.”

Silence. I can hear my pulse in my ears. My heart is hammering. My skin heating because you can’t not be attracted to a man like him. Porn star or not.

I clear my throat and look him dead in the eye. “You gonna get hard or what? I don’t have any Viagra with me, so I hope it still works.”

“Right.” I see that flash in his eyes he used to get when we were little, that look right before he did something so awful I usually went home crying. This is fucking war, and I know it. He knows it. Shit.

His eyes lock with mine as he grabs his cock. “Wanna help me out?”

“No.”

“It’d be more fun if you did.”

“Tyler!”

He takes a step toward me.

“Don’t come near me with that thing out.”

He laughs. My gaze remains trained on his face, but I can still see the movement of his arm. He’s fisting his cock right in front of me, I mean, he kind of has to, given the situation. Damn this is weird and awkward and hot, and I hate myself for thinking it’s hot. I fight to keep my eyes from straying down to his dick. I mean, really, really fight it.

“Are you hard yet?” I ask, refusing to look at it.

“Don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?”

“I don’t know, why don’t you look?”

“Fuck off.”

He laughs, stroking his dick harder, and damn it, the forced movements catch my attention and yep, he’s defiantly hard. I spin around, dump the water into the bowl and quickly stir the plaster until it looks like paste. “What the hell do I do? Just dump it in that tube, or do I scoop it up with the tube?” I ask, starting to panic a little.

“Uh, shit…” He steps up behind me, still pumping his cock. He peers over my shoulder in to the bowl. “Um, maybe pour it.”

“There’s no lip, it’ll go everywhere!”

“Well, if you scoop it up, it’s gonna make a mess.”

“It’s a mess either way, Tyler.”

He steps closer, taking the bowl in his free hand and looking at it. “I say pour it.”

“Can you stop jerking off for a second.”

He huffs. “I’m not exactly turned on right now—I stop touching it it’s gonna go soft.”

“Oh, my God!” I take the tube, hold it over the sink and pour the plaster into it. It goes everywhere. There’s thin, white plaster all over my hand, my arm, all in the sink. “Okay.” I turn around and hold out the tube. “Here.”

“Here what?”

“Here. Take it.”

He shrugs. His hand still on his dick.

“Put your dick in it, Tyler,” I demand.

He grabs the canister from me and shoves his dick inside. “Ugh, that is so…” His face scrunches up in confusion. “…weird feeling. It’s warm and…”

I can’t help but laugh when I glance down at his crotch. His dick is crammed inside that tube white goop oozing over the edges.

“Shit, it’s getting tight.” His brow wrinkles. His eyes go wide. “Oh, fuck. Jemma, is it supposed to get this tight?”

“Like I’m supposed to know.” I glance at my watch. “Okay, five minutes. Just keep your dick hard and in there for five minutes.”

He huffs. “This is so fucking stupid.”

“What?”

He motions to his dick with his hands. “This shit.”

“Yeah, well…”

And we stand in silence for the next four minutes.

“Okay,” I glance down at his dick then back up to his face. “Take it out.”

He nods then tries to tug the tube away from his body. “Shit,” he says in a breath. Another hard tug. “Shit. Shit!” Tug. Tug. “Fuck!”

“Stuck?”

“Yeah.”

His goop covered hands fly to his face.

“Just relax, okay?’ I say.

“Relax? My dick is stuck in a goddamn canister of plaster.”

“Yeah, well, it could be stuck in worse places. Just chill out for a second.”

Dragging his hands through his hair, he starts pacing, the canister flopping with each step.

“Get unhard or something.” I laugh a little. “Shouldn’t it fall off then.”

He turns and glares at me. “Can you go get someone, please?”

“Oh, yeah,” I giggle. “Sure.”

I walk out into the hallway, find one of the employees and send them back to the room while I wait in the reception area. When Tyler finally comes out, he’s not smiling.

“Everything come out okay?” I ask as we head toward the elevator.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” I press the button to the elevator.

I’d be lying if I said this wasn’t weird, and not even for the obvious reasons. It’s strange to have someone you were once so close to become a stranger, but that’s what we really are. This kind of awkwardness is the worst kind. This deep seated part of me wants everything to be the way it used to, but it can’t be.

“Like that shirt,” he says. “That’s from their first tour, isn’t it?”

I glance down at the worn Pandemic Sorrow t-shirt and nod. “Yeah.” Please, for the love of God, don’t mention that tape with Stone.

“Oh, cool…”

“Yeah…” I swallow.

And silence. There’s tension between us. I used to thrive on this tension, but now, well, it’s not fun. I quickly look over at him, and he forces a smile. Fuck those dimples that just popped out. He pulls his phone from his pocket, and while he stares down at it, my attention remains on his face.

The doors to the elevator open, and we both step in. Tyler pushes the button then leans against the side. I can feel him staring at me so I glance up. His expression is blank, his gaze hard. “So, are we just gonna ignore each other unless we’re forced to work together?” he asks. “Is that how this is gonna go?”

“No, I just…I mean, it’s not like we have much to say to each other, right?”

“Right.” He laughs that sarcastic chuckle that used to make me want to choke him.

“Just, I don’t know you anymore. You don’t know me.”

The elevator dings with each floor it passes, and it can’t go fast enough.

Rolling his eyes, he shakes his head. “It’s not like this was my fucking life goal, you know?”

“Thank God for that.”

He exhales. “Like you’re holier than thou.”

“Fuck off. I’m working with a porn company, obviously, I’m not that uptight, but I’m also not the one fucking some over made girl with fake tits in front of a camera.” I smirk. “I’m not at risk for venereal diseases.”

“God, I forgot how evil you are.”

“Evil?”

“Yeah, when you get angry you are fucking mean. Always have been.”

I don’t say anything, but he sure is laughing.

“Just like that time when we were nine, and you got pissed at me for putting war paint on all your Barbies, you weren’t pissed then, were you?”

I roll my eyes.

“You are that kind of person that let’s shit seethe and then BAM you do something psychotic,” he says.

“You forgot that you made them have an orgy in the mansion pool. I was mortified.”

He laughs. “You waited a week to get me back for that.” I shrug, trying not to laugh because what I did was so gross. “You took Bullet’s dog shit and crammed it in my Fisher Price bubble blower, then mixed it up with bubbles. You actually went and got it to play with it, then came back to me all teary eyed because it wouldn’t work, so what do I do? I twist off the cap and go to look inside. Dog shit and bubbles. I threw up, and you laughed at me.”

“You deserved it.”

“Maybe… I mean, I did piss in your sandbox later that day, so, I guess it’s all fair.”

I shake my head.

“So,” I sighs. “I hate to think what you’re going to do this time.”

“I’m not angry.”

“Yeah, you are.”

God, I want him to think I don’t give a crap. I look at him, still unable to comprehend that he actually is a porn star. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I know he is one because that visual from the other day will never be erased from my mind, but still, looking at him leaned against the elevator wall in his jeans and t-shirt, I just can’t see it. I still see that boy I grew up with.

The elevator doors slide open, and we step out.

“The point is,” he says. “I’m not a whore, as contradicting as that sounds.”

And as much as I want to believe that, I can’t.