So yeah, I make cakes. Big cakes, little cakes, fancy cakes, casual cakes—it’s all good. You just probably wouldn’t want to let your six-year-old wander through my shop. My specialty? Baking with an adult twist. My pantry includes your standard flours and sugars and so on—and about fifty types of alcoholic beverages, from vodka to champagne. Want boob cupcakes with jellybean nipples or tiny sparkly dicks tucked in the icing? No problem, you’ve got it.

My famous “pink” cake is a 40-inch monstrosity that’s extremely popular with the ladies. Size doesn’t matter? Try again, especially when it’s made with my vanilla bourbon batter and a creamy coconut filling. It’s a show-stopper, alright, and nothing beats the crowd’s reaction when I, ahem, whip it out on display.

My parents’ kitchen isn’t as tricked out as the ones I’ve gotten used to working in, but I can still get to my happy place. Scoop up some flour here. Crack that egg there. Splash in a little booze . . . Nah, a little more. Stir, stir, stir. You’ve got to love the smell of the batter coming together. Scratch what I said earlier—the one thing that beats the cheers and laughter is the groans of delight when people pop that first bite into their mouths.

I never leave a customer unsatisfied.

It’s almost nostalgic, puttering around in that cramped space. I got my start in this kitchen, baking for my friends’ parties. And it’s bigger than some of the stalls and trucks I’ve squeezed my assets into for the pop-up events, food festivals, and the rest that paved the way to opening up a proper shop.

Except that line of thought brings to mind the gorgeous, shiny kitchen in my Brooklyn shop. The one that practically made me swoon when I first set foot in it. Eight-ring burner, a walk-in refrigerator, counter space for days . . .

Stop right there. I swallow hard, and take a deep breath. I know where this spiral of misery leads, and it’s no place pretty. The booze needs to wind up in this cake and not down my throat, and I’ve got an appointment at a bachelorette party this afternoon—not with the bathroom floor. Nobody wants cake with a side of salty tears.

For now I have a job, a magnificent cake to make, and some smiles to put on the unsuspecting bachelorette. It’s not exactly living the dream, but it’s something, and I’m determined not to screw it up, so I put my crushing sense of failure back on the shelf and reach for the pink food coloring instead—all the better to whip up that perfect skin-tone coloring. I lose myself in the detail work with a bag of frosting, so I’m cutting it close by the time I’m done, but as I look around for a container to carry my masterpiece to the event, I realize the fatal flaw in my plan.

It’s too big.

I groan. Not exactly a problem I’ve worried about before, but now I have forty inches of perfectly-frosted cake that needs to get to the venue without messing up the icing.

And this thing has girth.

“Mom!” I call, looking frantically in every cupboard and cabinet. “Where’s the roasting pan?”

Back at the bakery, I had a whole pantry full of oversize Tupperware, but here, I’m faced with tiny containers. It’s a metaphor, I’m sure, but there isn’t time to despair, not with the clock ticking down on me.

“What’s that, honey?” Mom pokes her head around the door. She blinks. “Oh, my. What’s that for?”

“Private party, no time to explain!” I breathlessly yank open another drawer and—hallelujah!—find the massive foil roasting pan from Thanksgiving. “Now, I just need something to protect the top of it from smushing . . .”

My eyes alight on a stack of bakery boxes. With some ingenuity and tape, I manage to construct a dome-like lid to prop over the pan. “Ta-da!” I exclaim, and carefully hoist it up with both hands. “Can you grab the door please?”

“Good luck!” Mom calls after me as I carefully go load the car, then speed through traffic to the address Becky gave me. I still show up thirty minutes late, and my stomach sinks a little as I maneuver Mom’s minivan past the gates.

The Hartford Country Club? I’ve never stepped foot on the manicured grounds before—my family is like three zeroes below their membership income—but it looks like the kind of place where the valets have valets. As I drive carefully up the long driveway—creeping over the speed bumps at a snail’s pace with one hand on the cake box in the passenger seat—I wish I’d had time to change. I’ve got flour on my jeans, and I’m pretty sure there’s cake frosting in my cleavage, but there’s no time to worry about that, because Becky is already standing outside the catering entrance in an immaculate pink sundress with a scowl on her face.

“Come on, come on,” she says, practically ripping my door open. “It’s almost time to serve dessert. I thought you were a professional.”

I grab the roasting pan and hustle after Becky into the club’s kitchen area. She shoves a white uniform at me the second I’ve set down the case.

“Change, fast. I expect to see you out there in no more than five minutes.”

Wait, what?

“You want me to serve?” I ask. She didn’t mention that before.

“Of course.” Becky stares at me like I’m stupid. “The rest of the catering staff is already out there. Let’s go!”

She claps her hands together and hurries off before I can say anything else. I look down at the uniform, my heart sinking. Running around all afternoon at Queen B’s beck and call feels like a particularly cruel kind of humiliation, but the sad fact is, I could use the work. At least a swanky place like this has to have good tips, right?

I change into the uniform—which, of course, barely manages to contain my double Ds—and go grab the cake pan. “Is there some kind of display platter?” I ask one of the kitchen staff, but he just shrugs.

“Out in the dining room, I think.”

OK. I hoist my pan higher and maneuver down the long hallway. The marble floors are way too polished, and I have to step carefully in my flip-flops to keep my balance, but I make it through the maze and nudge the main doors open with my shoulder. I step into the room, ready for the party, and—

Oh shit.

I jerk to a stop just inside the door, hearing it shut behind me with an ominous thud. Becky glances over with what is probably a glower, but I’m too busy staring at the room in front of me to notice.

Where’s the bachelorette party?

Instead of fun and laughter and big dick balloons, it’s like I just walked into a wake. About fifty women are seated at tables laid out with the crispest of white tablecloths. The silverware gleams, the fine china is laid out with delicate finger sandwiches, and I’d swear the tea cups are gold-rimmed.

But the worst part is the crowd: stiff, blonde, be-hatted, be-sundressed, and utterly humorless. I don’t see a single hair out of place, a single wrinkle in a tailored dress or pantsuit, a single posture that doesn’t look like there’s something stiff shoved up their posteriors.

I grip the cake tray tighter, just imagining the reaction when my piece de resistance is unveiled.

What the hell was Becky thinking?

No, wait, what the hell was I thinking? I get a full-on body chill as I replay our conversation at the grocery store. She said engagement party, not bachelorette. I made this for Janice Martin’s bachelorette a couple of years ago. I made a different pink cake for Janice Sinclair’s fortieth birthday a few months back. I’d forgotten, because, well, one event was much more memorable than the other.

As was the cake. The birthday version was a simple, round affair covered in edible roses and raspberry filling. Also considerably less well-endowed.

“Here is it, ladies!” Becky announces loudly. “The main event.” She beckons to me, but I stay, frozen in place, my mind racing.

Shit. Shit. Shit!

She marches over. “What the hell are you standing there for?” she demands under her breath. “Bring the cake over to the table so we can serve it.”

I take a step backward. “I, uh— You know, I just realized I forgot one very important detail with the fondant. It’ll just take me a second to fix that in the kitchen.”

“What are you talking about?” Becky scowls. “Come on.”

“I swear, it’ll just be a moment.” I back away, already breaking out in a cold sweat. I’m already planning my grand escape, driving off into the sunset, just me and my cake. Better to have her pissed off at me for the rest of my life because she thinks I’m flaky than have even one person in this room see what’s under that lid.

“This is ridiculous.” Becky glares at me. “Give it to me.”

She tugs the pan out of my hands so suddenly, I can’t hold on to it in time.

“No, wait!” I protest, trying to block her path. Becky dodges me so expertly you’d think she’d spent some time on the football field. “Becky!”

She strides towards the center table. “Who’s got a sweet tooth then, ladies?” Becky gives a fake little laugh. “I bet you’re all dying to sink your teeth into this!”

Somehow, I doubt it.

I race after her, grabbing her by the elbow. “Becky, wait! Please!”

“What is wrong with you?” Becky mutters through gritted teeth. I grab the pan and try to yank it out of her hands, but she holds on tight and yanks back. Everyone’s gaping at us now, but I’m past caring.

I haul on the case again, then Becky changes tactics at the last second. She lets go—and whips off the dome covering instead. “Ta da!” Becky exclaims, presenting it to the room.

Silence.

My body stiffens. Several gasps ripple around the tables. “What on earth is that?” someone exclaims with lip-curling disgust.

Well, it’s a forty-inch cock cake, lovingly frosted in flesh-toned pink. Spurts of white glittery frosting shoot from its tip. A generous sprinkling of coconut flakes dapple its massive “hairy” balls. You can’t really mistake it for anything else.

Yep. I am a baker of many talents and maybe a slightly skewed sense of humor.

But as I predicted, I’m getting no laughs from this crowd. The woman at the head of the front table—the recent engage-ee, I’m guessing—has flushed bright red as she clings to her napkin as if it’s a life rope. The older woman beside her—her mother?—has gotten to her feet. She points at the cake as if I’ve shown up with a decapitated horse head. “Is this a joke?!”

“I—I’m so sorry,” I stammer, feeling like I’m stuck in the middle of one of those nightmares about stepping up on stage totally naked. Sure, I’m just about covered in this uniform, and it’s not my funny bits on display, but the humiliation is all too real.

Becky’s mouth is flapping silently, and sooner or later, she’s going to get a word out. I just don’t want to be here when she does. I wrench the cake away and dash for the door. Maybe they’ll forget the cum-tastic visual if I get it out of their view quickly enough?

“Maggie!” Becky screams in a truly horrifying voice, but I’ve already made it to the door. I elbow past it, and dash around the corner at full-speed, my flip-flops slipping on the polished floors.

Whoops!

I slide wildly, struggling to keep my balance, but the weight of the cake is too much. Like something in slow-motion, I feel myself stumbling. I grip desperately at the cake pan, but I can’t stop from tipping over. I watch in horror as the cake slides out of the pan and hits the ground with a SPLAT—and I go tumbling after it.

Face first into that spectacular cock.

Oof.

I lie there a moment on the ground, my embarrassment complete. Strawberry-and-rum-flavored frosting seeps between my lips and up my nose, squishing around me in a sugary mess.

Slowly, I lift my head and wipe a handful of cum-frosting out of my eyes. God, it’s stuck all over me like a massive sugary facial gone horribly wrong.

Could my life get any more humiliating?

And that’s when I hear an amused, male voice from down the hallway. “Hey, are you okay?”

I sit up, wondering how this moment could get any worse. Apparently, the answer is a metric fuck-ton. Because there, of all the people in all of Philadelphia who might have happened to witness my dive into dick-and-cum glory, is Mr. Category 5 himself. Straight from the poster on my wall to the hallway right in front of me, with a decade of worldwide fame and fortune in between.

Drew Delaney.