A female lifestyle magazine, infamous for its racy covers and spreads.

The folder in my trembling hand lays out the job, and it can't be real: A cover shoot for Narcissus magazine, a major women's style and career publication. Details for the gig include "bringing my skimpiest underwear", "maintaining a six-pack", and "preparing for a risqué shoot".

But this magazine's shoots weren't just risqué, no— they were outright raunchy. A tautly built man, dressed in only a sleeping cap, with nothing more than a teddy bear to obscure his crotch is on the front cover of last December's edition. And that wasn't even the most revealing image to grace the front of Narcissus in a while; the last 8 consecutive cover models haven't worn much more than strategically placed props over their cocks. That's 8 male models gracing the cover bottomless in a row.

I shudder to think of having to do anything quite like that. I mean, even if my penis won't end up on newsstands all over the country, I'd still have to go through the humiliation of stripping buck-naked for the photographer… and costumer, and lighting crew, and makeup artist…

That's why I'm bringing it up to the coquettish agent.

"How'd I get this gig?!" I accidentally raise my voice in disbelief, "My contract stipulates that I refuse all nude work!"

"Relax, Greenhorn." She coos at me, flipping a chestnut lock off her shoulder, "The stipulation just means your wiener can't be in any public images, so there's no conflict with your contract to take this lucrative job."

"No! I mean I won't do the shoot— I can't just strip for the camera!"

The woman on the counter's far side suddenly lets a harsh edge enter her voice, growling out her rebuttal, "Actually, you will. This deal is going to make us a lot of money, so if you back out; you're fired."

"But—"

"—But nothing. Zachariah, you're doing the shoot, and putting your ass on display for us, or your contract is terminated."

Fidgeting in the Narcissus studio's waiting room is anything but 'fun'. I can't exactly bite my nails when people can see me—and it's a bad habit—so I pace in front of the studio door rapidly fastening and unfastening my shirt's top buttons. I groan when I remember that the shirt's liable to come off within a minute of walking through the foreboding threshold separating me from the photographer. My pants too, and then my bri— Wait a tick…

What's the photographer going to be like? Who are they? She? Oh Great, it's probably a she. Almost definitely a she.

A hand raps on the door from inside, and a feminine voice quickens my restless heartbeat with the words, "Zachariah, please come in."

After making a grand inhalation to calm my nerves, I strut past the threshold, holding my head high despite the impending humiliation. Then I see the photographer…

Fuck.