A red carpet event

John's world contracts as the world holds its breath around him. His jaw drops and eyes widen into circles. Then comes the first flash, which turns into a cascade of lights as what has to be every photographer in a thousand miles starts capturing every square milimeter of his exposure.

His gaze happens upon the logo of a random camera and some little part of his brain helpfully piped up. That's the latest model from Pronto. I watched an unboxing of that last week. If I had even a single blonde ball hair, it'd be able to capture it so clearly you could blow up the image until even the hair was ten feet tall, and still have pixels to spare. Still wouldn't be enough to make the clit look like a cock though.

"Is that supposed to be like Michelle's nude dress?" asks someone nearby.

"Talk about a fashion faux pa. You're supposed to dress to fit the advantages of your body. I think I'd have more to fill that cage, and I don't even have a dick." The woman looks at him with the kind of pity usually reserved for starving orphans.

John twitches. He has to get away. He has to. But his legs just aren't moving.

As he tries to tell them to move for the fifteenth time, a hand settles on his shoulder.