“Cut!”
Laura’s voice cracked across the set like a whip. The overhead lights buzzed, the giant box fan in the corner kept humming like it had a personal vendetta, and somewhere behind the camera, Moira was snickering loud enough for me to hear.
Laura stomped onto the set with that exasperated little march she did when she was two heartbeats away from losing her mind. Her high ponytail was frizzing at the edges, and she had a smudge of eyeliner under one eye like she’d rubbed her face sometime around hour five of this nonsense.
She pointed a French-manicured finger at Holden. Well…Bob. Real name: Bob Hildebrandt. Stage name: Holden Alcock, because branding is a cruel god.
“Holden,” she said, hands on her hips like a furious school principal, “I know this is your last day working for us, but I need you to dial up the passion. Watching paint dry while someone read a tax manual out loud would be sexier.”
Holden, lying on his back on the rented IKEA bed, gave her a lazy thumbs up. “Got it, boss lady.”
Boss lady. Jesus.
I sat back on my heels, still between his legs, and fought the urge to roll my eyes so hard they’d fly across the room. I liked Laura, and most of the people here. But Holden? No. I didn’t like Holden. I didn’t dislike him enough to wish him dead, but I wouldn’t send flowers to the funeral.
I mean…he was nice. Sort of. In a “damp washcloth” kind of way. Pleasant. Forgettable. Flexible to an almost concerning degree. Like, circus contortionist flexible. I once watched him scratch the back of his head with his own foot during a stretch. Not cute. Not sexy. Definitely not the kind of thing I needed to picture when I was trying to fake my way through another afternoon of studio lighting and organic coconut oil.
But hey—silver lining? After today, I’d be back to solo scenes until they found me a new partner.
Or three.
Laura clapped her hands twice. “Okay! Reset positions! Nico, on top. Holden, you’re on the bottom. Let’s finish this.”
I sighed, repositioned myself, and leaned over Holden with all the fake bedroom eyes I could muster. The AC kicked on, rattling the ductwork above us. The smell of lube, sweat, and cheap vanilla-scented air freshener filled the studio.
“Action!” Laura called.
We started again.
Holden moaned like a man auditioning for a haunted house job. Long, drawn-out, and about as natural as botched Botox.
I moved my hips, grinding slow and steady, trying to remember if I’d paid my electric bill. I had a set tonight at the Brooklyn Comedy Collective. Ten minutes. New material. The jokes weren’t finished, but they were percolating somewhere in the back of my brain like stale coffee.
Joke one: Why did the porn star refuse to do missionary?
Because after a decade in the industry, the only thing he believes in is doggy style and nihilism.
Okay. Not bad. Needs a punchier tag.
I shifted my weight, changing rhythm just enough to make Holden gasp like he’d been goosed by the ghost of bad acting past.
Joke two: Things I’ve learned from adult film: lube solves most problems, eye contact solves the rest, and if the cameraman falls off the ladder mid-scene, just keep going.
That one actually made me grin. My shoulders shook with the effort not to laugh.
And then came joke three.
Joke three: My career path was either to be a porn star or youth pastor. Honestly? The skill set is the same. Lots of fake enthusiasm, plenty of awkward silences, and you’re constantly pretending not to notice when people cry.
I snorted.
Out loud.
Mid-thrust.
Right into Holden’s ear.
He jumped like I’d tased him, and Laura’s voice sliced through the studio again.
“Cut!”
I froze. Holden froze. The sound guy actually dropped his mic boom onto the floor with a thud.
Laura stormed toward us again, rubbing her forehead like she was developing a migraine with my name tattooed on it.
“Nico,” she said, drawing out my name like she was considering using it in a curse. “Were you running jokes in your head again?”
I flushed. Warmth spread from my ears down to my neck like a sunburn of shame.
“…Maybe.”
Laura shook her head and let out a long, dramatic sigh worthy of a community theater production of Les Mis. “Baby, I love you. You’re talented, gorgeous, and you’re charismatic as hell. But please. Focus. Give me fifteen more minutes of serious top energy and I’ll let you out of here in time to bomb at your open mic.”
I grinned sheepishly. “It’s not an open mic. I got booked for a spot.”
“Even worse. Now make me proud. Or at least make me something usable for the website.”
I gave her a lazy salute, repositioned again, and did my best to clear my head of jokes, existential dread, and the temptation to improv a monologue about bad acting and worse moaning.
Fifteen more minutes.
Then I’d head straight for the subway, pray the L train wasn’t delayed, and go bomb onstage like the professional disaster I was born to be.
The L train screeched along the tracks like it was trying to shake us off. I had one earbud in, blasting some low-fi beat with enough bass to rattle my brain, but it still wasn’t enough to drown out Nessa and Moira holding court three seats down.
Nessa and Moira worked with me at Boys On Film, the adult film studio where I spent most of my daylight hours pretending to enjoy myself on camera. Nessa was one of our talent managers—a six-foot-tall, red-haired Bronx hurricane in platform heels, with a psychic ability to detect drama and romantic tension from a hundred yards away. Moira ran hair and makeup, with eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass and a voice that could wake the dead. Together, they were chaos in lipstick form. Loud, nosy, and endlessly entertained by my personal life.
Moira was already halfway into a story about some guy she’d hooked up with who, apparently, had a tattoo of Tweety Bird on his inner thigh. Nessa was wheezing with laughter, pounding her fist against her knee like she was trying to restart her own heart.
“And I said to him—get this—I said, ‘What is this, Looney Tunes or a cry for help?’” Moira cackled.
Nessa nearly choked. “Bitch! Stop! You’re gonna get us kicked off this train!”
A woman across the aisle shot them a dirty look. Moira winked at her like she was doing charity work.
I pulled my beanie lower over my ears and kept my head down, staring at the scuffed floor between my sneakers. My heart was doing double Dutch in my chest, and I kept running my set list through my head like I could cram jokes in at the last minute and magically become…well…good.
This was one of my first real bookings. Not just an open mic. Not just five minutes before a room full of other sad comics and two drunk tourists looking for the bathroom. A real show. With a real audience. And actual money at the end of it.
It wasn’t much money, but still.
If I pulled this off…
If I kept pulling it off…
Maybe I wouldn’t have to fake-orgasm on camera anymore for a living.
That thought alone kept me breathing.
The train jerked, announcing our stop with a metallic whine and the unmistakable voice of a disinterested MTA conductor who sounded like he hated everyone.
“All right, bitches, let’s roll!” Nessa announced, like she was leading troops into battle.
She tried to stand up in her skyscraper heels—black patent leather with rhinestone straps that wrapped around her calves like a bedazzled boa constrictor—and immediately wobbled like a newborn giraffe.
“Oh, shit—whoa—fuck, hold up—”
Moira caught her by the elbow. I grabbed her other arm instinctively.
“Jesus, Ness, what the hell possessed you to wear these?” Moira asked, steadying her.
Nessa swatted at her hair like she was being filmed for reality TV. “I didn’t buy ‘em! Chesty Adams left them at the studio like six months ago. Never came back for ‘em. I swiped ‘em from wardrobe.”
Moira burst out laughing. “Oh, my god. You’re wearing abandoned stripper shoes?”
“Wardrobe clearance, baby,” Nessa said, striking a pose that almost sent her face-first into a pole.
I bit back a grin. If nothing else, at least I’d have my personal laugh track at the show.
We half-walked, half-dragged Nessa up the stairs and onto the street. The Brooklyn night was sultry, humid, and sticky with the smell of car exhaust, halal carts, and old beer.
The club wasn’t far—just a block and a half. Brooklyn Comedy Collective, tucked into a brick building that looked like it used to sell hardware or secondhand TVs. The entrance was a skinny black door covered in faded stickers and flyers for punk shows and improv classes nobody wanted to take.
Inside, it was dim and cramped, with mismatched chairs and a low ceiling that made the whole place feel like somebody’s unfinished basement. The air smelled like cheap tequila and poor decisions.
Perfect.
I ditched the girls at a corner table near the front. Moira was already ordering drinks. Nessa was asking the server if they served Red Bull and vodka in buckets.
Backstage, if you could call it that, was a six-by-six storage closet with a cracked mirror, two broken stools, and a Sharpie graffiti wall full of comic signatures and bad drawings of genitalia.
I paced, wiping my sweaty palms on my jeans, willing myself to chill out. My hands shook just enough to annoy me, but not enough to stop me.
A little tequila would’ve helped. Just one shot. Just enough to take the edge off. But no. No time.
From the overhead speaker, the announcer’s voice buzzed:
“Give it up for your next comic… Carol Barnes!”
Polite applause. More like clapping out of social obligation.
I checked the set list taped to the wall by the door.
I was next. Great.
Carol’s set lasted maybe seven minutes. I heard her muffled voice through the wall. Some bit about dating apps and her cat’s IBS. Tough crowd. Barely any laughs.
When she came offstage, Carol brushed past me, eyes glassy and wet, her hand swiping under her nose like she was about to cry.
Awesome. Tonight just kept getting better.
I bounced on the balls of my feet, rolling my neck, doing that little pre-show pacing thing comics do when they’re trying not to throw up.
The announcer’s voice crackled again:
“Next up… Nico Steele!”
I stepped out into the lights, forcing a grin like my rent depended on it.
The crowd stared at me. About forty people. Hipsters in beanies. A group of drunk finance bros in the back. A few lesbian couples near the front. And, dead center, Nessa and Moira, already waving like maniacs.
“All right, let’s get this out of the way,” I said, grabbing the mic. “Yes. Nico Steele is my real stage name. But… uh… different stage.”
A few chuckles. Good start.
“I know some of you are sitting there thinking… he looks familiar. Did I go to high school with him? Did I meet him at a bar? No, babe. You saw me naked on the internet.”
Bigger laugh. Nice.
“That’s right. I’m one of the rare artists who can say I make money by literally shaking my ass. And not like… metaphorically. Like actually shaking my ass. On camera. For money. More than a bank teller makes, by the way. And with better benefits. No 401k, but you should see our dental coverage. Gotta keep these teeth pretty for the cum shots.”
The lesbians in the front row howled.
I kept rolling.
“People ask me all the time, ‘Nico, what’s the hardest part about being in porn?’ And I tell them, honestly… it’s keeping a straight face when your scene partner is making sex noises that sound like a dying lawn mower.”
That got Moira laughing so hard she slammed her hand on the table.
“And let me tell you, if you’ve never stared deeply into the dead eyes of a man named Bob, while pretending to passionately make love to him for a website called Manhammer… you haven’t truly lived.”
The place erupted.
By the time I wrapped my last joke, a bit about lube being the true universal solvent, I was sweating, wired, and practically vibrating with relief.
Applause hit me like a wave.
Real, actual applause.
I stepped off stage with my heart in my throat and a grin so wide my face hurt.
Maybe—just maybe—I wasn’t completely fucked after all.
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Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 