I knew the moment I walked into Dr. Felix Sterling’s office that I’d found my next leading man—or at least, the messiest genius in a three-mile radius. His office was part library, part explosion, and part cry for help. Books everywhere. Three open laptops. A whiteboard covered in formulas that may or may not have been about lube viscosity.
Dr. Sterling himself was hunched behind a desk, chewing the end of a pen and looking like a gay Doogie Howser who’d aged into anxiety and never stopped pulling all-nighters.
Me: Dr. Sterling. Thanks for letting me barge into your natural habitat.
Felix: Oh! Yes! Thank you for coming. I—wait, not like that—I mean, thank you for visiting. [He shoves a pile of papers off a chair with a panicked gesture.] Please, sit down! I printed out a journal article for you but then spilled coffee on it. And ink. And possibly a chemical that makes mice fall in love.
Me: Happens to the best of us. So, you’re a tenured professor, a published researcher, and you’ve got a… very interesting extracurricular situation.
Felix:[blushes hard] If you’re referring to the, um, transformation serum, that was honestly never supposed to be public. I synthesized it during a particularly lonely Valentine’s Day. [beat] They say necessity is the mother of invention, but loneliness? She’s a wicked stepmother with a strap-on.
Me: Wow. Okay, let’s unpack that. Are you lonely?
Felix:[laughs nervously, then stops] Yes. Profoundly. I haven’t had a boyfriend. Ever. Not a real one. I mean, there was that guy from Reddit who mailed me a lock of his hair, but that doesn’t count, does it?
Me: …No. That counts in court records, not dating history.
Felix: Exactly. I’m just not… I don’t know. People don’t see me that way. I talk too fast. I care too much about obscure 18th-century aphrodisiacs. I own a custom lab coat with my D&D character embroidered on it.
Me: Sounds like husband material to me. But you did create a serum that changes your entire personality?
Felix: It’s more than that. The compound rewires neural inhibition, boosts testosterone, and hijacks frontal-lobe regulation. It unleashes the part of me that isn’t scared all the time. The part that doesn’t double-check his outgoing emails for tone. [quietly] The part people actually want.
Me: Felix. C’mon. You are the whole package. You just don’t see it.
Felix: That’s sweet of you to say, but I assure you, the only people who’ve called me “hot” were under the influence of my own synthetic aphrodisiac. And it was a peer-reviewed double-blind trial, so they didn’t technically know it was me.
Me: Felix. Babe. What if you drank the serum right now?
Felix: Oh no no no no—absolutely not. The last time I did that, I woke up with glitter in places I don’t talk about, a tattoo of a dolphin with abs, and a police citation for “inappropriate hot tub evangelism.”
Me: Exactly. That’s the kind of energy this blog needs. For the readers.
Felix: But—I—this is supposed to be a serious academic interview!
Me: This is serious. I’m seriously begging you. C’mon, just one sip. For science. For love. For the readers who like a good “nerd to thirst trap” transformation.
Felix: sighs Fine. But if I start stripping, you have to turn the recorder off. Unless it’s for Patreon content.
Me: Deal.
Felix opens a drawer and retrieves a small, glowing vial. He eyes it like it’s his worst idea and his best chance. With one last glance at me — equal parts dread and curiosity — he knocks it back like a man surrendering to fate.
He shudders. A low sound escapes him. And then… he changes.
The curve of his spine straightens. The nervous fidgeting stills. His eyes sharpen with intent. One eyebrow arches in slow, sexy defiance. The glasses come off and so does the act.
Jax: Ahhh. That’s better. [Cracks his neck, flashes a grin so smug it should be illegal.] You must be Ian. You’ve got the kind of vibe that makes a man wanna misbehave in a hotel elevator.
Me: I—okay. Hi, Jax. Welcome to the interview.
Jax: Thanks, darlin’. Felix gets all shy about this part, but I’ve got no such hang-ups. What do you wanna know? I’m an open book. A very naughty, slightly bent book.
Me: Well, people are curious. Who are you, exactly?
Jax: I’m what happens when Felix stops worrying about tenure and starts worrying about pleasure. I’m the part of him that says, “Screw the rules,” and then actually does. I like good wine, bad decisions, and kissing boys who use big words. [leans forward] Especially if they wear glasses and pretend they’re not kinky.
Me: You seem… confident.
Jax: Oh, I am. Confidence is just chemistry with better posture. I don’t waste time overthinking. I want something, I say it. I feel something, I do something. And if someone wants me? Baby, I notice.
Me: So you’re basically Felix, minus the insecurity.
Jax: Exactly. Felix is all heart and no hustle. I am the hustle. And sometimes, people need both. [pauses, then softens — just a little] He wants to be loved, you know. Not just admired for his brain. He wants someone to look at him and see him — the stammering, brilliant, lonely man who’s never quite believed he was enough. He doesn’t think he deserves to be wanted.
Me: But you do?
Jax: Oh, sweetheart. I know he does. That’s why I exist. [grins again, full heat this time] And if anyone needs convincing? I’ve got a few ideas that don’t require words. Just consent… and maybe a sturdy table.
The Naughty Professor is available to preorder now. Come fall for Felix. Try to survive Jax. And maybe discover that sometimes, the messiest love stories are the ones that actually stick. The preorder price is 3.99, and goes up to 4.99 on release day!
I wasn’t scheduled for anything else today, which meant one thing: freedom. Sweet, beautiful, no-lube-needed freedom. No studio lights, no body oil, no terrible dialogue I had to deliver while holding a plank position.
I leaned against the front desk like I had nowhere better to be, which was a lie, but a cute one. Petyr was scrolling on his phone, probably looking at tweets about union strikes or articles on OSHA violations. Dimitri had a sudoku book open, pencil tapping against the counter like it was a metronome set to “mildly annoyed Russian.”
“Another thrilling day in adult entertainment customer service,” I said, grinning. “Tell me, gentlemen… when you dreamed of escaping Soviet oppression, is this what you pictured? Lube shipments and call sheet drama?”
Petyr snorted. “Back then, I dreamed of eating a sandwich without standing in a line for three hours.”
“Dream big,” I said.
Dimitri didn’t look up from his puzzle. “At least this job comes with free coffee. Even if it tastes like sadness and broken promises.”
I laughed. They were both like that—sharp, dry, impossible to rattle. They were also disgustingly in love. It had been what, decades now? Since before I was born, probably. Every time I caught them sneaking little glances at each other or making dirty old man jokes, part of me wanted to roll my eyes… but a bigger part of me just… wanted.
I wasn’t used to that feeling. Most of the time, I was perfectly fine just floating. Hookups, jokes, nights on stage with a mic in my hand, making people laugh so they didn’t notice I was deflecting my loneliness like a human pinball machine. Love was for other people. People with stable home lives and functional trust issues.
But watching Dimitri scribble in his sudoku while Petyr tilted his phone toward him to share some meme, and seeing the way they smiled at each other like it was all still new? Damn. I wanted that. Someday. Maybe.
If I didn’t die of sarcasm poisoning first.
I was about to say goodbye and head out when the phone on the desk rang. Dimitri picked up, still holding his pencil like he was ready to stab something if this was another spam caller. “Boys On Film, how can I direct your… oh. It’s you.” His whole tone shifted. “Yes, sir. He’s standing right here.” Then he held the receiver toward me like it was radioactive.
“It’s the boss.”
I blinked. “Jack?”
Dimitri nodded. “Da.”
I grabbed the phone, a little confused. Jack never called me directly unless it was about a scene. “Nico Steele, local legend, speaking.”
Jack’s voice crackled on the line. “Cute. Listen, I need you to come to the production meeting. Conference room. Ten minutes.”
I frowned. “Production meeting? Why? I’m not a producer. Or a director. Or even emotionally stable enough to be in that room.”
“You’ll understand when you get there,” Jack said. Then he hung up.
I lowered the phone slowly. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”
“Good luck,” Petyr said, already back to doom scrolling.
Dimitri winked. “If there are bagels, bring me one.”
I headed toward the conference room, curiosity buzzing in my chest like a bad caffeine hit. This was weird. What did Jack want me there for? Was I in trouble? Was I getting fired? Promoted? Canceled?
Right as I turned the corner near the makeup suite, I almost collided with… oh no.
Bradley.
He was limping like a war survivor. Moving like every joint hurt. And his face… Jesus. The area around his eyebrows was an angry, blistering red. Like he’d lost a fight with a glue gun.
I winced in sympathy. “Dude… you okay?”
Bradley just shook his head, slow and defeated. His eyes were wide and glassy, like he’d just seen the face of God, and it was wearing a waxing apron.
“Eyebrows?” I guessed, nodding at his scorched forehead zone.
He gave me a barely there nod. His mouth opened like he wanted to speak, but no words came out. Just air and trauma.
I wanted to hug him. Which was new. Physical affection wasn’t usually my default setting. But there was something about the way he looked right then. Like a kicked puppy who’d been dumped in a rainstorm, that tugged at something soft in my chest.
Before I could act on the impulse, he mumbled, “I’m supposed to meet Jack and Liam for… something. A meeting.”
My ears perked up. “Wait. No way. Me too. Come on, just follow me.”
Bradley hesitated, like he didn’t trust the universe anymore. Which was fair, but he limped after me, anyway.
And as we headed toward the conference room, side by side, something in my stomach did a weird little somersault. Like… anticipation. Or dread. Or… something else I couldn’t name yet.
Bradley shuffled next to me like a condemned man heading toward the firing squad. Every step looked like it hurt. Hell, even watching him walk hurt.
I kept glancing sideways at him, debating whether to put an arm around his shoulders. Would that be weird? Too much? Too soon? Probably. But… damn. The poor guy looked like he’d been through a full season of America’s Next Top Traumatized Porn Star.
We hit the hallway leading toward the conference room. Carpeted, quiet, the kind of corporate ambiance that screamed “free coffee and passive aggression.”
Bradley cleared his throat. “Do you… uh… do you know what this meeting’s about?”
I shook my head. “Nope. Jack was super evasive. Real ‘I’ll tell you when you get there’ energy. Like a horror movie, but with worse lighting.”
Bradley sighed. “Awesome.”
There was a beat of silence. Then, just loud enough for me to hear, he muttered, “Can’t even sit down…”
I glanced over. “Wait. Why?”
He stopped walking. Turned toward me. His eyes were shiny, like actual tears pooled up along the lower lids.
And in the most broken, betrayed voice imaginable, he said, “That crazy old lady… bleached my asshole.”
I froze. My brain short-circuited. Like, full system reboot.
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
And then, before I could talk myself out of it, I opened my arms wide. “Oh, buddy… come here.”
Bradley didn’t even hesitate. He stepped right into my chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I wrapped him up in both arms, pulled him tight… and immediately regretted how hard I squeezed when he made a tiny, wounded noise and whispered, “Ow… my back…”
“Shit, sorry.” I loosened my grip fast, hands going soft on his shoulders. “Forgot about the… uh… full body trauma.”
We laughed, both of us quick and awkward, and then kept walking.
When we pushed open the conference room door, the full cast of characters were already mid-salad. Laura, Liam, Jack, Nessa, and Moira were all sitting around like the judges’ panel on some adult industry version of Shark Tank. Coffee cups were everywhere. Half-eaten chopped salads. Nessa had her phone out like she was live-tweeting Bradley’s suffering.
Jack looked up first. “Grab some food and have a seat.”
There was a buffet spread along the back wall. Sandwiches. Fruit. A giant bowl of mixed greens that looked like sadness coated with dressing.
Bradley made a beeline for the farthest end of the table, keeping his distance from anything leafy.
I drifted behind him, watching the way Nessa’s eyes lit up when she spotted him. Like a cat that discovered a bird with a broken wing.
“Oh, no, you don’t,” I muttered under my breath. I parked myself next to him at the buffet line, close enough to block her line of attack.
Bradley hovered awkwardly over the food, looking like none of it made sense to him. Like he wasn’t sure if eating would make the pain better or worse.
Trying to cheer him up, I nudged his shoulder. “You know what helps after a traumatic cosmetic experience?”
He glanced at me, wary. “What?”
“Carbs. Lots and lots of carbs. Bagels are nature’s apology letter.”
That got him. A tiny, reluctant laugh broke out of him. Soft but real. His first actual smile since I’d seen him.
And wow.
Hearing that sound, God. It hit me right in the chest. Made me want to hear it again. Immediately.
So I kept going.
I grabbed a sandwich and held it up like I was a game show model showing off a prize. “This one’s got turkey and provolone. Full of healing properties. Also, I’m pretty sure eating it will reverse the psychological damage caused by Lola’s… services.”
Bradley’s laugh got a little louder. “Not sure that’s medically accurate.”
“Oh, I don’t do medical accuracy,” I said, grinning. “I do emotional support and poor decisions.”
He smiled down at the sandwich tongs like they were suddenly the funniest thing he’d ever seen.
We were still standing there, giggling over deli meats, when Jack cleared his throat.
Both of us turned toward the table.
Everyone—and I mean everyone—was staring at us.
Laura had one eyebrow raised, like she was mentally taking notes. Liam was biting back a smirk. Moira had gone into full gossip-mode, sipping her coffee slowly like she was watching a soap opera. And Nessa… Nessa looked like Christmas had come early.
Jack gave us a look that said “Anytime, gentlemen.”
Sheepishly, Bradley and I grabbed our food and hustled to two empty chairs side by side.
As we sat down—Bradley gingerly, like every surface was made of hot coals—I stole one last glance at him.
He was still red around the eyebrows. Still moving like he needed medical leave. Still adorable in that whole wounded-animal sort of way.
I didn’t know what this meeting was about.
But I suddenly didn’t mind being here at all.
Jack cleared his throat again. “Alright. Let’s call this meeting to order…”
And with that, we were off.
Jack cleared his throat again, tapping a pen against the table like he was warming up for a TED Talk. “First off… Nico.”
I blinked. “Me?”
Jack nodded, giving me a rare, genuine smile, the kind he usually reserved for Liam or big subscriber milestones. “We want to thank you for trusting us with your comedy career. It means a lot. We’re gonna work our asses off to make sure you’re a success.”
My stomach did this weird, flippy thing. “Wow. Thanks, boss.” I gave him a little salute. “I like the sound of ‘success.’ Sounds expensive.”
The table chuckled.
Nessa leaned forward, her huge acrylic nails tapping against her iced coffee like castanets. “And speaking of expensive… your management contract’s ready.” She pointed at me, all sly grin and Bronx attitude. “After this meeting, I’ll give it to you to look over.”
Liam immediately jumped in, waving a forkful of salad for emphasis. “And get an entertainment lawyer to review it. Seriously.”
I gave him a thumbs-up. “Obviously. I like to know exactly how I’m selling my soul.”
“Good man,” Liam said.
Jack set his pen down with a little clap against the table. “Okay. Now, for the real reason, we’re all here.”
Everyone shifted in their chairs. Moira put down her phone. Even Laura sat up straighter.
Jack gestured toward Nessa like he was passing a live grenade. “Ness, you wanna explain?”
Nessa beamed like it was Christmas morning and she’d just unwrapped a pair of Louboutins. “Absolutely.” She flipped open her notebook and pushed her sunglasses up onto her head like a Wall Street executive, if Wall Street executives wore hoop earrings and hot pink lipstick.
“So. Earlier today, I had a visit from a group of Japanese businessmen.” She gave a dramatic pause, letting that sink in. “They’re here in the States for some kind of… tech conference? Anyway, they found our site, watched a few of our videos, and they want to hire us, Boys On Film, to produce a custom scene for them.”
Laura blinked. “Wait… an outside contract? Like… an actual commission job?”
Nessa nodded. “Yep. Fully funded. Their production company wired over the deposit already.”
There was a collective buzz of excitement around the table. This was big. Like… real-world, industry-recognized big.
“They’ve offered…” Nessa flipped a page for dramatic effect. “…almost two hundred thousand dollars for the project.”
The entire room went silent.
Even Jack looked like he might faint.
For about three full seconds, the only sound was Moira’s straw sucking the last inch of coffee from her cup.
Then, all at once…
“Two hundred K?!”
“Holy shit.”
“Are you serious?”
I just sat there blinking. Even Bradley—poor traumatized, still-pink Bradley—looked like he was having a mild out-of-body experience.
Liam held up a hand like a traffic cop. “Okay, hold on. This all sounds amazing, but… what exactly are we making for them?”
Jack smirked. “Glad you asked.”
All eyes swung back to Nessa. She bit her lower lip, clearly savoring the buildup like it was dessert.
“When I heard what they wanted,” she said, voice syrupy with fake innocence, “the first person I thought of… was Bradley.”
Everyone turned.
Bradley froze like a deer caught in very judgmental headlights.
“Wait, what? Why me?” His voice cracked halfway through.
“Yeah… why Bradley?” Liam asked, glancing between them.
Nessa clapped her hands once. “Because the project is… drumroll please…”
Moira tapped on the table obligingly.
“…a gay bukkake video.”
The room went dead silent again.
I felt my pulse kick up, suddenly wide awake. “Okay wait… I’ve heard that word before… but I don’t actually know what it is.” I looked around the room like I was expecting someone to say it meant “group hug” or “team-building exercise.”
Laura gasped like I’d just admitted to not knowing how to use Google. “Oh, my God. No. Are you sure we wanna go there? Boys On Film’s never done something that hardcore before!”
Nessa waved her off like she was swatting at a fly. “Laura, sweetie, did you not hear me? Two. Hundred. Grand.”
That shut everyone up again.
I mean… we were all whores in different ways. But two hundred thousand dollars? That was… retirement money. Health insurance money. Rent-for-a-few years money.
Liam gave Jack a look. “We’ve… never done anything like this before.”
Jack’s expression stayed cool and calculating. “We’ll figure it out.”
I raised my hand like I was back in high school. “Okay, but like… what is it, though? Someone explain for the people in the room who don’t have a porn PhD.”
Moira snorted into her coffee.
Nessa smiled at me sweetly. “It’s simple, baby. One guy kneels on the floor… and a bunch of other guys… finish on him.”
My brain took about five full seconds to process that.
I turned to Bradley just in time to see all the color drain from his face like a cartoon character fainting.
He pushed back from the table like he was about to make a run for it. “Hell no,” he said. Loud and immediate. “Absolutely not. There’s no way I’m letting a bunch of guys jizz all over me. No. Nope. Not happening.”
I kind of wanted to applaud. The man had conviction.
Jack leaned forward, propping his elbows on the table, that signature wicked grin spreading across his face. “Would you do it… for twenty thousand bucks?”
Bradley froze mid-freakout.
I could practically see the math happening behind his eyes. Rent. Debt. Food. Survival.
He swallowed hard.
And then, after the most painful, reluctant pause in history, he said, voice both soft and doomed:
“Yes. Yes, I’ll do it.”
Heads up, babes! The Casting Couch is officially up for preorder at your favorite online bookstore—and trust me, you’ll want to lock it in early. The preorder price is just $4.99, but it jumps to $5.99 on release day, July 17. That’s one hot dollar saved—use it to tip your favorite fantasy or buy a pack of gum for the awkward scenes. Either way, grab your copy now and get ready for a hilarious, steamy ride full of ex-cons, adult film chaos, and one seriously complicated crush. 💋
Ian O. Lewis and Luke Jameson 