MOM (BBA: Bad Boy Academy #2)

Rocky

"I have a fit issue," I grumble, latching onto the top hem of the G-string pouch as I see my posing coach walking up behind me in the full-length mirror.

Rasmus's eyes instantly fall to my crotch.

"Shit," he mutters. "I worried this might happen when they announced the outfit change. Take your hands away. Let me see."

I let go of the flimsy material, and the pouch instantly droops under the weight of my junk, the tiny strings digging into the skin around my hips.

"I don't know what to do," I tell him. "I'm on in less than five minutes."

"Do a front double bicep," he instructs in his thick Polish staccato, delivering each word with crisp precision.

I raise both arms and flex to display my biceps, chest, abs, and front thighs.

He ignores my form and keeps his eyes pinned on my crotch.

"Now, side chest."

I turn to the side, moving one arm across my body to grab the opposite wrist, expanding my chest while showing leg separation.

He rubs his chin. "This could be a problem."

I release the pose, my shoulders sagging as I turn around to face him. He's still staring at the tiny black G-string.

"Tell me about it."

It's the first official posedown of the new season. It's basically a combination of an official weigh-in ceremony before a pro fight and a "Meet The Queens" video teaser for an upcoming season of Drag Race. A lot of fanfare. A lot of media. And a lot of—

"Duct tape," Rasmus says, lifting his hand in the air. "We're gonna have to tape that sucker up."

"Did you just call my dick a sucker?"

He finds time to smirk before sprinting out of the backstage change room, his muscular form disappearing through the door. He was a big deal in bodybuilding back in the '90s, and he's a terrific coach today.

I rotate back toward the mirror.

What stares back at me is unrecognizable from the chubby kid who came up with every excuse imaginable to get out of gym class.

Mass and definition coexist in perfect harmony, every muscle group carved and defined.

Veins map intricate pathways across my forearms and biceps, deltoids cap my shoulders like armor plating, and my abs form a perfect grid where my once-soft belly used to protrude over my sweatpants.

It's taken years of relentless training, calculated nutrition, and unwavering self-discipline to make it into the top five of the Men of Muscle (otherwise known as MoM) bodybuilder federation.

The IFBB Pro League is the premier professional bodybuilding federation, but a bunch of smaller amateur federations exist within the broader ecosystem.

I chose MoM for two reasons.

It's the only federation that assigns a ranking to each competitor, in the same way tennis players compete in tournaments and have a world ranking. No other federation has ongoing rankings that carry over between competitions. I'm super competitive and really like that aspect.

And more importantly, it's queer-friendly.

Most of the other bodybuilding federations are still developing or clarifying their policies on transgender athletes; MoM had trans and nonbinary categories right from its inception back in 2010.

The CEO is openly bisexual, and they always have a strong presence at Pride, no matter who's in the Oval Office.

Rasmus reenters the room with a mouthful of duct tape, and the classic 'rrrrip' sound makes my balls shrivel.

"No fucking way," I say, cupping my junk as he marches toward me like a man on a demented mission. "You are not putting that near this."

He flicks the string of material over my hip with his pinkie. "You need more support."

"I agree, but…" I glance down at the duct tape. "Not that. I'll—I'll have to risk it."

"Why did they have to change the fucking outfit?" he mutters to himself, clearly frustrated with MoM's outfit policy for this season.

Up until now, we could wear briefs for the posedowns. I always wore black, loose-fitting ones, which did a pretty decent job of hiding what I'm packing. In this flimsy G-string, I can't hide shit.

On the plus side, showing off the goods could be good for socials. There are at least seven social channels I'm aware of dedicated to watching my crotch.

No. Bad, Rocky.

Growing my social media following is what's led to some of my most recent PR fails.

The copy-paste disaster where I posted the suggested caption and the instructions from the clothing brand. By the time I realized what I'd done and updated the wording, it had been screenshotted and gone viral. Public verdict: I'm an idiot.

Or the time I did a livestream for an organic brand of ice cream and when asked by a viewer what my favorite ice cream was, without thinking I replied honestly and said Ben & Jerry's. Public verdict: I'm dumb.

Or the first time I filmed live on the beach on a very windy day. The wind did me dirty, pressing my shorts into my body like cling wrap, and hello, visible penis line. Imagine my horror when I discovered why #boardshortsstuck was trending. Public verdict: I'm a manwhore.

Maybe I really am dumb because I don't get how being well-endowed automatically means I'm promiscuous.

But whatever.

Does it hurt that the internet thinks I'm nothing more than a gaffe-prone bodybuilding himbo? I'd love to say no, it doesn't. That I'm stronger than that and can rise above it.

But the truth is, I'm human, I have feelings, and it does hurt.

Thank god I've got my BBA brothers. They've always been there for me and have helped me through some of the worst fallout.

They know the real me. Whatever misconceptions the public may have, at my core, I'm a normal, quiet guy whose idea of a perfect night is recreating the crochet designs I find on TikTok.

"You're on, Summers," one of the event crew calls out.

I glance nervously at Rasmus.

He lifts a brow…then the duct tape.

I shake my head.

He shrugs. "Drag queens do it all the time."

"Good thing I'm not a drag queen."

Ignoring the crease between his brows, and my own intuition that maybe I should man up and duct tape my privates, I head out to face the media circus.

I keep thinking to myself, what's the worst thing that can happen?

The universe delivers its answer not less than ten minutes later.

During a front lat spread to be exact.

With every single camera and cellphone aimed my way, and with my hands behind my back, flaring my latissimus dorsi muscles to accentuate the wide V-taper from my shoulders to my waist, the flimsy strings on my underwear give way, and the tiny patch of material covering my dick and balls tears off me.

I'm so in the zone of the pose, I don't notice the gasps, only becoming aware of the dickslip when a crewmember from MoM races over and valiantly covers my exposed junk with a brown clipboard.

Heat floods my face, and my entire body feels like it's been set alight, the humiliation burning through me with a fiery intensity.

I can't think.

Can't breathe.

Can't do anything but follow in a daze as the crewmember snatches my wrist and steers me straight toward the exit.