Pregnant By My Stepbrother

It’s goddamn gross if you ask me, but then Kyle holds the baby oil out to me.

“You need it,” he grunts. “You’re not shiny enough.”

I frown.

“Fuck, this is disgusting.”

Kyle merely shrugs, making sure the definition in his six pack is perfect.

“Hey, it’s all for charity. We’re doing this for the kiddies, don’t forget.”

Reluctantly, I take the bottle and squirt some liquid into my palm. Then I rub it up and down my chest so that my pecs glisten and my abs are defined. There, that’s enough. I don’t want to look like a total greaseball.

Yet, I can understand why the organizers have chosen us. All of the bachelors to be auctioned are in great shape, with full heads of hair and magnetic smiles. This doesn’t surprise me. If they want to get the big bids, they should feature men who look like they work out regularly, and this crew looks like a twice-a-day-at-the-gym type. If anything, these guys are way too excited, and a nervous energy buzzes backstage. I should be excited too, yet all I feel is dread.

After all, I know the cause is a worthwhile one, but I would have preferred just to write a check instead of getting up on stage. I mean, really? Do women find this get-up sexy? I’ve avoided looking at myself in the mirror, but it’s bad. I’ll never live this down and hopefully, there won’t be too many pictures.

It’s for a good cause, I remind myself through gritted teeth. You’re doing this for the kiddos. Honestly, my hopes aren’t high though. I’m expecting to be “purchased” by an elderly widow with purple hair and bifocals. We’ll go to dinner and she’ll drone on and on about her grandchildren and knitting club. But that’s the best case scenario. The worst case scenario is that I’m purchased by a young woman who actually wants to go on a real date, with a real kiss and some hot action at the end of the night. I shudder at the thought.

After all, I’m not really into dating. I keep to myself most of the time, and when I do take a woman out, it’s discreet and low-key. Certainly not the fancy dinner most of these ladies are anticipating, followed by a night of clubbing. Even the thought of a club makes me shudder. How do people get out of those places without going deaf?

For a moment, I let myself think back to Petal. I wonder what she’s doing right now. When I close my eyes, I can smell her sweet, floral scent once more, and touch the softness of her cheek. I also remember the way she gasped and moaned in my arms that night. I remember how lush and steamy she was, and how she dripped everywhere, she wanted it so bad. Damn. I should have gotten her real name.

But no. That’s stupid of me because Petal’s a stripper, dammit! She doesn’t want to get to know me. She’s a professional, and I paid her well that night, so she did her job. I wince inwardly at the word. The connection I felt for her that night goes so far beyond a “job” but maybe I’m the one being dumb. Maybe I was caught up in the magic of her swirling hips and the warmth of her embrace, and lost my head as a result. After all, that’s her job: to place a spell on unwitting men.

Letting out a grunt, I run a hand through my hair, messing up the black locks. I haven’t felt right since I left the strip club, almost like a piece of me is still there. As if I have unfinished business that I need to take up with Petal again. Maybe I should go back to the Krazy Kat just to talk to her, but then I catch myself. Talk to a stripper? Who am I kidding? Those girls are there for the money, and talk is cheap. Suddenly, a woman’s voice enters my daydream, harsh and scratchy.

“Hey, stud.”

I turn and the woman standing before me looks like a female lion tamer with black leather pants and boots, a crimson red vest, and a top hat. What is this, the Ringling Brothers circus? She merely shrugs.

“I didn’t choose this costume any more than you chose yours,” she says pointedly. “Besides, I’m Kristine. I’m the MC, and in a few minutes, I’m going to ask you gentlemen to go out on stage. Tim, right?” she squints at me. “You’re fourth in the line-up.”

I nod stiffly.

“Okay, got it.”

“Good,” she says. “Just ask if you have questions.” Then, she winks at me and struts away.

Another few minutes pass, and I can hear the female audience chatting and tittering outside. My heart sinks. This is going to be bad. Suddenly, Kristine’s voice comes on over the mic.