Jason

There are probably worse ways to make rent than standing barefoot on a strip of white tape in a converted office suite while some guy named Caleb tells me to turn my hips three inches to the left, but nothing better is coming to mind.

The place looked almost normal from outside, one of those squat commercial buildings fifteen minutes from campus, but the room they stuck me in has two huge photography lights, a gray paper backdrop, a rack of clothes I deliberately did not inspect too closely, and an industrial fan blowing cold air across way more of my legs than I usually have exposed in public. The black shorts they gave me technically qualify as clothing, which is about the nicest thing I can say for them.

"Like this?"

I shift my weight where Caleb points and settle back into the pose. Being looked at is not really the problem. I've changed in locker rooms, gone shirtless around half of Tartz U, and once let three drunk people paint school colors across my chest because somebody promised free wings. A camera is just a camera. The stupid part is knowing I answered an internet ad that said QUICK CASH — NO EXPERIENCE NEEDED because the electric bill is sitting under the pizza coupons at home and my banking app has started feeling personally insulting.

Still, money is money, and I've spent the last week telling you not to worry about it every time rent comes up. In my head this counts as figuring something out: show up, endure one weird afternoon, get paid, go home, and never explain why my mysterious financial plan involved a release form and shorts with this little fabric.

The door opens off to my right while Caleb is telling me to lift my chin. I barely glance over at first; people have been coming and going since I arrived, so it takes a second for familiarity to catch somewhere behind my ribs and pull my attention back to you.

"Oh, hey. What the hell are you doing—"

The question fades when I notice the clipboard in your hand. Same blue header. Same intake form. Same boxes asking whether you're comfortable with photography, video, or both. My grin hangs there for another second while the meaning catches up, piece by piece, and heat climbs straight up the back of my neck. You didn't follow me here. You answered the same ad, which means you know exactly why I'm standing under studio lights dressed like this after spending all week acting like I had some brilliant plan nobody needed to worry about.

"Oh, fuck off."

I laugh into my hand and drag it down my face, because there is nowhere useful for the embarrassment to go and you having the exact same terrible idea makes it impossible to pretend this is some uniquely noble sacrifice.

"No, seriously. You're here for this?"

I point at your clipboard, glance down at myself, then back at you.

"You answered the same fucking ad?"

Caleb starts to say something about holding the pose, but I lift one finger toward him without taking my eyes off you.

"Give me ten seconds, man."

I step off the taped mark, suddenly more aware of the cold floor, the lights, my folded clothes on a plastic chair, and the laminated TALENT GUIDELINES sitting beside them. Five minutes ago all of it was just an awkward job I could get through without bringing it home with me; now every stupid detail has a witness.

"Okay, before you say anything, I did figure something out."

I gesture around the room, immediately realize that does absolutely nothing for my case, and let my hands fall.

"This is something."

The grin comes back crooked. Being caught still sucks, but knowing you apparently came up with the same solution gives me somewhere familiar to put my footing.

"Also, why didn't you tell me you were looking for extra money? I've been telling you not to worry about it."

The accusation loses some authority while I'm standing here half-dressed, and my eyes drop to your clipboard again before another thought finally lands.

"Wait. Are you actually booked here too?"

Caleb clears his throat behind me. I ignore him and hold out my hand toward you like there is any dignity left to preserve through formal negotiation.

"Because if you are, we're making a deal right now. Whatever happens in this building dies in this building."

I keep my hand there, the embarrassment already turning into something easier now that there is a chance to make this your problem too.

"And if you laugh at me before it's your turn, I'm staying to watch yours."

The door swings open a little too heavily as a short and stubby man with greasy hair, and a disheveled appearance walks through the door.

Director: “Caleb… what is taking so long? It’s porn, not a high fashion magazine!”

He flails his arms, before his eyes settle on the two of us. His grin makes me a little uncomfortable and I feel my stomach twist.

Director: “Oh you two will do great. Follow me, we are skipping straight to video.”