Title: Rated-XXX
Author: Mya Oh
Genre: New Adult Romantic Comedy
Release Date: September 1, 2020
Blurb
So, this whole thing started with a dick cake. Literally, a
cake shaped like a dick. Phallic confectionary. I spill a cup of coffee on the
patron. We become friends. We fall in love.
Wait, let’s back-track a bit.
I’m Bailey Finch: twenty-four, living in LA, and working as the lowly Calendar
Editor for a trendy Sex & Relationships magazine - think Cosmo on
methamphetamines. I mostly take coffee orders.
I’m also woefully body-conscious, clinically anxious, and still a virgin. Not
the cute, quirky sort, either. I’m a borderline train-wreck on my best days,
and a dumpster fire on my worst.
But here’s the real kicker: the Dick Cake Guy? He also ends up being the best
career opportunity to possibly fall into my lap. His name is Elijah Mattox:
BDSM Porn Star prodigy, wanna-be mainstream actor, and the subject of my very
first magazine interview.
Or at least, that’s how it started. There was something much bigger yet to come
- no pun intended.
Rated XXX: A virgin. A porn star. A comedy.
Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
The Dick Cake Guy
Cue: Darude –
Sandstorm.
Wait. 99
Luftballons. That's a much better intro song.
No. That's not how I
want to start this shit show. Or is this supposed to be a romantic comedy? You
know, happy ending, lots of tissues, laugh-out-loud dialogue. Brilliant and
sweet, with well fleshed-out, dynamic characters. Because that's usually a
thing, isn't it?
And I'm already rambling.
So how on Earth do I
start this? I'm twenty-four. Name's Bailey Finch. Yeah, that's a good name –
it's not just my actual name, but it also looks damn good in print. A good,
solid protagonist name.
And the guy? There's
always a guy. I know you're waiting for the guy.
Well, what to say:
Tall? Check. Muscles? Sorta-check. Tattoos? Check. Wry grin and one of those
devious smiles akin to Ian Somerhalder? Check and check. One-thousand checks.
His name is Elijah
Mattox. He's twenty-nine-years old. Favorite things that I've scrounged up so
far include Asian-fusion cuisine, Single Malt Scotch, and perfecting his
purposely-tousled hairstyle. He's an actor, trying to break into main-stream,
silver screen. Accolades and Oscars.
As for now, well –
he's only the most renowned Porn Star in the country. Over three-thousand
scenes to-date. Yeah, no kidding.
And here I am,
sitting at my desk, pen in-hand, trying to conjure up some questions to ask him
that don't consist of how many tits he's seen and what his thoughts are on the
real-to-saline ratio. How many times could he climax in one session? Was his
relationship with sex boring now? What is sex like once you've made a career
out of using your cock?
Was he worried that
working in porn might affect his career as a mainstream actor? This isn't some
one-time Kardashian sex tape. Even though I'm sure he's got one of those
floating around somewhere. The guy has history.
Then again, I've
never actually seen his stuff. Never been much into porn. Even the soft-core
variety. I mean, I've done a few Google searches in my time. I technically know
what a penis looks like. One time in fourth grade, me and my old best friend,
Ginny Weirkowitz, looked up Two Girls One Cup, and refused to eat for
the rest of the day. Whatever you do, don't do it. Don't Google it. My eyes
went to hell.
But IRL, I've never
seen the real thing. I'm a virgin. And I don't say that to sound interesting,
either: I've wanted to get laid more times than I could count. I have a
vibrator, thank you very much. Have you ever used a Hitachi Magic Wand? Let me
tell you...
I've just, you know,
never had a real dick. I've never made love, had intercourse, fucked. Real
hands, rough, desperate, passionate. Body-crushing. Mouth-on-mouth action. My
only real kiss was Sophomore year of high school, on a dare, and that same guy
ended up pouring an open container of spaghetti into my backpack after I
reminded our Geometry teacher that he had forgotten to collect our homework.
I tapped my pen
against the edge of my desk, glancing around the office: large windows, exposed
brick walls, and blown-up copies of magazine covers from over the years, largely
featuring notable men and women of the celebrity variety.
This was Come's
first porn star. Clever magazine name, I know. Come as in: welcome,
enter. Come as in...orgasm.
We were known for
our sex tips and relationship advice. That said, it's been agreed upon that
fucking in the shower just doesn't really work. I've never fucked a guy before,
and even I can tell you that I know for a fact, unless maybe you've got one of
those shower-bath combos or a seat in your shower, it's freaking impossible.
I'd like to put out a request: if you're a woman who has had mind-blowing
shower-sex while standing up, please write to me.
I grinned
unabashedly, outwardly, probably looking ridiculous. I hadn't accomplished a
lick of work in the past two hours. I couldn't concentrate. I was hungry: one
of those gripping, all-consuming, carb-salt-sugar craving hungers. I wanted a
pretzel, doughnut, and Diet Coke, stat.
What do you ask a
porn, star, though? What are the questions?
I don't know,
Bailey. Maybe treat him like a normal human male. Like a person. Like you.
I flushed at the
thought. Like me, a virgin. A big-mouthed mope of a virgin, with brown hair
that was frizzy on good days and unhinged on bad days. Shoulder-length. I wore
loafers and slacks to work, button-downs with quirky designs. Today was yellow
ducks. But Bailey Finch, as a whole, was painfully unquirky. I was a
poser. Inauthentic. Maybe a little too self-deprecating. I was most authentic
at home, in bed with my laptop, wearing a hooded sweatshirt, leggings, and
cabin socks. The fluffier the socks, the better.
I wondered briefly
what Elijah would think of me in comparison to the girls he'd been with
on-screen. Did that even matter? No, of course not.
Still, I wondered.
Maybe I should flat-iron my hair, or wear shoes with wedges. Lip-gloss vs. lip
balm.
Procrastination: I typed out on the keyboard. Failure to
concentrate. Here are some random facts: Scotland has 421 words for 'snow'.
Elephants are the only mammals that can't jump. The first oranges weren't
actually orange. The most common name is Mohammed. Cats can hear
ultrasound. Children grow faster in the springtime. Karaoke means 'empty
orchestra' in Japanese.
Delete. Roll eyes.
Sigh heavily.
As I sat there,
staring at a blank Word document, my boss, Deborah – a tall, all-limbs woman,
popped her head into my cubicle.
“How are the
interview questions going?”
Her expression was
vaguely fatigued despite remaining without a single crease or line; her face
was elongated, elegant. She had the most delicate bird-face. Long, a pointed
nose, elven cheek-bones. Her eyes, two silver buttons, were wide, perpetually
surprised. Her foundation was light enough that I could still see the subtle,
natural gloss of oil on her forehead. She was, all said, pretty in a pained
sort of way. Her ash-blond hair was always styled as if she were ready to step
out onto a runway. She wore Louis Vuitton stilettos and a tailored
houndstooth-print suit.
“Excellent,” I lied.
“I'm wrapping them up now, actually. I'll email them to you in a minute.”
I'll email them
to you in a minute. Panic.
My heart jumped. Why did I always do this? I was a people-pleaser to my core,
and it always, always ended up biting me in the ass. I lived in constant
pause-or-panic.
“Awesome,” she said,
pleased. Her smile showed a bit of rose-pink lipstick on her front tooth.
“Don't feel the need to get too detailed with them. Let him lead the interview,
if you can. He seems talkative enough in past interviews. He did a very
informative interview with Cosmopolitan last fall – we want to go deeper
than that. Deeper than male skincare, workout regimens and how to maintain an
erection, at least.”
“Do you want me to
confirm how many inches he is, exactly?” I inquired.
Deborah laughed.
“These are the
imperative questions,” she said. “Yeah. If you can get his favorite lay, too,
there's a good one. Best orgasm story.”
“I doubt his best
orgasm has been on-film,” I quipped. “I mean, three-thousand scenes. I'd be
surprised if he wasn't constantly sore. I wonder if dick-fatigue is a thing.”
“Then in a
relationship! I don't really care. I just want the details and we can Jane Doe
or John Smith the rest.”
“Gotcha,” I nodded.
“I'll keep it professional. I'll keep it sexy.”
While, of course,
still focusing on the fact that he was now looking to step away from the Adult
Industry. Maybe he wouldn't want to talk about anything sexual. He possibly
wouldn't. Maybe he'd find it offensive – like a stain on his shirt that he was
hoping nobody would notice, or an unruly cowlick.
Deborah scurried off
in the direction of her next to-do, and I shook my head, a common mind-reset
practice of mine. Like one of those Etch-A-Sketches.
Elijah Mattox, who
are you, sir?
Author Bio
Mya Oh is an author, mother, and amateur
baker. Rated-XXX is her debut novel.
When not writing, she enjoys spending time exploring the
woods of her rural town. She currently resides on the East Coast with her
husband, two sons, and ginger tabby cat.
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