By: Taryn Elliott & Cari Quinn


My cock was going to kill me.

Or else hearing about it would do me in. One or the other.

In the meantime, I was going to sweat until I forgot the word that had somehow come to define my life.

Mana-fucking-conda. Minus the fucking in the middle, plus a few extra millimeters at the tip. Hey, gotta finish strong, right? Or start, depending where you believed the male member actually began.

Head or base? Base or head?

These were the truly weighty questions in a man’s life. At least mine as things currently stood. Or…hung.

I blew out a breath. The clank of weights snapping together, and the whir of the treadmills, elliptical machines, and stairclimbers were my favorite sounds. It didn't matter what city I was in, there was always a local gym to be found. I liked the small ones with the well-used equipment. Not the glossy gyms where people were more worried about what they looked like in their outfits than putting the work in.

It centered me, and man, did I need to be centered. And it wasn't yoga crap that did it for me. It was sweat and more sweat. I walked straight to the far corner of the room and found a treadmill, and set a course for a quick warmup.

No one knew my name in here. The outside world could Tweet about my cock, Instagram closeups of my crotch, pore over Facebook posts of interviews I’ve done. I didn’t have to think about any of it.

I was just a guy at the gym. I even looked like a bro with my long workout shorts and muscle shirt. Shaving wasn't the thing to do anymore, and that was fine by me. I'd been blessed with a pretty face, or at least that's what my momma called it.

Women didn't seem to mind, but they also liked the rough around the edges look I was sporting lately.

Actually—check that. All they noticed was my cock. And it wasn't a damn Lenny Kravitz move that I had to live down. No, this was so much worse. Epic on a scale of ridiculous that couldn’t be described.

So, hiding behind a wall of scruff and overgrown hair worked for me. I was so sick of hearing about my cock. What man actually said that?


I might as well take out a billboard with me standing legs apart, naked, with my cock at the ready.

I punched the incline on the treadmill. By the time the burn in my legs got my anger under control, I’d done five miles, and I had sweat dripping off my goddamn knees. I slowly dialed it back down, bringing the pace down to a walk so I wouldn't cramp up. I unloaded the rest of my frustration on the heavy bag next.

I beat on the damn thing until my arms were jelly, but at least I could survive the rest of the day. A promotional meet and greet for our new album was going to test all of my reserves. Hopefully I could shake off my mood by the time I got on stage. I had to slap a smile on my face and pray that the four hours went by quickly.

I didn't bother showering. I had a car waiting outside, and a deluxe hotel suite at my disposal. I preferred my house up in Malibu, but with the shit traffic of Los Angeles it was easier to stay in the city. Between the radio gigs, the shows, and the parties there would be no relaxing for the next few days. At least Ripper Records knew how to put on a spread.

They were backing us up with an impressive release party, so the least I could do was shut up and deal. And it looked like the dealing would begin closer to…now.

I slowed the closer I got to the front of the gym. There was a huddle of women in various levels of Lycra and cotton—some that definitely worked for it a little too hard, and some not enough. I had to admit, I liked a woman that fell somewhere in the middle. Enough to curl into me without causing gouges from their bony bodies, and solid enough to have fun with.

Sue me, I'm a simple guy.

"Do you think it's Photoshopped? Or is that a prosthetic?" One of the women asked.


I'd heard that way too much this week to not know what they were talking about. Considering they had to do a second print run on the damn magazine, you’d think I'd be psyched. Fuck no.

"Well, it certainly looks like my James Deen vibe. That's ten inches and girthy, girls. Do you think he had a fluffer on set? Maybe a hot photographer got him all hard and ready?” Said a blonde who had a better six-pack than I did. She sighed. “She probably got it good after the shoot."

My eyebrows shot up. A what? Why did she know that term? I pulled my beanie lower on my forehead and wished I hadn’t checked my favorite sunglasses on the way in.

Anyone who thought men talked about sex more than women hadn't been at a rock show. I'd heard plenty of versions of this conversation. Usually it had something to do with my drummer, Hudson Wyatt. He was six-foot-five and women constantly wanted to know if he was proportional.

“I don’t care if it’s real. I’m never going to get him in my bed, so my fantasy can be as real as I want, dammit,” a petite girl said. She caressed the cover of the oversized magazine.