Milk

Milk.

Milk is the talk of the town. The darling of New York City. I feel like I see him all over New York, on bus advertisements and people's Instagram feeds on the subway and on those big billboards when I'm unfortunate enough to have to drive tourists through Times Square. A couple of weeks ago no one knew who Milk was and now he's the new it thing.

Walking down 45th in my neatly pressed suit, sweat under my armpits, I gaze at an ad with Milk on it. He's tall and slender, practically see-through with the way you can see his ribs. His fur is appropriately milky white but his ears and his belly are a light pink. And in every ad I see him in, he's wearing nothing but a pair of white Wear and Tear briefs. With the way he's just kind of standing there, no expression on his face, you could be tempted to say you don’t get it. But you look at him a little longer, you stand on the street with the rest of the tourists and stare gobsmacked, and you get it.

When my friend in the bodyguard business Rock passed along the job posting for Milk's bodyguard, I laughed. I technically have all the requisite requirements – 10 years of bouncing for clubs, doing security at retail places, and driving tourists around New York City – but there's no way Milk would hire some Bronx rottweiler punk like me to be his bodyguard. I applied anyway, just because standing around a cute dog all day like Milk sounds a lot more appealing than having drunk club girls throw up in the back of my car every night.

And somehow, I got an interview.

I walk around until I find an unmarked building sandwiched between two other unmarked buildings. "Hey, boss," I say to the doorman.

He daps me up. I'm glad to see someone from a similar walk of life in this building that seems to be made up of exclusively marble. "Got an interview with that underwear model?"

"Yes sir."

"Good luck. I've seen guys coming and going all day. Elevators are down and to the right, it's gonna be on the 34th floor."

I walk through a long, empty, marble hallway. Every step makes my dress shoes clack against the floor and echo through the whole building. I get in the elevator and wait. Upstairs, I'm in another similarly long hallway, but there are three nice, velveted chairs outside of a glass door. I take a seat and wait until I'm called.

A lithe buck with a mullet, mustache, and a stylish dress shirt unbuttoned about halfway down his body comes to the door with a clipboard. "Tony D'Augustino?"

"Yes, that's me. I go by Toast as well."

He marks that on his clipboard and smiles. "Come with me."

He leads me down another hallway, this time with headshots of various high-status models framed on the walls. The buck opens the door for me. Inside, framed from behind with a gorgeous view of the New York City skyline, is Milk. And amazingly, he looks exactly like all of the photos.

Milk is sitting there in a oversized black tee-shirt that shows off his midriff, a tiny white skirt that I’d almost call frumpy if it didn’t have a half-inch in-seam, garters, and knee-high boots. He’s so casual but so poised, with that same unknownable facial expression from all of the ads. Next to him is a large, hippie-ish older lion. He’s in this odd flowy material that reminds me of rattan, but the knitting is so wide that I can see his fur underneath. It would be nice at the beach.

The buck who led me in takes a seat in the corner. I feel ridiculously overdressed for the room.

"Greetings," the lion says, leaning over the table to shake my paw. I shake it confidently. "Please, take a seat."

"Thank you for having me."

"I'm D'Angelo," he says, "Milk's manager. We're very delighted to be having this interview with you."

I look over at Milk and smile at him. He doesn't give anything back.

"Now I just have to ask," D'Angelo says, "Are you from the Bronx?"

"Mmhmm. Up and to the right."

"A man of my own heart!" he roars. "I'm sure we'll get along just fine. Now, I'm sure you're already very familiar with Milk, but just so you get an idea of what we're looking for, we're not just looking for a bodyguard. Milk is our most important client but isn't in need of the protections that a more, let's say, high-profile client would need. We're looking for a chauffeur and someone to be with him throughout the workday. The other stipulation being that you will be photographed often and we want someone who pairs well with the little dog."

"Oh, sure."

"Alright, let's get down to brass tacks."

I walk D'Angelo through my resume. Milk watches but has no input. I feel a little embarrassed talking about driving Ubers and working at the Macy's in Times Square, but they're asking and so I will tell him. I had to send a bunch of references in, probably about how many jobs I’ve had total, and I walk with him through what every single one said. D'Angelo asks me a plethora of questions about what I would do in certain scenarios, times I had to act fast and what I did, and about various accreditations I have. He's particularly amused by my degree from The New School.

I don't bomb the interview, at least, but Milk doesn't say anything the entire time. I keep looking over at him for some sort of confirmation or acknowledgement and he just doesn't offer anything back. After about 20 minutes of sweaty talking, Milk finally leans over to D'Angelo and whispers something in his ear.

"Alright!" D'Angelo says, immediately standing up and dusting his paws. "Looks like we have everything we need from you, Toast. We'll have a decision for you before tomorrow morning."

"Oh, wow. Thank you. Thank you both for the opportunity."

The buck (his nametag says Rahul, now that I'm reading it) leads me to the elevators with a smile. There's another dog with a similar build as me in a similar suit sitting in the seats I was sitting in. I head down and outside, the summer air hitting me like a bus.

I'm exhausted. I take the 1 train all the way up to my shitty studio apartment, I strip down to nothing, open the window wide, and lay down on my mattress.

I definitely did not get that job. Given what the doorman said and the barrage of men who look just like me who also applied, I'm just another Bronx native in a sea of applicants. And they probably have experience being a bodyguard and got more of a reaction out of Milk than complete indifference.

I grab my phone and text my friend who passed along the job listing a thank you, then look up Milk. I don't even have to add "model" afterwards, because when you look up Milk photos of him come up. He has this big campaign with Wear and Tear where he's standing around in a white void in nothing but various pairs of briefs, but it isn't hard to look around and find a bunch of other photoshoots of him too. The ones that aren't in the white void are around New York City, some in places I've been to hundreds of times. There's one photoshoot of him in a pair of white briefs that was taken literally 5 blocks from my apartment.

He's really cute. Of course, looking through all of the social media threads between people with Milk profile pictures, I'm not the only person to think this. I click on an article called "Milk and Julia Fox spotted at an Upper West Side Restaurant" which has no more content than the title and a bunch of photos of the two of them eating dinner.

There's one photo, one of him laying on the ground with an orange Speedo around his thighs, his thick white butt completely exposed, that gets me a little excited sexually. He just looks fiiiine. He is just begging you to push yourself inside of him. My paw sneaks down to my quickly-hardening dick. I definitely should not be doing this to a photo of someone I might be hired to bodyguard, but I'm also definitely not getting this job.

I quickly look up "Milk nudes" but nothing comes up. There's a Reddit thread from r/askgaybros where someone asks if Milk has ever done nude photography, another person responding with the same image that got me hard in the first place, saying this is the extent of it. Okay. I go back to just 'Milk' and scroll through the photos, jerking off with fervor.

This dog is fucking cute. I am particularly focused on the soft pink of his belly. I would just love to give him a kiss there, to hold his thin waist in my paws and to explore deep inside of him. He's 6 foot but probably only weighs a little over a hundred pounds, all of that being fur and bones.

I was so fucking stressed, so the pleasure of jerking off to this little dog (as his manager said) is indescribable. It doesn't take me long to get myself right to the edge. I find that photo of him with the Speedo down around his legs and I finish myself off to it, looking into his sweet eyes as I let out a thick load.

After I finish, I don't even bother wiping the cum off my stomach. It's only 7 but the sun is streaming through the window and I am absolutely boiling. Between the relief of orgasm, the heat, and finally being done with the interview I was waiting all week for, I am quick to fall asleep.

Not two hours later, I am thrust awake from the sound of my phone ringing. I scramble to find it in the sheets. It's from an unknown number.

"Hello?" I say.

"Hello," Rahul the deer's suave voice says. "Am I speaking to Toast D'Augustino?"

"This is him."

"I'm calling from Atlas Modeling Agency. We are delighted to offer you the position of Milk's bodyguard."

"Oh, shit, really?" I bark. "Fuck, sorry."

Rahul laughs. "That's okay."

"Uh, uhh, yeah. I would love to accept the position."

"Great! Are you ready to receive some onboarding information?"

I lumber up and go to my kitchen counter. I grab a golf pencil and an old pizza box. "Uh huh."

I am in a daze as Rahul walks me through the information I need to know. I scribble the information down all over the pizza box, knowing I'm not going to be able to read my handwriting in the morning.

"And... that should be it!"

"Okay. Thank you. Thank you very much for this opportunity."

And with a click, the phone call is over.

I am astounded. In the blink of an eye, I went from Toast, the third guy named Tony D'Augustino at my schmuck Bronx high school, to the bodyguard of supermodel Milk. I stare at myself in the mirror. I'm a 6 foot 5 rottweiler, broad-shouldered, muscular and a little chubby. The cum from earlier is still caked onto my stomach.

I'm looking into the eyes of Milk's motherfucking bodyguard.

I go through a few days of training where I don't see Milk at all. I'm mostly working with Rahul, his assistant. I'm on call at all times with this job, likely up to 16 hours a day. I would complain, but the wage is an eyewatering number I never thought I would be paid in my life.

I am to meet Milk at his apartment every morning, walk with him to the car provided by the company (another luxury I didn't know was possible; although I am specifically not allowed to use it for matters that don't pertain to Milk), then drive him to whatever appointments, shoots, and meetings he has. I am to be with him the entire time he is out in public, not more than 10 feet away from him. My goal is to keep Milk safe, to keep people away from Milk, and to identify the proper method of egress for any scenario we are in. I'm given an earpiece and a handgun. (I honestly didn’t think my time in the military before college would go towards keeping fans away from a stick thin underwear model, but I guess I did swear to protect the people and Milk is one of those people.)

It's, frankly, insane, but of course there would be this level of security for someone as important as Milk. I've worked two jobs at a time before, I’ve been deployed, I've worked the graveyard shift straight through to 4 in the middle of the day. I've done it all. But I have never done something that requires this level of commitment. This is the life of a bodyguard. I already didn't have much of a life before, doing security work and driving for Uber in my free time, so at least I'll be doing all of that for a good reason now.

I'm really nervous the evening before my first day with Milk. My friend invites me out to get drinks but I tell him I need to get to bed early. Instead, I spend all night scouring the internet for interviews with Milk. I cannot find anything but a few interviews with D'Angelo where he repeats the same couple of talking points about Milk's 'unknowable, stunning beauty.' It doesn't seem like he runs his Instagram, but even then there's no video on it where he's speaking. A couple of gossip magazines call him notoriously quiet. A New York Times opinion piece says that Milk is the first male example of pretty people being seen, not heard, and the comments are filled with detractors who more or less agree with the article but want to defend Milk against the negative tone.

Now looking at his underwear photoshoots, I feel a little guilty. I jerked off to his photos thinking I would in a million years get the job. As his first line of protection, that's completley unacceptable. I will never do it again.

Once I've read just about every single piece of content about Milk on the internet, I look up and I realize it's three in the morning. I set multiple alarms and go to bed.

In the morning, I'm a bundle of nerves. I was told to dress far more casually than I did for the interview, and I was actually given multiple boards of clothing inspo and a neatly folded bag of clothes to pour through from his stylist. I suppose the idea is that I'm supposed to look more like his entourage or his friend than his bodyguard. The clothes are remarkably normal. I’m pretty sure I could dig out this creme colored tee-shirt and the khakis out of my closet, although I’ve probably gained a few pounds since I’ve worn them last.

I head down to pick up the car from the lot. It's brand fucking new slim, black model with tinted windows. Already sitting in the car is a 24-pack of those fancy glass water bottles and a motherfucking minifridge stocked with strawberries, olives, blue cheese, and hummus. This is all for Milk, I guess.

I drive up to his apartment on 127th street. He lives on an inconspicuous street lined with beautiful brownstones. I find a parking space right outside of his apartment and take a deep breath before heading up the stairs and pressing the buzzer, forgetting I have a copy of his keys in the car. I know where he's going and also he's an adult man, so it's not like I'm handling a broken bag of flour, but I am still exceedingly nervous. I still haven't said anything to the little dog.

"Hello?" Rahul over the intercom says. "Who is this?"

"Toast D'Augustino."

"Toast! Come on up!"

I guess there are other people with him there. I walk up three flights of stairs before I end up at his floor. The door opens. There is a whole production going on inside Milk’s apartment.

"Hey!" Rahul says. "Looking sharp."

"Thank you. What's, uh, going on here?"

"So today," the deer says, beckoning me inside. We step into the kitchen which is just about as big as my whole apartment. "We're shooting 'A Day In The Life of Milk' for New York Magazine."

"Oh shit!" I bite my lip. "I really need to stop swearing."

"You're just keeping it real, girl!"

Girl. I have never been called girl before.

In the living room, Milk is sitting on his couch in a bathrobe and a pair of briefs from a brand I've never heard of. There's a camera operator, a person adjusting some lights, D'Angelo, the stylist, Rahul, and me. On the table in front of Milk is a plate of bright green avocado toast and a cup of coffee.

"Can we get one with you holding the coffee?" the cameraman asks.

Milk picks up the coffee cup and takes a sip, giving that same coy look to the camera. D'Angelo steps next to me. "Look at it, man. Isn't he beautiful?"

"He is," I nod.

"Take it in. You're one of the only people in the world who gets to see this in action. This is the most exclusive club you'll ever be in." He nods. "What a dog."

I watch silently as Milk half-poses for the camera. He doesn't have to do anything and he looks fucking beautiful, D'Angelo shouting endless praise at him from behind the cameera.

"So, wait," I whisper to Rahul. "What part of the day is this? I thought his photoshoot wasn't until later."

"This is his breakfast," Rahul says. "It's candid."

"This doesn't seem very candid."

Rahul chuckles. "Yeah. But that's not what people are looking for. They're looking for the verisimilitude of candidness more than candid itself."

"Uh huh."

Milk's apartment is really nice and meticulously clean. I can't believe an actual person lives here. In front of me, Milk lets out a yawn and there's a flutter of clicks from the cameraman. "YES!" D'Angelo calls out. "Yes yes yes. That is what I like to see."

In person, Milk is just so gorgeous. I hate to say it, but seeing him innocently lounged out on the couch like that, his briefs almost slipping off of his body, his little white tail poking out from under his butt, I get half of a hard on. I excuse myself to the bathroom and splash my face with water in his marble black basin. He has a waterfall shower with a bunch of different fur products lined up along the rim. I feel like if I opened his medicine cabinet a rainbow would fall out.

Rahul seems aggressively gay and D'Angelo seems like a free love kind of 60s hippie. I don't know how they aren't both packing a stiffie watching Milk pose like that.

I head back out and count my lucky stars that I don't get another hard on during the rest of this photoshoot. Milk puts his half-finished coffee down (I guess it was candid after all) and stands up. D'Angelo walks Milk into his room.

A couple of minutes later, Milk comes out dressed in this odd oversized gray shirt where essentially the whole front is cut out. I can see his ribs, his stomach, his black briefs. From behind him, D'Angelo gives me a nod.

"Good morning, Milk," I say as he walks by me. Before he's given a chance to respond, though, there's a rush of everyone exiting the apartment with him. I'm rounding out the very back.

The cameraman, stylist, and lighting operator get into one car, while Rahul goes shotgun and Milk and D'Angelo pile into the back. I get behind the wheel and watch in the rear-view mirror as D'Angelo puts his big paw on Milk's bare shoulder. "Good job, little dog."

Milk whispers something back to him. I turn my ears to try and hear what they're saying, but Rahul stops me. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Mmhmm. Let's get you where you're supposed to go."

Traffic sucks but Milk and D'Angelo wouldn't know it sitting in the back of the car. I stop at traffic lights by groups of people who don't know that Milk is sitting 5 feet away from them. Behind me, I watch Milk eat a single strawberry which stains the fur around his mouth red.

"Arlight," D'Angelo says. "Hope the union people don't mind." And he snaps a photo of Milk just like that.

After twice as long as it would have taken to take the 2 train, we end up at the studio. I park, then head around the back to open the door for Milk. As he gets out of the car, onlookers literally stop and stare at him. At least one person takes a photo that I'm in.

I quickly guide Milk into the building. It seems like the receptionist already knows what's up, because with a hoof on Milk's back, she leads him straight to the elevator. I look back at D'Angelo and Rahul who are rushing into the building just behind us.

Upstairs, there is a flurry of people throughout the studio. I’ve lost sight of Milk, the one thing I’m specifically not supposed to do, but it seems like D’Angelo and Rahul don’t mind. I stand in the back of the room and watch everything happen.

In front of me, a fluffy brown and white dog steps out in a bathrobe. Based on the way he’s talking to an assistant while another person powders his face, I’d guess he’s another model being photographed today. He’s stunning, with one blue eye and one brown eye.

A few minutes later, Milk steps out in another bathrobe. The two of them greet each other and then step out onto the set. There’s a simple, neat bed being lit from just about every single angle that they both sit on the edge of. D’Angelo positions himself right next to the camera operator as the two dogs shed their bathrobes and a production assistant carries them away. Both of them are dressed in white briefs from Wear and Tear.

I watch D’Angelo gesticulate wildly as the two dogs listen. The brown dog is distinctly more animated than Milk, but he gives that same supermodel stare in between profuse nods.

Eventually, I guess, D’Angelo is ready to begin. A hush falls over the rest of the people as D’Angelo works his magic. The dogs pose separately on the bed and they take photos of that for a while, then D’Angelo steps in and positions them on top of each other. They’re sort of lounging pressed against one another in this unbothered way, staring at the camera like this wouldn’t otherwise be a particularly intimate moment.

They do this for a while. I stand there, transfixed.

“Do we have the intimacy coordinator on standby?” D’Angelo calls out. An ibex steps up to him and they talk for a second, then she goes out and talks to the dogs. They both nod at her. “Alright, puppies, how do we feel about a little kiss?”

Milk vaguely nods. “Let’s do it,” the brown dog says.

“Mihail, can you just give Milk a little lick on the cheek there?”

He does. The camera operator eats it up.

“Yes yes yes,” D’Angelo cheers. “Just like that.”

Mihail, the fluffy brown dog, keeps licking at Milk’s face, then he puts a paw on Milk’s cheek and turns his muzzle towards him. The two dogs start properly making out with each other.

“Fucking beautiful,” D’Angelo says. “They’re going to fucking eat this up.”

Mihail pulls away and Milk is left sitting there with his mouth agape, spit dripping down his soft, flexed tongue. I stare at his mouth and somehow between all of the scantily-clad dogs and the making out, that’s when I get my second hard-on of the day.

Even if I’m not that big, my erection is extremely obvious in these tan pants, so I excuse myself to the craft services table (Uber never gave me a craft services table, by the way.) I linger there for a bit, piling my plate with rugelach and those little ham and cheese things rolled up into a pinwheel. I’m just going to get hard again if I stare at Milk and Mihail making out or fucking each other doggy style or whatever D’Angelo has them doing now.

I want to talk to Rahul, the only other person I really know here, but he’s talking to the stylist. Normally I have to be good at striking up a conversation with anyone, but that’s when I’m with people who are like me. Every single person here is, despite my college degree, way more educated than me and way more sophisticated than me.

I look around until I see another guy who’s basically doing what I’m doing, a stylish white horse dude with a giant horn as if he was a unicorn. I don’t know, maybe I’ve reached the tax bracket where the guys really are unicorns. Getting closer to him, I realize it’s a prosthetic horn, obviously. He’s standing near where I was standing earlier, watching Mihail and Milk going at it.

“Yo, boss,” I say. “What’s good?”

“Just appreciating the live entertainment,” he says with a grin in a thick Spanish accent. “I’m Yami.”

“Yo. I’m Toast.”

“Ah, Milk’s new bodyguard, hm?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m the Mihail’s makeup artist,” he says with a nod, “And his fiance.”

“Oh, you and Mihail…” I glance up at Mihail and Milk, who are laying on top of each other with their bulges pressed together, the intimacy coordinator just out of frame. I’m not sure you can even see their underwear from the camera’s view. “Are you okay with him making out with Milk?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Doesn’t that make you worried he’s going to, like, lose feelings for you or something?”

“I mean, he better still like me since we’re getting married in two weeks.”

“Oh, shit, really? Congratulations.”

“It’s just part of the business.” He guffaws. “Mihail, Milk and I go way back, way before Milk ever made it big. This is Milk doing us a little favor, actually.”

“I guess I’d let my fiance make out with someone else if it meant global recognition.”

“I’d let Mihail make out with him for way less.” He chuckles. “How are you liking the job so far, friend?”

“Everything about it is so excellent. I’ve heard some horror stories from my bodyguard friend but Milk seems to be super chill and everyone has been great.” I pause. Mihail starts straddling Milk. “But it’s hard to get a read on him.”

“Oh, relax. He likes you.”

“Really?”

“He’s always been very particular about who he lets in. He’s not gonna let any schmuck be around him 24/7.”

“I kind of am just any schmuck.”
“ALRIGHT!” D’Angelo calls out, the intimacy coordinator tugging at his sleeve. “Let’s take two! Two minutes!”

Mihail slips on his bathrobe and steps over to us. Yami wraps his muscular arms tight around Mihail and brings him in for a kiss. The middle school kiss transference principle goes through my head as I watch it happen. At least a little bit of Milk’s spit is in Yami’s mouth. “Mihail, this is Toast. Toast, Mihail.”

“Toast!” Mihail exclaims. His eyes shine as he turns to me and smiles. “Hi hi hi. Nice to meet you.”

“It’s nice to meet you too.”
“Toast was just explaining how hard it is to get a read on Milk.”

“Really?” Mihail says, tilting his head. “I find him so easy to read.”

“... Yeah?”

“No, I’m kidding. Oh my god. Try making plans with Milk. Do you wanna go see a movie? Do you wanna get dinner? Wanna go clubbing? C’mon, don’t give me that face, Milk.” He giggles. “Oh my god, trying not to get a boner is so hard.”

“Tell me about it,” I blurt. They both laugh, but I am thoroughly embarrassed that I just said that.

“They can’t get you an ice cube or something?” Yami asks.

“I’m trying to think about that bad Chinese food place next to our apartment but I’m not giving the face I need to. I feel like I’m blowing it.”

“You’re not blowing it, mi cachorrito.”

“Yeah, but Milk is like, serving cunt every second of every day and he’s not even getting hard doing it.”

“D’Angelo loves you. He fucking loves you.”

“He loves Milk. I’m just here.”

“ALRIGHT EVERYONE!” D’Angelo calls. “GET BACK HERE!”

“Has the self-doubt killed your boner yet?”

“Just about.”

Yami smiles and kisses Mihail on the forehead. “Go get ‘em.”
Mihail wags his tail and runs back to the bed where Milk was sitting the whole time. They throw off their bathrobes together.
“That’s the man I’m going to marry,” Yami grins, “In bed with another man.”

That goes on for a while. I didn’t think a photo shoot could possibly take this long (to be honest, and I’m sorry for thinking this, but I didn’t think models had real jobs at all), but the hours trudge along. At the end of the day, I haven’t done anything at all but drive Milk for 25 minutes and get enough boners to lift a car. D’Angelo wraps up production and Rahul saunters over to me, clipboard in his hoof.

“Should be good to just drive him home now,” he says.

“Is there more ‘day in the life of’ stuff to shoot?”

“Uh, we’re going to do that tomorrow.”

“Kind of defeats the point, right?”

“New York Magazine readers don’t know the difference.”

“I would say that is despicable and low-brow.”

That really amuses Rahul. “You read New York Magazine?”

“I’m familiar with the sections.”

I guess the idea of a bodyguard reading New York Magazine is hilarious to him. Regardless, I finally have work to do. I find Milk chatting with Mihail and Yami, but when I get over to them Milk seems to have clammed up.

“Can you drive us back to Milk’s place?” Yami asks. “We’re gonna order out Thai.”

“Ooh, can you drive to the Thai restaurant and pick up the Thai?” Mihail adds.

“He’s not a delivery driver.”

“Yeah, but when was the last time you were friends with someone with a personal bodyguard?”

“I did Tamika London’s makeup once on a talk show.”

“Oh, she is fierce.”

“She smells great. Like honey lavender.”

“I did not like FurHouse though. They just talked about their feelings the whole time. Boo.”

“I can drive you guys, yeah,” I add to break up the Tamika London conversation.

“Yay!” Mihail says. “Let’s go!”

There’s about three seconds where the three of them are outside but not in the car, and I don’t get to do any bodyguard work in that time. They talk in the back but I can’t really hear what their conversation is about. I go pick up the Thai food, then drive them back to Milk’s apartment. I carry the food with me as I walk them inside.

It’s nice seeing Milk’s apartment filled with friends laughing together instead of cameras and lights. Milk laughs too, but I missed what they were talking about. They crowd around the kitchen counter and pull takeout containers out of the paper bag as I stand back and watch them.

“Do you… want me to clear out?” I ask.

“I think we’ll be okay, right?” Yami asks.

Milk nods.

“Thank you!” Mihail says. “Have a good night, Toast.”

And that’s it. I step out of the apartment, lock the door, and go down to the car . Somehow, even though I didn’t work more than 45 minutes total today, I’m exhausted. I sit in the car with my head against the steering wheel and I just breathe for a second.

Then, of course, New York being New York, someone pulls up behind me and honks. I quickly back out of the spot and they take my place. I drive home, circle around for 10 minutes looking for a parking spot, then load up the meter overnight.

I go upstairs, throw all my fake bodyguard clothes off, and lie down on my mattress once again. Between the dogs making out, Yami’s endorsement of his fiance rubbing dicks with another man, and all of that mind-numbing standing around, it was a long day. I thought it was odd that, throughout all of that, I didn’t get a single word in with Milk. Not only that, but he still didn’t say anything.

Now that I’m thinking about it, with the way they were ushering me out, Milk, Mihail and Yami are probably having a threesome right now. So at least they get to end the day well.

But as I’m brushing my teeth and getting ready to go to bed, the phone rings. It’s an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Hi?” someone with a thick Brooklyn accent says. “Is this Toast?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Milk. We wanna go clubbing. Can you drive us?”

It turns out, the job of a bodyguard is the same as a personal chauffeur with a little more waiting involved. Honestly, if I wasn’t working for Milk right now, I’d probably be in my Uber driving people around anyway. There’s something very pleasing about being at Milk’s beck and call and having him finally call on me, like I’m actually doing my fucking job. I’m rocking out to the radio and finger drumming on the wheel as I make my way back to Milk’s apartment with significantly less traffic than earlier in the day.

I park and head upstairs, swinging Milk’s keys around my forefinger. I give the door three solid knocks, then make my way in. Inside, the three of them are standing around in the kitchen, a bottle of vodka about halfway finished on the counter.

“Hey, boss,” I say.

Milk is dressed in this really tight-looking white denim bustier top that Yami is currently struggling to zip all the way up, a very short plastic skirt that shows off his black briefs, arm warmers, and a different color of those cowboy boots he was wearing the day he interviewed me. He looks stunning and he’s showing just about as much skin as you can show off without being naked. He looks at me with those coy eyes and I can’t help but smile.

Mihail steps out in a gray crop top, all of the fluff of his chest pouring out, and large distressed denim jeans with a jockstrap poking out the back. Yami, a little older and a little taller than the two dogs, is wearing a houndstooth fitted shirt unbuttoned about halfway down and white khakis, his unicorn horn prosthetic still hanging on.

“Yay yay yay!” Mihail exclaims. “Thank you for coming to get us!”

“It’s all in a day’s work. You three look good.”

“Where’s your club outfit, papi?” Yami laughs.

“Oh, I thought this was, I thought this was,” I open my arms out, wearing the same sweat-stained thing from earlier. “To be honest, I was sitting on my bed naked 25 minutes ago.”

Yami and Mihail laugh. I look at Milk trying to get some sort of reaction out of him now that he’s finally spoken his first words to me, but he still offers nothing.

“Are you ready to head out?”

“Yes,” Yami says, before putting a finger up. He takes a swig of vodka, still holding his finger up, then another, then finally puts it down. “Yes.”

Milk leads us out of the apartment, Yami and Mihail holding hands as they walk out. Even just walking you can see a peak of Milk’s black panties, and when he bends over to grab his bag, you can see everything.

I load them all up in the car without much trouble, then watch them explore the minifridge in the rear-view mirror. “So, where are we heading?”

“llamame in Brooklyn?” Mihail upspeaks. “We used to go there a lot before Milk hit it big.”

“Yeah, except we’d have to take the Q for an hour and a half to get there,” Yami adds.

“Hopefully they’ll still let him in. He’ll probably ruin the underground vibe.”

“We are singlehandedly gentrifying llamame tonight, bitches.”

It’s more of the same as I drive them the million miles all the way down to Brooklyn. There’s some sort of pileup on the Grand Central Parkway so, during a lull in their conversation, I speak up. “Yo, boss.”

Milk pokes his head up. I watch him in the rear-view mirror.

“What do you want me to do tonight? Are you planning on flirting around a little? Should I keep the guys away from you?”

“Oh my god,” Mihail butts in with. “You’re going to need to be on him at all times. Guys flock to Milk like a fucking seagull to french fries.”

“I’m glad we don’t have to do the whole club thing anymore,” Yami responds.

“You’re the horniest bitch in that place,” Mihail kids.

I merge lanes, waiting for a response. “Milk?”

“I just want to have fun with Yami and Mihail,” he says in his flat Brooklyn accent, “I don’t really want anyone else around me.”

“You got it, boss.”

When we arrive, I find parking down the street and pay for the meter. I get the guys out of the car and stay an inch behind Milk as we walk down the street. It’s nearing midnight so this block is a mix of people flocking to the club and unsavory types that I don’t want around Milk. The entrance to the club, an assuming warehouse, has a line literally around the block, but as soon as the bouncer sees us he gives me a grin and ushers us in. Every single person in that line is staring at Milk. A few people take photos. I dap up the bouncer and guide the boys inside.

“God,” Mihail smiles, “This place used to be underground!”

It’s dark in here. The lighting is a deep red and there is bubbly foam everywhere falling all over the audience from the ceiling. The DJ is playing some sort of incredibly loud synth pop. The dance floor is absolutely packed, so I make sure to stay right behind Milk as the boys worm their way to the center.

They start dancing with each other immediately. Milk seems to be in the flow of it, sticking his arms up and gyrating around. I can’t get a good look at it but I’m sure his ass is pretty much out right now. The three close their eyes and dance together.

I’ve never been a clubgoer, more of a club employee who has to be there until 5 in the morning, so dancing doesn’t come naturally to me. I feel weird being the only one not moving in this crowd of people slathering each other in thick foam bubbles, so I nod and bounce just enough that I don’t look out of place.

Milk looks so happy. He’s not smiling, but he looks so into the dancing. The way he’s standing is exposing his whole tummy and the lighting just makes him look absolutely beautiful. Then he opens his eyes and looks right at me with that same coy expression. If it was anyone else, I’d think he was inviting me to dance with him.

No one seems to notice that Milk’s there, or rather, no one seems to be able to tell it’s him. Over the next couple of hours, Mihail and Yami go and get the three of them what I would call a few too many drinks. Their dancing gets a little less dignified and they bark at each other a little louder. Mihail and Yami, at least. Milk kind of stays the same. Besides having to force a few guys away who get a little handsy with Milk, everything goes very well.

Eventually, Mihail and Yami wander off. I see them chatting with someone else out of the corner of my eye, leaving Milk to dance by himself. I watch him, his slim body, his little tail wagging as he enjoys himself out on the dance floor.

Yami taps my shoulder. “Hey, papi!”
“What’s up?”

“Mihail and I are gonna, uh–” He motions to Mihail, who’s talking to this larger bull. “We’re gonna go have some fun, alright?”

“Are you gonna be having that fun too?”

Yami smiles. “So much fun.”

“Are you going to need a ride home?”

“I think we’ve mooched off of Milk enough. We’ll get an Uber home.”

That might be me too, I think to myself as I nod at Yami. Yami, Mihail and the bull reunite and make their way out of my eyesight.

That leaves just me and Milk. The song switches to this slow, sensual one and the lighting turns a deep blue. The lights are right behind him so he’s framed in this lovely silhouette as he slowly shifts his body around. Once again, he opens his eyes and looks right at me. And fuck, I still don’t really know if he wants me to dance, but I feel it in my body and in our eye contact and I make my way over to him.

And then, standing in front of Milk, I realize that he is really, really drunk.

He slumps into my arms as I stand in front of him. What I was interpreting as sexy dancing was actually him stumbling around, but his face was the same the whole time so I couldn’t really tell. I put a paw on his back and tilt his face towards mine. “Are you okay?”

“I had too much to drink…” he mumbles into my chest.

“Oh, puppy…” I say, tucking his face back down. “Let’s get you out of here, alright?”

He feebly nods at me and wraps his paws around my outstretched arms. As I guide him through the crowd, I think I might have to pick him up and carry him, but he makes it out just fine. Outside, and I’m not expecting this, there’s a couple of men with cameras who immediately kneel to take photos of us. Fucking paparazi! What kind of life am I living?

I go into bodyguard mode, stepping in front of Milk and getting ready to ask the bouncer if there’s another way we can get out. Somehow, Milk steps out from behind me and struts down that street like he isn’t drunk at all. He gives the paparazzi his little coy look and lets his butt poke out a little as I follow right behind him down to the car.

“No photos, guys,” I say, putting an arm up as I guide him into the back of the car. “No photos.”

It’s a flutter of clicks as I pull out of there. My heart is pounding, actually, which I didn’t expect, but I manage to keep a calm face for Milk. In the back, Milk is laying with his head on the leather seat.

“You okay back there?”

“Mmhmm…” Milk moans.

“Do you want water? Want me to stop?”

“No…”

“Okay, boss. Just let me know.”

I drive him all the way back. He doesn’t throw up in the back of the car, which, given the state that he’s in, is kind of a miracle. Every so often I try to lightly tempt him with music or water but he doesn’t budge. I keep glancing back at him just in case he falls asleep so I can stop and put him in the recovery position, but he lays there with his eyes slightly open the whole time. Yami is, I think, being cucked right now, and I’m driving a drunk person home like I always do.

Luckily there’s no one on Milk’s street. I park then go around back to get Milk out. “Are you feeling okay to walk, boss?”

“Mmmm,” he whimpers.

“Do you want me to carry you?”

“Mmmm,” he whimpers again, same tone but I’m pretty sure in the affirmative. I could pick Milk up and throw him against the wall so wiggling my paws under him and coaxing him out of the car is nothing. I open the door with one paw as I carry him bridal style, his head tucked into my chest. “I’m sorry…” he whispers.

“Why are you sorry, Milk?” I coo as I step up the stairs with him. I could probably run up but I’m being very careful to not disorient him anymore. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“I don’t want to be a burden…”

“It’s my job to take care of you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. Here.” I jiggle his keys out my pocket and get his door open. “Do you need to use the bathroom?”

“Mmm mmm.”

“Alright. Let’s get you to bed, alright?”

“Okay…”

I drop him on his bed. He sits there and looks at me, leaning on his forearms, and he looks like just the feeblest little dog in the world. “Can you help me…?” he mumbles.

“What do you need?”

“Get this off?”

“Your top?”

He barely nods.

“Okay, Milk.” I sit next to him and help zip off his bustier. It basically explodes off of him once I give the zipper a nudge. His back is so bony. He flops back onto the bed and whimpers. “Hm?”

“This too…”

“Your skirt?”

He nods.

I step in front of him, undo his belt, and pull his skirt off. I don’t feel anything but a protective instinct even as he’s laying in front of me in his little black briefs. Seeing how thin he is, how his waistband bridges over his stomach without touching it, all I feel is the desire to keep him safe and to make him happy. He’s just so small, so dainty, such a little dog. I lift him up and get him under the covers in the recovery position. It’s like moving around a potted plant.

“There we go. That’s better, isn’t it?”

He whines.

“What’s wrong?”

“My… vitamin C… skincare routine…”

“You can do it in the morning, alright?”

He nods feebly.

“Are you sleepy, little dog?”

He has no response to that, his eyes fully closed now. I pull the covers over him tight, then watch him for a couple of seconds just to make sure he’s still breathing.

I go into his crazy bathroom and find him an Advil (no rainbows fall out of the cabinet, although his 15-step skincare routine almost does), then pour him a tall glass of water. He’s sleeping soundly when I step back into his bedroom and I place it all next to him. I watch him sleep for a second.

I shouldn’t leave. If he throws up in his sleep, I want to be there. And more than that, I want to be here for him. I imagine him waking up in the morning alone and the thought just makes me so viscerally sad. Standing against his wall, I slide until I’m sitting and I just sit and listen to him breathe.

“Goodnight, Milk,” I whisper. “Sweet dreams.”

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