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.