International Manwhore – Part 4

Everyone in this story is 18+

The next day hit like a hangover without the fun part. I met Asher at some upscale shopping district in Mayfair, the kind of place where the air smelled like old money and judgment. I was in my usual gear—a Ralph Lauren polo shirt tucked into Nautica chinos, Abercrombie sneakers scuffed from too many frat parties. Comfortable, American, me.

Asher showed up looking like he’d just been air-dropped from a Milan runway—tailored chinos, a linen shirt so crisp it could file taxes, and that satchel (sorry, manpurse) swinging off his shoulder like it came with its own publicist. He gave my outfit the kind of look you reserve for roadkill.

“Christ, Tucker,” he said, shaking his head. “You look like you're about to tailgate a football game. Adrien's world isn't beer pong and flip-flops. It's old European money—subtle, timeless, the kind of sophistication that whispers 'I'm richer than God' without screaming it.”

I rolled my eyes, hands in my pockets. “What, like your posh Brit vibe? I’m fine. This is who I am—preppy, Ivy League. J. Crew, Hollister, Banana Republic. It works on women.”

Asher's smirk was sharp as a knife. “Women aren't the target here, manwhore. Adrien would take one look at you and think 'American tourist.' We need to fix that.” He grabbed my arm, steering me toward a boutique that looked more like a museum than a store. “Come on. Time to upgrade.”

The shop was all polished wood and soft lighting, with racks of clothes that probably cost more than my car. Asher rattled off orders to the attendant like he owned the place—Brioni suits, Zegna shirts, Loro Piana cashmere. I felt like a Ken doll being dressed by a sadist. He shoved me into a dressing room, piling my arms with hangers.

“Strip,” he said through the curtain. “Let's see what we're working with.”

I peeled off my polo, kicking off my sneakers and chinos, standing there in my American Eagle boxers—generic blue plaid, nothing fancy. The mirror showed what I knew: toned from gym sessions, a body that turned heads at parties. Straight guy's pride. I tried on the first shirt—a silk blend that felt like butter but looked too stuffy.

The curtain rustled, and Asher poked his head in without knocking. “Not bad, but—” His eyes dropped to my boxers, and he burst out laughing. “American Eagle? Really? You look like you're auditioning for a frat porn flick.”

I crossed my arms over my chest, face heating. “Fuck off. They're comfortable. What, you got silk thongs or something?”

Asher stepped in fully, closing the curtain behind him. The space was tight, his cologne filling it—sandalwood again, mixing with the store's leather scent. “Thongs? Please. But if you want to blend in with Adrien's crowd, lose the frat boy undies. Try these.” He tossed me a pair of slim Celine boxer briefs—black, fitted, expensive.

I snorted. “No way. I'm not parading around in those.”

He raised an eyebrow, leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Parade? It's underwear, Tucker. Or are you shy?” His voice dropped, teasing. “Leona just wants you to get eased into being comfortable being naked in front of men and such.”

I barked a laugh, dropping the boxers casually, no big deal. “Bro, I was in a fraternity. I already have that covered.” I stood there shirtless and bare, grabbing the briefs like it was nothing—because it wasn't. Locker rooms, keggers, dicks, I'd seen it all.

Asher's eyes flicked down, then back up, his smirk widening. “I'm starting to get why you were chosen for this, at least 5th on the list... behind me, and probably Harry Styles... Now put that thing into these classy Celine boxerbriefs before you gauge someone's eyes out.”

I flushed, stepping into them quick, the fabric hugging tight. “Hilarious. Keep dreaming, Milford.” But I had to admit, in the mirror, it looked... different. More refined, less college kid. Asher nodded approvingly, adjusting the shirt on my shoulders, his fingers brushing my skin in a way that was just annoying enough to ignore.

We spent the afternoon like that—him invading the dressing room, critiquing every piece, turning my preppy wardrobe into something sleek and European. By the end, my wallet (meaning Dad’s credit card)— was lighter by a few grand—tailored suits, leather loafers, subtle watches. Asher approved, saying I looked like old money now: refined, understated, ready to infiltrate Adrien's world. But as we left, I felt like a fraud in fancy wrapping.

◆◆◆

Back in my hotel room that night, the new clothes hung in the closet like a costume. I needed to prep—really prep. If I had to seduce a guy, I figured I should at least see if I could get in the mindset. I grabbed my laptop, pulled up a porn site, and typed in "Gay porn dick in hole." Straight to the point, right? Results flooded the screen—amateur clips, pro stuff, all promising the basics.

I clicked one: two guys in a dimly lit room, one bent over a bed, the other behind him. The camera zoomed in as the guy pushed right in, picking up speed fast. Skin slapped against skin, grunts filling the speakers. I leaned back, hand on my waistband, waiting for... something. But my body stayed limp, uninterested. I fast-forwarded—more thrusting, close-ups of sweat-slicked backs, a hand gripping sheets. Funny how it looked like a bad workout video, all effort and no spark. I tried rubbing a bit, focusing on the mechanics, but nada. Nothing. Like trying to start a car with no gas.

“Fuck this,” I muttered, switching to another clip. Same search, different guys—tattooed, muscular, one riding the other reverse. The bottom guy's face twisted in exaggerated pleasure, the top thrusting up like a jackhammer. I laughed out loud—it was ridiculous, like a parody of sex. My dick didn't twitch. Not even a half-chub. I sat there, hand idle, staring at the screen. How was I supposed to fake this with Adrien if even the raunchiest stuff left me cold? I like women, damn it. their curves, throaty laughs got me rock hard in seconds. This? It was like watching grass grow, if grass grew in awkward positions.

I slammed the laptop shut, frustration boiling over. Hilarious, really—I'd gone viral for a sex tape with a girl, and now I couldn't even get it up for mission prep. This was going to be impossible. I was as straight as they come, and no amount of training or porn was changing that. I'd have to act my ass off, or the whole thing would crash and burn.