Copyright© 2006 by Carlos Malenkov

Greg shivered as he stared at the wall. Even with the temperature steady at 84, blood heat, he was cold. Maybe it was the tension. Or knowing that he was being watched.

At his side, Marilyn breathed softly. She was stunning. Tall and blonde and soft and round in all the right places. Every teenage boy's fantasy lover. And she was his, his for the taking. If only he had the nerve to take her.

It was tough being a virgin at 18. Not knowing the moves or what exactly to do with a woman, even when she was naked and all spread out and ready and willing. But then, that was why he had been picked for this deal. Because all those folks out there were curious to see what would happen.

Welcome to the ultimate in Reality TV: The Glass Box

Yes, folks, every week we bring you new players and new situations. In today's show we have an eager, but shy adolescent male, barely of legal age, and an experienced older women. Let's call it: Beauty and the Geek. And both of them stark naked in the Glass Box for your viewing pleasure!

The Box wasn't really glass. Not that it mattered. Think of a 15-by-15-foot plush mattress, bounded by ten-foot high plexiview walls and roofed over by a mirror ceiling. In one corner an open Porta-shitter with absolutely no provision for privacy. It was sort of an illuminated transparent plastic jail cell suspended in mid-air. And, with dozens of high-resolution videocams and mikes strategically positioned at various angles -- above, sideways, and below. Seeing all. Hearing all. Recording all. All! Every kiss. Every whisper. Every touch, every fondle... And, transmitting it, all of it, live. It was like being a bug under a microscope.

A million fucking dollars he was supposed to get for this gig. Even if he didn't manage to boff the broad, he'd still come out of it rich. And, a celeb to boot. But, think of the hit to his reputation if he couldn't get it on. And, so far, four hours into show, he hadn't been able to. Couldn't get revved up. Couldn't get it up!

Every move you make going out at light-speed on international TV. Think of it! Every time you let slip a fart millions laugh, and they're laughing at you. Every time you use the can, millions are getting their rocks off peeping at you, watching you peeing and pooping, and wiping your damn ass! All those people watching! How he hated them! Those stupid, gaping, masturbating morons getting their jollies watching him! He looked down at his limp noodle and slammed his fist into the padded floor.

I had a hunch the guy'd turn out to be a schmuck. A dipshit. A gold-plated asshole.

Shut up, Larry. The review panel agreed he was perfect.

Perfect, right. He was so eminently qualified. He's an erotic story site groupie on the Net. That alone had to have made him a super sexpert. Not to mention that he blew away the surrogates in the test screening. Fucked them a mile a minute.

Those were inflatable vinyl dummies. Not the real thing.

So, what do we do now? Two hours left in the broadcast, and no action to speak of. The ratings on this episode are in the toilet, and no wonder. It's a total fucking disaster.

Calm down. That's why there's Plan B. Ready to switch over the video feed?

To the other Box? The one with the lookalikes? The pros?

Sure. With the seamless transition electronics, the viewing public will never know the difference. But, they'll get the hot and heavy stuff they're expecting. The Greg substitute can go all night if he has to. Unlike the fucking original.

"All right, chump, up and out!"

"What???" Greg jumped to his feet, startled. The far wall of the Glass Box had dropped out of sight and three burly techs were standing there staring at him.

"Show's over, friend. Now, be a jolly good fellow and trundle on down to the dressing room to get cleaned up."

Marilyn languidly sat up, studiously ignoring the smirking studio stooges. In no great hurry she got to her feet and walked out, her swaying naked behind riveting the eyes of the men following. Greg had a raging erection (too late!), and no damn place to stick it.

"What???"

"You really should have read the contract, Greggy baby. That's right, the non-performance clause. If you don't fuck, you get fucked. So, instead of the million, you get bupkis, though with generous travel expenses thrown in. It comes to a grand total of $573.48. Don't spend it all in one place, buddy boy."

Humiliated! Cheated! With his reputation in tatters and teetering on the ragged edge of poverty. Things were not looking good in Greg's little corner of the world.

"Hey! Greg! You lookin damfine! Gimme the highest five you got!"

Shit! He just had to run into Jimmy from the neighborhood. What was he going to say? That he was sorry he'd let everybody down? That he wasn't usually that bad in the sack? That it was an impersonator up there on the TV screen, an actor with a face like his doing a friggin comedy routine?

"Greg, you the man! You tore that bitch up. Musta set her hole on fire. Sure, not much action the first coupla hours, but I betcha you was just warmin up, huh?"

"Yeah, Jimbo, you got it. Warming up. Say, you ain't puttin me on now, are you? Y'know, maybe I wasn't at my bestest up there in the Box, but with all them cameras all around and knowin everybody's watching, it's kinda rough..."

"You joking, right? Greg, you musta boffed the broad at least half a dozen times, up, down, and sideways. Sheeit! Where'd you learn about that there double-strokin shit, and doing her from behind and all the while fingerin the clit? And you a certified virgin before that? Sheeit!"