Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (41 page)

A student leaning into his open locker, casual
ly
reading a textbook, done in shades of blue except for his skin, feeling a bit hidden and distant.
One of a dozen paintings on exhibit from last semester
’
s composition class, the only art class I did okay in.
I was surprised he noticed it
–
that anyone did.

“
Yeah,
”
I croaked out.
“
One of my classes.
”

“
Art major, huh?
”
He squatted beside me, those amazing blue eyes piercing into mine, that fan-fuckintastic smile on his face, those perfect legs seeming even more perfect in their sudden fullness, the golden down curling up his thighs to his crotch.

Shit, Joe, don
’
t look at his crotch!
Not when he
’
s this close!
I concentrated on closing my sketchbook and took a sip of the melted ice in my drink.
I was having trouble breathing
.
M
y mouth would have made the
Mojave Desert
seem like a rain forest
,
and I was suddenly terrified about the tuna sandwich I
’
d just eaten.
But he didn
’
t seem to notice, so I nodded
,
hoping I didn
’
t look like a monkey in heat
,
and said,
“
Third year.
”

“
I
’
m dual
…
sports an
’
communications.
Name
’
s Aaron Friesen,
”
and he held out his hand.
I took it
,
and just the fact that I was touching him in any way, form or fashion sent screaming lighting down my back to my thighs and brought about what has to have been the fastest erection in modern history.
Thank God
,
I
’
m into briefs instead of boxers.

“
Joe Martin.
”
See even my name
’
s average.
Well
not exactly.
It
’
s Joseph Allen Martin, also known as
“
Jam-The-Cat
”
in high school
,
and for none of the dumb reasons you can think of; just mostly because I was heavy into art and used that to keep the dicks who weren
’
t afraid of my jock brothers off my butt.
I
’
d do sketches of them for their girlfriend
s
of the moment and that seemed to get them plenty of play in the back of daddy
’
s car, so I was cool enough for that
and for other reasons
,
and now I
’
m drifting
close to hallucinating because of this gorgeous guy squatting next to me.
Not good.
Focus on Aaron, you dumb shit.

“
Listen, Joe, I
’
m gonna be straight with you.
(Pun intended?)
I knew you
’
re an artist.
I
’
ve seen you workin
’
in your sketchbook and Andrea – that
’
s my girl – her roomie
’
s seen more of your stuff on exhibit in the art department.
She says she saw one that looked a lot like me.
”

Yeah
late autumn by the dorms, sitting under a pecan tree, three-quarters right, soft green
T-shirt
, tan Dockers
,
sunglasses, done in easy watercolors and – oh, shit, he
’
s gonna bawl me out for being a fag and staring at him so much!

“
I
...
I just liked the composition of it,
”
I muttered,
“
a student under the tree
...
studying.
”

“
Cindy liked it, too,
”
he said, still even and smooth.
“
Fact is, I was wonderin
’
.
My folks
’
anniversary
’
s in a couple weeks, and I never know what to get
‘
em.
And my brother, Josh, he always gets
‘
em just the right thing; don
’
t know how he does it.
Andrea says since it
’
s their twenty-fifth, I should get
‘
em something silver, but I was thinkin
’
, y
’
know, a
...
a portrait or somethin
’
painted would be perfect, this year.
So could I
...
could I buy that one from you?
”

I just looked at him, blank.
I would never in a million years have expected him to want anything I
’
d done.
Period.
And he wanted to buy this second rate toss-off piece of crap from me?
Man.
All I could think to say was,
“
It
’
s just a watercolor.
”

“
I know,
”
he said, looking bashful (Jesus, God, I wanted to hold him).
“
But Cindy, that
’
s Andrea
’
s roomie, she said she knew it was me the second she saw it, and I think my folks
’
d like that.
I could get it framed and
…
”

“
I
’
ll do a better one if you want.
”

He looked at me, taken as much by surprise by what I said as I was.
“
Really?
You mean, like off a picture?
”

“
No,
”
I said, without thinking,
“
no, pose for me and I could
...
I could do something in oils on canvass.
It
’
d take a couple of sittings, but it
’
d
...
it
’
d mean a lot more.
Be a lot more impressive.
”

“
Wow.
”
He thought about it for a moment then looked at me, sideways.
“
But how much
’
d that be?
I don
’
t have much money.
”

We could work something out in trade, slammed into my brain but I caught it before it hit my vocals, and all that came out was,
“
Forty bucks.
”

“
You kiddin
’
me?
”

“
No.
That
’
ll cover the canvass and materials.
”

“
But that
’
s leavin
’
nothin
’
for you.
”
And he had this little I-know-what-you
’
re-up-to smile on his lips.

“
I
...
I
’
d get to work with a real model.
I
’
ve never had one, before
,
”
w
hich was a lie.
I just never had one I wanted to pounce on before.
But he seemed to accept it.

“
A couple nights, you said?
”

“
Yeah.
Uh, a few hours Saturday or Sunday then a couple nights over the next week to get the details down.
And if it doesn
’
t wind up perfect, I
...
I
’
ll give you the watercolor.
”

“
Sounds great.
”

“
Okay.
When
’
s good for you?
”

“
I dunno
...
Saturday I
’
m interning at Channel Two till five
...
”

“
You could come by, afterwards.
I
’
ll have everything ready.
”

I wrote my dorm and phone number on a strip of paper and gave it to him, hoping he wouldn
’
t notice how my hands were shaking.
He chuckled.

“
Rushin
’
Hall?
That
’
s across from the Phi-Delts, right?
”

“
Yeah,
”
I said, smiling.
“
They keep reminding me every Friday and Saturday night.
”

“
I been there.
‘
Bout six, then?
Saturday night?
”

I nodded.

“
See you then, Joe.
And thanks.
”

He stood up
,
and I let my eyes furtively sweep over him, again, then I looked up at him and said,
“
No big deal.
”

He smiled and sauntered away
,
and I watched him go.
And I began blessing those little ol
’
OP shorts, and blessing him for wearing them in the face of a time where style demands that men and boys wear hideous clothing
l
ike those baggy half-pants which were, at the very least, a desecration against human anatomy.
They fit his form just right, emphasizing his hips instead of his crotch as he neared me, and laughing over his magnificent rear as he strolled away.
Now I use the word
“
rear
”
deliberately, because there was nothing vulgar in his movements
,
nothing crass
,
just the gliding motion of a panther wandering through its domain with a patient benevolence.
It hurt me to watch him
,
to watch the smooth rolling of the shorts as they slid up and down the back of his leg
,
the golden hairs tickling away from the fabric then gliding back under, like waves whispering upon a gentle shore.

Suddenly
,
I realized I was about to ejaculate in my briefs.
I pressed my legs together and let myself enjoy the sharp little sensations it sent all over my body.
Then Aaron glanced back, caught me looking at his rear and turned away, smiling that little I-know-what-you
’
re-up-to smile to himself again.
I exploded right then and there.
Came close to dying from the beauty of it.
At that moment, I realized I could spend the rest of my life doing nothing more than painting this one guy and I
’
d be happy, just like Andrew Wyeth and his
“
Helga
”
pictures.
What a dream of a world that would be.

Well
,
looks like I answered at least one of my questions, and caught a pretty good glimpse of the answer to the other.
Only question left was did it really matter?

I don
’
t remember much about the rest of the day, just that I went into this time warp where everything seemed to zoom past in slow motion.
I mean, c
’
mon Aaron Friesen was coming to my dorm room Saturday evening!
Aaron-un-fucking-believably-good-looking-Friesen was going to model for me!
What else could I possibly care about?

Well
,
maybe that my place was a brutal mess.
And I don
’
t just mean the usual college guy junk of six week old pizza crusts hidden under piles of dirty clothes and text books plopped atop a dozen CD cases whose CDs hung from stick pins rammed into a cork bulletin board.
Oh, I had that, sure with empty beer bottles and Dr. Pepper cans and juice cartons mingled in, but I also had sketches I
’
d crushed and slung aside in frustration or ripped in half and never picked up off that ugly gray carpet.
And I had empty plastic peanut butter jars (I like creamy Jiff) I
’
d washed out and used to hold water for my acrylics or to dilute my oils with a dash of turpentine for a flat feel.
I had colors from paintings I
’
d worked on back in September crusted on the rails of my unmade twin bed and artist
’
s table, and my easel had nothing but a mass of smudges to prove I used it (no tubes of paint or used brushes or discolored canvas or indented pad anywhere in sight).
Y
’
know, the only undamaged work of art in my room was a sketch of a guy in a Polo ad I
’
d started on a blank wall using a charcoal stick but had never finished.
It was a caricature of the worst that a dorm room could be minus nude pictures of girls or posters of sports heroes or rocker boys taped to the walls
,
and I hadn
’
t realized how bad it was until I came back to it after my last class.
Brother.
Couldn
’
t have Aaron see what a slob I am, could I?
Problem was where to start?