Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (46 page)

“
Aaron,
”
Andrea whispered,
“
you have to see this.
”

He hesitated
then rose and stretched and looked at the sketch
,
and I looked at him
and noticed his nipples were pressing against the fabric of his shirt.
Without thinking, I glanced down.
His left ankle crossed his right one, making his left leg jut a bit out, but it couldn
’
t hide the extra bulge showing inside his Dockers
– s
o
,
he
is
a boxers kind of guy.
I looked up at him, still not thinking, and realized he was looking straight back at me, a hint of confusion in his eyes.
I turned away, shaken.
I still could not speak.

Somehow, Andrea set up the next session for Tuesday, 6
:00
pm
.
O
nly reason I
k
now is she wrote it on a slip of paper.
All I could do was nod in answer as she and Aaron left.

I cannot remember one single solitary thought I had at that point.
I couldn
’
t even tell you for sure that I had one.
I was a zombie caught in some deep black magic so soft and pure and quiet I didn
’
t even know it existed.
All I could do was gaze at the sketch
,
watch it gaze back at me
,
watch it seem to breathe and smile Aaron
’
s secret little smile and wait for me to respond.
And suddenly I was bawling.

Now this wasn
’
t anything at all like weeping or crying or getting misty-eyed.
This was gut-wrenching sobs that came from so deep within me it seemed they sprung from my soul.
And they didn
’
t start out of sadness or grief or happiness or any coherent emotion I could name; they came because I knew (without question I knew) that for the first time in my life, I had approached perfection.
For the first time, I could understand the story of Pygmalion, who carved a statue so beautiful he could not help but fall in love with it.
For the first time, I could understand the fascination with The Mona Lisa and her secret dreams.
For the first time, I had looked into a sunset and s
een
the face of God.
But instead of running from Him, I had leapt into the sky to shake His hand and wound up flying higher and higher from the sheer joy of my boldness.
And even when I had looked down to see just how far I could fall, I hadn
’
t grown afraid; I
’
d just become more certain.
I was Icarus caught in the exhilaration of flight and stronger than the danger of the sun.
I was an artist, a real honest-to-God artist, for the first time in my own mind, not some twit faking his way through classes and fooling people who didn
’
t know better.
I had only my own arrogance standing by waiting to send me crashing back to earth.
I had the fire to be
–
just to be
–
and oh-my-God how terrible and wonderful it was.

All of these emotions tore through me at light-speed, careening off my thoughts and exploding into each other to create feelings I never knew could exist.
Add to that the honest tensile sensations of my fingers exploring Aaron
’
s face and the whisper of his warm sweet breath into my palm and the sound of his tongue licking his heartbreaking lips
.
I
t became so overwhelming and right, tears seemed the only appropriate sacrifice to the moment.

Oh, dear God, I would have died for him, right then.
I would have taken a bullet.
Would have ripped the head off anyone fool enough to want to hurt him.
I was Thor ready to hurl thunderbolts at any threat to
Valhalla
.
I was a lioness ready to protect her cub.
Could that be love?
I honestly do not know.
All I did know was that an exquisite knife had slipped between my ribs and was caressing my heart.
I could never feel this beauty and pain with a woman; it just wasn
’
t possible.
And somehow (I don
’
t know how) I knew
.
I just knew he had seen the same truth.

He had.
And he would not be back till Tuesday.

How could I live until then?

The next day did not exist for me.
Oh, I dimly noticed the passage of night into day into night.
And I do sort of recall the distant sounds of church bells calling people to services
.
T
his
was
Texas
, after all, where even if the state doesn
’
t have an official religion, people still wonder why you don
’
t; I
’
m Presbyterian, for the record.
I probably even ate something, though I couldn
’
t tell you what.
All I really remember of the day after Aaron
’
s sitting is looking at the sketch I did.
Gazing upon it from a number of different angles.
Touching it.
Feeling the gentle roughness of the paper give way to the quick smoothness of the Conte pencil.
Smelling the black wax.
It was as if I lost contact with the world and vanished into another existence where time had no meaning and God was replaced by this one tentative work of art.
Could that be a form of insanity?

My mother had once told me that I was the least stable of her children.
I know she meant it in a flattering way
.
S
he knew I could never be happy just getting a job and settling down and raising a family and becoming part of a nice middle-class world like my brothers and sister have
,
but it still marked me.
Made me feel damaged.
I wonder if she sensed that sometimes I quietly crash into a subtle psychosis whenever my life becomes overwhelming?
Like with school not going well and my complete dissatisfaction with my current existence and that fucker who tried to fuck me.
On more than one occasion this past year, I
’
d felt I was flirting with a Van Gogh phase and had feared for my ears.

But that Sunday
it just vanished from my life
,
and I do not now believe
–
never really did
–
that there is anything wrong with that.
It was like
–
like I dove deep into a cocoon of waking sleep and when I floated out of it,
t
hat is when I began my true life.
That is when I had the first real notion of who I was and where I was going, and I don
’
t remember ever coming to any conscious conclusion about it except that I could now see what was and was not important to me.

I mean, why was I taking a class in Faulkner?
I hated his writing.
Maybe he was important to an English major, but to an artist?
Who cares if he never met a comma he didn
’
t like?
He was the epitome of unimportant.

And then there were my art classes.
Failed painters and doodlers trying to tell me how to paint or sketch
,
so I could fail like them.
All their moments were good for was practice, at best, and could actually wind up being harmful if not carefully managed.
I could go anywhere for that kind of non-support, and for a hell of a lot less money than it was costing my folks in tuition.

I know these shifts in my psyche were seismic, but they still were not cognitive concepts in my little pea brain.
They were mists drifting around my thoughts and obscuring them and altering them in steps and stages, so any action I took on my new beliefs was not deliberate.
I just
,
oh, drifted.
Like I drifted into Monday.
Like I drifted into ignoring every one of my classes.

What did I do, instead?
I began transferring Aaron
’
s sketch onto my dorm room wall to obscure the Polo inspired one that was still hinting at my past existence.
And in my boldness, I did it with a Sharpie instead of charcoal.
Once it was on, it wasn
’
t gonna come off.
And if I screwed up?
Hey, I screwed up; so what?

But I didn
’
t
,
and somehow I knew I wouldn
’
t.
I popped a Yanni CD into the player (I don
’
t care what you think; I like him) and got into a carefully gliding rhythm of sketch to eye to pen to wall.
The smell of the Sharpie chased the Conte pencil
’
s aroma from my senses and may have added to my feeling of euphoria
.
I never did do the paint-sniffing thing so I don
’
t know.
Didn
’
t matter.
All I focused on was the white paint tainted with a charcoal horror that was giving way to the mural that signaled my brave new world.

By late afternoon, I had a great rendition of Aaron
’
s face gazing out at me
,
fuller, richer, with his secret little smile daring me to add color.
Once upon a time, I
’
d have hesitated.
Instead, I squeezed a half-full tube of unbleached titanium acrylic into one of my Jif jars, added dabs of burnt umber, portrait pink and a hint of cadmium red, mixed them with water and set to filling in the lines with my best camel
’
s hair brush.
After a moment, I realized the color wasn
’
t exactly right and added a squirt of Azo yellow medium.
And that was it.

I had the first layer down and was mixing up some color for the details when I heard a knock at the door.
I didn
’
t even turn to look who it was as I said,
“
Go
‘
way!
”

Then I heard that gentle drawl say,
“
Sorry, boss.
Didn
’
t mean to bother you.
”

I spun to find Aaron in the doorway, leaning against the jam, looking very unsure of himself.
He was wearing a loose athletic
T-shirt
and basketball shorts, his hair pulled back under a baseball cap that was on backwards, Reeboks and floppy socks on his feet.
The beauty of the moment slammed the mural from my mind
,
and I all but cried out,
“
Don
’
t move!
”

He jolted, startled.
“
What you mean?
”

“
I mean, stay right there,
”
I said as I wiped my hands off on my shirt (not even thinking that it was the same one I
’
d so carefully put on two days earlier), grabbed my sketchpad and a pencil and plopped onto my stool to sketch him.
“
Just like that.
”

“
Why?
”

“
Isn
’
t it obvious?
”

He gave me a wary glance and muttered,
“
Joe, you are freaky,
”
but he stayed put.
Though he did nod at the sketch on the wall.
“
Y
’
know, you ain
’
t supposed to do that.
”

“
So?
”
I said, without really thinking.
I was too focused on the sketch
–
on transferring the lines of his body and the curve of his legs and folds of his clothing and jauntiness of his cap onto paper.

“
So they
’
ll charge your folks to paint it over.
”

I just snorted in derision.
“
I thought you were coming, tomorrow.
”

“
Yeah, well, Andrea went home to
Houston
an
’
she
’
s not back, yet, an
’
nobody
’
s
‘
round to shoot some hoops with
...
”

That
’
s when I noticed he had a basketball under his arm
– v
ery observant, aren
’
t we?

“
...
a
nd it
’
s kind of borin
’
to do it by myself, so I thought I
’
d drop by to see what
’
s up.
”
And he gave a little shrug and smile.

“
Now you know,
”
I smiled back.

He eyed the mural
,
let a frown cross his face.
“
That
’
s a little creepy.
”

“
Why?
”

He shrugged.
“
Just is.
”

“
C
’
mon, Aaron, it
’
s only a sketch.
Besides, I
’
m doing a painting of you.
This is good practice.
”

His secret little smile slipped back onto his lips and he said,
“
I know.
You
’
ve done a lot of pictures of me
...
an
’
it
’
s got me wonderin
’
.
Y
’
know?
”

“
Yeah,
”
I said, finishing off the outline of the sketch
, f
luid; good proportions; even a little sexy but not overtly so.
I started filling it in.
“
Am I your stalker?
Guess you have a reason to wonder.
”

He nodded.
“
Uh, you
...
you are gay, right?
”

I smiled.
He
’
s as bright as Andrea
,
but on him, it
’
s sweet.
I kept working as I said,
“
Totally.
And I think you
’
re beautiful.
But I
’
m not gonna do anything about it.
I mean, look at you.
If I did, you could break me in half.
”
And oh, wouldn
’
t I love it.

“
Beautiful?
”
he sneered.
“
That
’
s what you call girls.
”

“
Attractive, then.
Good-looking.
”
But then I snapped to it and thought, What the fuck?
“
I still think beautiful is the best word.
See?
”

I turned the pad around to show him what I
’
d done, and he blinked.
I had him, again
on paper.
His broad shoulders.
His clean arms.
His sleek body.
His perfect legs.
His neatly curled lips.
All rendered in soft graphite tones and lightly shaded, giving him an ethereal feel.
Even without studying it, I was proud of this sketch.

“
Damn, Joe,
”
he said.
“
An
’
I wasn
’
t even here five minutes.
”

“
C
’
mon in,
”
I said.
“
I want to do some more.
You want a beer?
”

“
Bock?
”

“
That
’
s all I buy.
”

“
Cool.
”

He sauntered in
and sat on my bed instead of the chair.
And don
’
t you think I didn
’
t notice.

“
You
’
re a funny fella,
”
he said, accepting the beer with a nod of thanks.

“
How?
”

“
I dunno.
You don
’
t act like the fags
…
uh, other gay guys.
”

I sat in the chair, propped my pad on my knee and noticed his left hand was draped over his left knee, a bit of the shorts
–
they were this neon blue with sunshine yellow trim
–
trapped under his wrist, the material stretched against his thigh.
I started sketching that as I said,
“
What do you mean?
”

He shrugged, sipped the beer.

“
Is it because I haven
’
t hit on you?
”
I asked.

He sort of nodded.
I kept sketching.
It
’
s weird, but I wasn
’
t getting nervous over how he felt about me.
I was more curious to find out.

“
Do you want me to?
”
I asked.

“
No!
”
he said, shocked.
“
I
’
m not that way.
”

But something in his tone was sending me clues of self-doubt
,
and for the first time in my life I felt a true-life Jam-the-cat stir from his sleep.
Okay, sure – I
’
ve had the nickname for five years, but I never felt up to it, you know?
I just accepted it because it sounded great
,
and no one in high school really cared if I acted the part or not.
But this time, I caught an image of a hungry tom in a dark alley thinking maybe he smelled a mousie
,
and I let my vocals rumble in pleasure as I answered,
“
Then what
’
s the big deal?
”