Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (51 page)

Oh
,
and what a piece of work it was.
Sweet Jesus, I had him.
The thick and golden hair.
The smooth and glowing skin.
The bright and shining eyes.
All in whispery layers of color that seemed more rich oil than flat water based.
Lips with a hint of rubies.
Cheeks with a bit of blush.
The line of his neck.
The flow of his shoulders.
The sense of calmness covering a shattering want.
This was more than just the combination of shades and tones that offered a photo-like representation of a good-looking guy; this was art.
This was my explanation
,
my proof.

His eyes held layers of wariness and need and longing, all at one time.
His secret smile was painful in its cool emotion.
His posture was proper and correct
y
et demanding and distant.
I could compare the effect to that of The Mona Lisa (give me a few more years of working on my ego and I probably will) in its simplicity and meaning.
I could never be as proud of anything I did as I was of that portrait at that particular time; I just knew it.

Aaron did, too.
I could sense the tension and weariness whisper out of him as he took it in.
Oh, sure
,
he was impressed; I already knew he would be.
But I needed to show him why my work also impressed me.

I drifted to my portfolios and dug through them for the best portrait I
’
d done up to that point.
It was of the guy in my life drawing class, the one with the beard.
It was an upper torso layout, from just above his navel to include all of his head.
His eyes were closed, his arms were at his sides
,
and I
’
d made him to look a bit like Christ.
It was good
,
but when I set it next to Aaron
’
s portrait on the easel, it was like comparing the work of a child to that of Renoir.

Aaron looked at it, and I could tell even his untrained eye could see the difference.
I slipped up behind him, put my arms around his shoulders, drew myself close to him, held him like a brother, and whispered into his ear,
“
You see?
This is what you brought me to.
”

He didn
’
t move, just let me mold myself against him.
I lay my chin on his left shoulder.

“
I now know that to paint
...
to create
...
I have to connect with the soul of my subject.
You
’
re the one who let me do that.
You
’
re the one who showed me there
’
s a bridge that takes you from being a fool to being a king
...
and that I was worthy enough to cross that bridge.
You
’
re the one who showed me that my paint is priceless
,
and I shouldn
’
t waste it on nothing.
Yeah, before I
...
I knew you, I was attracted to you.
And I thought it was just for your looks, but now I know it was because I sensed what you could show me.
Where you could lead me.
To have
...
to have sex with you now would be a desecration.
”

Aaron took hold of my arms and held them tight to his chest.
I could tell he was weeping
lightly and still with some basic control, but enough to fill me with gratitude.

“
I
...
I
’
m sorry, boss.
I really thought that
’
s all you were after.
”

“
So did I, once.
”

“
Y
’
know
...
that
’
s all anybody
’
s ever really wanted out o
’
me.
The way I look.
The way I act.
My folks.
My brother.
Andrea.
Everybody.
They never me just
...
just for
...
”
His voice whispered away.
Finally, he cocked his head to look at me.
“
But you
...
you
’
re
...
you
’
re a funny fella, Joe.
”

I couldn
’
t think of a nicer thing from him to say, so I just smiled.

He hugged my arms closer to himself and looked back at the portrait.
“
Is it really mine?
”

I nodded.
“
Let it dry overnight, then I
’
ll spray some fixative on it.
You can pick it up after twelve.
Get it matted and framed and it
’
s ready for the parents.
”

“
I
’
ll let Andrea do that; she loves that crap.
”
Then he looked closer at the portrait and glanced back at me.
“
You signed it
‘
Jam The Cat
’
.
”

“
That
’
s my name, now.
”

He gave me a hugely quizzical look and pulled away from me.
I didn
’
t mind; it was time for him to leave
,
and I was feeling the desperate need of a bath.
We moved toward the door.

“
My name
’
s Joseph Allen Martin.
At my high school, if your initials formed a word, that was your nickname.
”

“
But
‘
The Cat
’
?
”

“
Well
...
I tell people it
’
s because I
’
m an artist and I
’
m cool, but the reality is
…
my junior year, I got into a shoving match with this jerk in
c
alculus.
He wound up pushing me through a window.
We were on the second floor, so I did a back flip and landed on my feet.
Broke a bone in my right foot.
Might
’
ve been worse if I hadn
’
t hit some grass.
I was on crutches for weeks.
Anyway, one of the kids who saw it said something like,
‘
Jam landed like a cat!
’
The name stuck.
”

He grinned and said,
“
Okay, boss.
I can see that.
”

I stopped him by the door and said,
“
Aaron, I
’
m not your boss.
And you are nobody
’
s servant.
”

“
I know that.
”

“
Do you?
”

He smiled and sort of shrugged.
“
T
’
morrow,
‘
bout noon?
”

I nodded.
Then he drew me close and kissed me, long and hard, with a deeper affection than he ever had before
,
and then he left.

He came back, the next day, Andrea in tow.
And, of course, she rattled on and on so much about how great the portrait was
.
I
t was irritating.
I think she wanted me to offer to do one of her, but she held no promise for me; too cloistered in her superficiality.
So I borrowed a photo student
’
s camera to shoot a couple of transparencies of it then handed it over to Aaron.

I didn
’
t see him for two weeks.
Not that it mattered.
I knew he
’
d come back, again.
I finished the mural of his face on my dorm wall, then contacted my folks and told them I wasn
’
t returning to school the next year.
“
Oh and, just in case you didn
’
t know,
M
om and
D
ad
,
I
’
m gay.
”
They already knew.
Dammit.
In fact, they were disappointed I didn
’
t tell
‘
em after what happened with my asshole roomie.
So much for any overwrought drama in my coming out.

Aaron finally dropped by one evening to show me some photos of his parents
’
anniversary party.
His folks were nice well-off Republicans (scum of the earth) and his brother was an overweight chunk in comparison (tho
’
with him, I would have gone all the way).
The centerpiece of just about all the photos was the portrait I
’
d done.
It wound up hanging over the family
’
s fireplace, which was a position of honor, according to Aaron.
He even carried a nice handwritten note from his mother thanking me for doing it (well, at least she was raised right
...
pun
not
intended).
Then as he sat and I sketched (or painted or drew), we talked and ordered in pizza and drank Shiner Bock.

He got into the habit of dropping by two or three times a week, so I got to build my own little
“
Helga
”
portfolio.
Faces.
Hands.
Torsos.
Clothed.
Nude.
Face up.
Face down.
Whatever I wanted him to do, however I wanted him to sit, he did.
We never again referred to our near death experience, and when the semester was over, he went back to
Dallas
,
and I moved to
San Francisco
to invest completely in my new life.
We haven
’
t seen each other, since.

So here I sit in my overpriced studio, taking a break from my latest work (an old Jazz saxophonist with arthritic fingers and eyes that reach to heaven) happy as a cat that
’
s caught his mousie.
I
’
m seeing this photographer named Ric who
’
s a few years older than
I
and who likes taking shots of me working; says he
’
s trying to catch creativity as it sparks to life.
He
’
s still trying.
He
’
s not as beautiful as Aaron, but his meaning to me is deep and different.
He tolerates my moods
,
and he brings me peace
,
and his eyes shine with the joy of a kitten discovering the world.
I
’
ve painted him a dozen times.
I want to do a dozen more.
That alone should tell you how much I love him.

I
’
m slated to have my first full viewing of my work at a gallery in three months.
My paintings of Ric will make up one section – Life.
My portraits of old Jazz musicians from the
“
Beat Period
”
will make up the second section –
Liberty
.
And the third section (if you haven
’
t already figured it out) will be the first Conte pencil sketch I did of Aaron all by itself
,
but without a word to identify it
,
e
xc
e
p
t for the one that flows from deep within my soul.
And to those who ask why it has no title, I
’
ll respond in the only way I can.

“
How can you label perfection?
”