Boys Will Be Boys - Their First Time (43 page)

I finally rose and dried off and flopped naked onto my now clean bed
(
something I never do; I usually sleep in a pair of briefs) in my now clean dorm room and drifted into sleep, thinking about Aaron
,
knowing in the back of my little brain I was beginning to fixate on him
and not caring that I was.
Which was also typical
and also depressing.

Why is it that all I ever want is what I can
’
t have?

Well
,
now I had two of my questions answered beyond any doubt.
I definitely wanted to paint (so long as Aaron was my model), and I was definitely into having sex with a guy (so long as it was Aaron Friesen).
Dammit.
I don
’
t know why I thought deciding how I felt about those two concerns in my life would make things easier for me.
Shit, I was even more confused than before.

I mean, seriously – would I be this hyped up over doing a portrait if my model was to be some ninety-year-old man or some radiant mother
’
s six-year-old brat?
So was I really interested in art
or just the fantasy of it?
The dream of getting a good-looking guy into bed with it?
Was I aiming to be nothing more than a fag who paints pretty nude boys with nice hard erections and smooth skin and perfect hair and way too excellent muscles?
What Tom of Finland did was fine for him (hey, I did a few little
“
illustrated stories
”
of my own when I was in high school and needed some way to pop off the steam), but their work was so
–
I dunno
–
so limited and a bit too laced with prurience for my needs.
That was my word of the month – prurient.
Hell, just about anybody can draw a decent looking naked guy with a hard
-
on.
Why would I want to be just like them?
Y
et
,
having Aaron sit next to me – giving me the chance to paint just his perfect face and capture just his perfect smile and find just the right shade for his golden hair – God himself couldn
’
t have told me that I was not meant to do at least this.

Which begs the question, so why do you still have questions, idiot?
You
’
re obviously psyched about this guy and can
’
t wait to show off what little ability you have as an artist.
And you had enough confidence in yourself to offer to show it, and not just because you think it
’
ll get him into bed with you.
It
’
s something you
’
d enjoy doing, so what
’
s the big deal?
And the answer is I don
’
t know
!

You see, I
’
ve never really felt like this before.
In fact, it
’
s usually been the opposite.
In my life drawing class, last year, the nude model was this viciously frumpy girl who had rolls of flab cascading down her bones.
No, that
’
s unfair; she was just overweight (by about forty pounds, I think) but I hated drawing her.
I didn
’
t mind that she was a girl; I was just irritated that she looked so sloppy.
I felt the same way toward the nude guy we had on one or two occasions, who had next to no body fat and carried sharply defined muscles and was generally in good proportion, but who hid his face behind this scraggly beard and didn
’
t believe in using deodorant.
Guess that makes me picky or snotty or something like that
,
but I have to have a subject I can be proud to have painted, and I
’
ve only come close to having one of those.

It was a guy named
Leon
in
nin
th grade.
Leon
was a dick, to put it kindly.
He pretty much ignored me in the few regular classes we had together, but he had some cruel fun with me in gym due to the fact that I was not as developed as the other boys.
But he was headed toward being a good-looking guy, in a small-eyed cowboy kind of way, so I
’
d still done a couple sketches of him when things were slow in English.

Anyway, one day I was kept late after school (detention, actually; I got caught doodling during a geography lecture, for the twentieth time).
I
’
d just called my mom, who said she couldn
’
t get me for half an hour, so I went to some benches by the tennis courts to wait.
And that
’
s where I saw
Leon
sitting on one of those decorative rock formations that landscapers seem to think are so cool.
He was scrunched up, arms across his knees, chin resting on his arms, looking mournful.
He didn
’
t see me
,
which was fine so far as I was concerned
,
so I sat down and started doing homework.

But I found myself sneaking glances at him, and not because I was attracted to him
.
(
I hadn
’
t fully figured out what my urges were, at that time.
)
There was just something about his position and the solitude around him that caught my heart, so I pulled out my sketchbook and snapped off a fairly decent rendition of the moment, using a soft pencil and handkerchief for smudging in some texture.
In fact, I found myself praying that he wouldn
’
t move before I got the position down and some of the details
,
and he didn
’
t.
Not until a beat-up old station wagon pulled up
,
and he slipped off the rocks and sadly plopped into the back seat.
A tired gray woman was behind the wheel
.
M
y first thought was that she
’
s his grandmother
,
and she did not even look at him.
They just drove off.
I don
’
t think he ever saw me
or
ever even thought to see me; he was just lost in his own little world of misery and pain as are all fifteen
-
year
-
old boys, myself included.

Funny thing is
here he was, one of the guys making my life hell, and suddenly I ached for him.
I don
’
t know why.
Maybe it
’
s because the old gray woman never even acknowledged him as he got in the car.
Maybe it was the way he was sitting on the rock formation.
Maybe it was just my own pitiful mood.
Whatever it was, a couple days later I photocopied the sketch and slipped it into one of his books during English.

Leon
was out of school for a couple days after that, and I forgot about it.
Then he stopped me, a week later, and showed me the sketch and asked,
“
You do this?
”

“
No,
”
I said.
I was kind of scared of him.

“
You know who did?
”

“
Nope.
Why?
”

He growled and turned to walk away
then stopped.
He didn
’
t look at me as he said,
“
My momma died, couple days ago.
Cancer.
I
...
I found it, today, in one of my books, second I opened it for class and
.
..
and
...
and
...
it
’
s like she
...
she
...
”
He couldn
’
t finish; he was too close to tears.

All I could think to say was,
“
Wow.
I
’
m sorry.
”

He stiffened, glared at me and snarled,
“
You tell anybody
‘
bout this, I
’
ll beat the crap out of you
...
and
...
and I don
’
t give a damn about your brothers!
You got me?
”

I nodded.
He stormed off.
Never spoke to me, again.
Not even to make fun of me in gym.
I still have that sketch.
And it
’
s not perfect
,
perspective
’
s off, his head
’
s too small for his body, the feet look awkward
,
but my critique of it is gentle
–
not like how I can get with my work, today
,
and I can see a little quality in it.
I guess I was hoping I
’
d find that, again, with Aaron.

So
Saturday finally came inch-by-inch the clock neared 6
:00
pm.
I had everything ready – a comfy chair I
’
d
“
borrowed
”
from the refectory for him to sit in, a pair of lamps flanking the chair to give me decent light,
C
okes and beer in my dinky little fridge, chips and dip
and some Zero Seven on the stereo.
The easel was positioned just right, a two-by-four pre-framed canvas resting on it, all treated and ready for oils to be applied.
I had a pad of sketch paper for some studies, my Derwent pencils were sharpened (I only use #4b)
,
and I had a fresh stick of charcoal to outline his position on the canvas.

I
’
d taken a shower at 4
:00
pm and dressed very carefully in too-cool-artist-casual-chic – clean
T-shirt
with a slightly frayed collar and one tiny hole
in
it (for just the right feel), slim-fit jeans that were about four inches too long so bunched at my ankles, deck shoes with drops of paint on them.
The way I was obsessing about how everything came across, you
’
d think I was prepping for a date.

And then came a knock at the door
–
finally!
I opened it, and there was Aaron, still almost painful to look at.
He wore a plain white shirt, Dockers and his Topsiders and looked so clean and fresh, I felt
as if
I hadn
’
t bathed in a week.

“
Hey, Joe,
”
he said, grinning that fan-fucking-tastic grin.

“
Aaron,
”
I managed to say,
“
is it that time?
”
God, I was so proud of myself for being able to say that without a waver in my voice.

“
Nope, I
’
m runnin
’
late.
”

“
C
’
mon in,
”
I said
,
and then I noticed the twin was with him.
Dammit.

“
Oh, Joe, this is Andrea,
”
he said as if he had just realized she was there.

“
Hi,
”
she said.
“
You are so cool to do this.
”

I blinked.
I was
“
so cool
?”
Jeez, where was she raised, on Saturday morning TV?
Fortunately, the manners my mother beat into me as a child (figuratively, not literally; we don
’
t have
that
kind of family) took over
,
and I smiled as I said,
“
Thanks.
C
’
mon in.
You guys want something to drink?
I have DP, Shiner Bock, some kind of juice drink.
”

“
You drink Bock?
”
Aaron asked.