.:Ch1:. boyxboyIf you like it, TELL ME please! If you dont, definately TELL ME! Feedback, all I want. Potential? Ideas? Suggestions? Justahai? Enjoi(:
"Models aren't paid to think. You are paid to stand the way I tell you, and look the way I tell you, and breathe if I give you permission, got that?" This stream of criticism was delivered in cloud of cigarette smoke. "Now get the fuck away from me, you fucking meat puppet."
Christian had no response prepared for such an overwhelming load of abuse being heaped on him at once. With a blank, glazed look, he returned to his mark in front of the cameras, next to his fellow model.
They were standing in a cornfield. Or, really, a field that had grown corn previously, but was now a stubbly wasteland, covered with drifts of snow. In the steely blue sky above them the sun shone brightly but without warmth. It was not terribly cold, if one dressed appropriately. Christian was not dressed appropriately. He was wearing, at the moment, a tie. And a pair of white boxer briefs. And that was all. He was cold, and now even his asking an innocent question had been shot down by that total bitch of a photographer. This was turning out to be a lot less fun than he'd hoped.
"Nailed ya, didn’t he?" asked his fellow model, who was similarly attired, but did not seem in the least bothered by his state of undress.
"Hell yeah he did," Christian replied. "He called me a 'fucking meat puppet.' What does that even mean?"
"It means you don't ask questions, ever. It sucks, but it's the way these gigs go, so you just learn to shut up and pose."
"I've never done this before," Christian offered, by way of defense.
"No kidding," came the chuckling reply. "What did you ask him, anyway?"
Christian wasn't sure that he should answer this, because it might expose him to more abuse. But this guy looked sincere, and how much worse could his reaction be than the photographer's?
"I asked what we were modeling."
"Why?" He was laughing, but not cruelly, so Christian continued.
"Because I thought I could do a better job if I knew. You know, show the product off better. That kind of thing."
"Look, we're wearing exactly two items of clothing here: a tie, and underwear. That's not a lot to work with in terms of creative expression. It may be the tie, it may be the underwear--ooh, here's a thought--it may be both!" Here he bugged his eyes out and waved his hands in fake panic. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and continued. "So what? It's not going to change how you wear 'em, right?"
"But why have us just standing here in a barren field if they want people to buy their clothes? It just doesn't make sense."
"Have you been to an X&Y?"
"No," Christian admitted.
"Have to been to an Abercrombie and Fitch, or Hollister?"
"Well, yeah. So?"
"Xavier and Young is trying to be the new A&F. So they're basically copying everything A&F does. A&F has a sexy catalog, so X&Y has a sexy catalog. A&F's models are naked, so X&Y's models are naked. Heh," he chuckled, "A&F has a two-letter name, X&Y has a two-letter name. Not a lot of creativity there, huh?"
"So, that explains us standing in a field--how?" Christian asked.
"Duh. We're mostly naked, and that creep over there is taking our picture. If he thinks we're sexy enough, then we get to be in every X&Y store in the country. The clothes don't matter. What they're selling is us."
Christian considered this.
"Doesn't that sort of make us, well, prostitutes or something?"
"Kind of, yeah. Cool, right? You work out, you pose, you get the money. Is this a great country or what? I mean, look at those guys over at the catering table. See them? The ones in ties and aprons? Well, they haven't taken their eyes off me since I came out of the tent wearing these tight boxers. Every time I flex or smile or whatever they perk up like they hope I'm about to strip off and start beatin' it for them."
Christian saw the hungry, rapt attention of the three cater waiters. He turned back, intending to ask why provoking waiters was a desirable pastime, when he was interrupted.
As Christian stood bewildered, his companion pretended to notice something terribly interesting on the ground; he turned, facing away from the catering table, and bent over slowly to take a closer look. His arched back caused his his muscular buttocks to be thrust out, and he slowly shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
"So, did they notice?" he asked in a stage whisper.
Christian turned to look at the catering table, and saw all three waiters staring slack-jawed at the white-cotton-covered cheeks. Christian wasn't sure, but they didn't seem to be blinking. Or breathing. One dropped a bottle of mineral water into a bowl of hummus. Clearly this display was having the desired effect.
"Uh, I think they noticed." He turned back and saw that he was once again face to face with his fellow model, who was grinning widely.
"Awesome, right? I could do this all day."
"Why? I mean, why does it matter to you that three waiters--" Here Christian lowered his voice to a whisper, "Who are probably gay--" He returned to normal volume and continued, "are looking at you? Isn't that kind of creepy?"
"Hell nah it ain't creepy! Why have a body like this if no one's going to look at it?" He breathed deeply and sighed. "This is the best job in the world, man!"
Christian was not sure he shared his new colleague's enthusiasm. This modeling job had been his mom's idea, to help him make some money for college in the fall; she had a friend who had some cousin who knew someone at the agency.
"You do this a lot?" Christian asked.
"As often as I can. But this is The Show, right here. The stuff I did before was all local--health clubs, sporting goods, that kind of thing. But this, this is the real deal. We get in the X&Y catalog, we're set. If we can really sex it up, we might get put up in the stores. Sky's the limit then."
Christian was about to ask what it might mean to "sex it up," but he was interrupted by the harsh rantings of the photographer.
"All right, bitches," he shouted, meaning everyone of any gender in the range of his voice. "Let's get this thing done. I want those assholes at Abercrombie and Fitch to fucking kill themselves when they see this."
He approached the models in a fog of cigarette smoke and began to shout instructions.
"Okay, you, the blond one," he gestured at the one who was not Christian, "Stand more to the left. No, you moron, my left! It's always my left. Jesus fucking Christ where do we find this meat?" He paused to consider the shot. "Now, you, the dark one," he pointed impatiently at Christian, who was momentarily caught off guard by being referred to by his hair color, "stand next to him. That's it, facing him. Closer. Closer. Closer. Good. Closer. Closer!"
Christian and his fellow model had not been introduced, but they now stood together on the same square foot of cornfield, their bodies almost touching. Christian could feel warm breath on his face, could see goosebumps on the collarbone in front of him.
There was really no way for them to get closer without wearing the same pair of underwear, but they tried. They were touching now, their nipples meeting, the fronts of their boxer briefs brushing against each other. Christian told himself it was the cold that made his nipples harden. He looked into the golden eyes of his counterpart, and knew he had to say something.
"I don't think we can get any closer," he whispered.
"Yeah, we can. Follow my lead."
At this, the golden eyes slowly closed, as the face drew closer to Christian. Before he knew what was happening, he could feel lips a whisper away from his own. Not a kiss, not yet, but the hint of contact. A warmth spread through his mouth, his face, his body, and in the background, somewhere, he could hear the click-click-click of the shutter racing impossibly fast to capture this moment. Then, he suddenly realized, he was being kissed. His fear of the photographer's anger kept him rooted in place as the kiss deepened and the shutter reached some sort of climax of clicking. Suddenly, the noise stopped.
"And that is how it's done, bitches! Let's get the fuck out of here," shouted the photographer, who swept away with his attendants in tow.
It was only when the kiss ended that Christian realized he had closed his eyes as well. Suddenly, he didn't feel well, and his knees gave way. He pitched forward helplessly, into the catching arms of "the blond one," who kept him from crashing to the ground.
"Can we get some water over here?" shouted Christian's rescuer. He was delighted to see that the three cater waiters fought over who should be the water bearer; in the end he had his choice of three water bottles handed to him by three waiters sporting three very visible hard-ons. Just another reason to love this job. He chose a water bottle at random, and brought it up to Christian's mouth.
"Here," he said to Christian, as he held the bottle of water to his lips. This act, of pouring water into Christian's open and grateful mouth, caused the waiter whose bottle was being used to suddenly ejaculate in his pants. He turned and bolted for the catering van without looking back.
"Thanks," murmured Christian, when he had swallowed several gulps of water. His strength was returning, and he stood upright once again.
"Looks like you're feeling stronger."
The smirk with which this remark was delivered worried Christian. He looked down to see, to his horror, that the head of his erect penis was now protruding from the waist of his X&Y winter-weight no-fly boxer briefs.
"Oh, fuck," Christian said, mortified. He tucked his stiff member back into the pouch as best he could, and blushed furiously.
"No worries, buddy. That kiss got me plumped up a bit too. My drawers are just too tight for the dragon to poke his head out."
"But, but," Christian stammered, "I don't know how this happened. I'm not ... I mean, I don't ..."
"Look, forget about it. The important thing is that Mr. Asshole Q. Photographer got the shot he wanted, which means that we have a shot at the big time. Thanks for playing along. Oh, and sorry about sticking my tongue in your mouth. I kind of got carried away."
"Oh," was all Christian could think of to say. He'd had another guy's tongue in his mouth? What the fuck?
"I guess since we're on such intimate terms, we should introduce ourselves. I'm Nick."
Christian looked at the hand offered to him. He took it, haltingly.
"I'm Christian and I'm not gay." Where this blurting introduction came from Christian was not sure. But he felt like it was something that he should say. Actually, he probably should have said it before Nick stuck his tongue in his mouth. His tongue! Christian's head whirled a bit again.
"Well, okay then, I guess we'll have to call you Straight Christian. Good to know you, Straight Christian."
"Look, I just wanted you to know that I'm not ... I mean, that kiss ... your tongue ... I ..."
"Oh, that? Look, Christian, don't get any romantic ideas. I'm a confirmed pussy hound from way back. That kiss was to get us in the book, pure and simple. It was a business decision, and I'm just glad you didn't freak out. It'll pay off, I promise."
Christian did not look convinced.
"But damn your lips are soft. I've never kissed a guy with such soft lips. What do you use?"
Christian tried to parse out that statement, to make it make sense. Straight guy, notices my soft lips, compares them to guys he's kissed before, wants to know what I use. There was no logic to it at all. At all.
"They put something on them in the trailer. I don't know. It tasted like strawberry."
"Strawberry! That was it. I couldn't tell what the flavor was. Nice."
Christian was completely overwhelmed, and just wanted to get away from this strange man, and these horny waiters (who are apparently flighty as well--weren't there three of them before?), and this bizarre photography crew. Luckily, his reprieve came quickly.
"All right, we're done here, people," called the photographer's assistant, whose voice was slightly less tobacco-tinged than her boss's.
"Well, it's been nice working with you," beamed Nick, extending his hand again.
"Yeah, you too. And sorry about the, you know ..." Christian gestured vaguely in the direction of his waistband. Nick laughed.
"Hey, I consider it a compliment. You have nothing to be ashamed of, my friend." With that, Nick strolled off to the wardrobe tent to claim his clothes. Christian waited a few minutes before following, so as not to run into Nick as he was changing. Luckily, he didn't feel cold anymore.
WORD FROM THE AUTHOR:
Wait..so..is Nick straight or gay or bi or what?! Hmmmm. &that was some kiss from one smokin' sexy guy! Too bad Chris will never see him again, huh? :( Ah, well, he'll screw a girl, move on to college, and forget about that photo shoot. :)
Did you like this story? Make one of your own!