|Posted on 2004-04-30 06:35:50 by Denver|
|I live in New York City, I'm thirty-four years old, and I go on hand model auditions. Fuck. I'm unemployed. The first month I panicked and felt completely ambushed by my little troll of a boss. I saw her head on every passing vagrant and her shoulders on every old, short woman in a wool shawl. If I hadn't pissed her off I would still be hunched over my desk collecting employment checks.|
Time moved quickly. Eight months after being fired I was at the end of my unemployment and scrabbling for work on Craigs List. I found an ad for a nude model job paying thirty bucks an hour. Responding quickly to my email with attached photos was Jake, who lived on a posh address in Chelsea. I figured he was a nice, gay sculptor. He was a nice, gay graphite artist, meaning he drew naked men's bodies with a pencil. He ushered me into his guest room and showed me his photographs and drawings of a recent model.
"That's a big penis." I said.
"No." he said casually.
Then he asked me to disrobe. I got naked and performed some torques of my body to show him my musculature, and then he began frisking me with his large fingers saying something vague about needing to see the curvature. His fingers brushed my groinal area.
"You don't get a trim." he commented. Yeah, I wasn't like those guys in his photos with hairless pecs and scrotums. I thought maybe I'd be disqualified. I didn't really care. It was a pretty weird assignment.
He kept touching and feeling over different areas - my back, shoulders, abdomen. I wondered if this was standard operating procedure for a nude modeling job.
"I'm a body barber as well," he said.
Then he told me how he was shaving his scrotum one day and it was so pleasant that his boyfriend asked him to do his and it was the summer and wouldn't you know it, he put an ad on Craigs list, and everybody was beating down the door for him to shave their balls and backs.
"Done any nude modeling before?" he asked.
"yeah" I lied, "I, uh, did some, little stuff, students at college in."
"Intro figure study." he finished my sentence.
He finished frisking and asked me to lie on the bed, which was covered with a black drape. He instructed me to lie on my back and bend in different directions. Then he reached around and flipped me over on my stomach like a piece of flounder.
"Yeah," he announced, "you'll be fine."
I didn't exactly breathe a sigh of relief.
"Can you do some tonight? Do you have time?"
"Sure" I said. He put on a CD, Depeche Mode, and sat next to me with his sketch pad. I soon realized that his finger probing was not just a job interview technique but alas, part of his creative process.
"I can't see your thigh." he would say as his finger brushed against my cock and rearranged the hair on my inner thigh.
"So you are a nudist? Or an exhibitionist?" he asked.
"No. I just feel comfortable with my body" I lied.
I averted my eyes from his gaze as his fingers walked over my pectorals. It was like he was picking parsley on my chest.
"My grandmother hates me doing nudes" he said.
"Yeah my dad was horrified when I was naked onstage." I said.
"Oh you were naked onstage? What was it?"
No way was I going to tell him I was in "Love! Valour! Compassion!" playing the naked straightish homosexual Arthur.
"Oh, a modern dance piece." I said.
He resumed drawing and petting. After twenty minutes he told me I could relax and move. I pretended to give my face and neck a yoga workout.
"Does your neck hurt?"
"My neck and my back." I said, quickly adding "But they're alright."
"Yeah, your back is very tight," he said.
"I'm a masseuse. I know these things. Alright you ready to go?"
He seemed like a good guy. Big green eyes and an intense face with shaved grey hair, almost bald, and a goatee. He had an earring in both ears and wore black DKNY sweats, the chest hair popping out over a low cut t-shirt.
I stared at the ceiling and tried to think of Florence Adu standing on the beach in Ghana in a one piece. That was her picture on Lava Life, the internet dating service I was using. Anything to take me out of this room and his gaze and pincers.
"Are you comfortable?" he asked. But he never offered me anything to drink. On the way in I had noticed that his sink was full of empty beer bottles. This thought puzzled me- the thought of a beer drinking gay guy with chest hair in an expensive Chelsea apartment.
He stopped drawing and asked me to turn over.
"Where do you live?" he asked.
I sure as hell wasn't going to tell him I lived in Chelsea. I lied and said Brooklyn.
"I don't get over there much." he said. 'Why would you?' I thought, 'when you're right here in the thick of it.'
"Oh you're so tight." he said.
His big hands came down on my lower back. He squeezed the muscles. Then he began shaking them and moving down my spine. I caught my breath. His hands firmly placed on my butt. My thighs. And the thing was, he wasn't very good. He thought he was, but his hands were weak and they didn't really grab the muscle. I only know this because my back was killing me four months ago and I had to go to Chinatown and get a really hard massage from a professional Chinese woman.
He flipped me over on my back and started going up my things, moving past that and delicately flipping my penis out of the way, repeatedly, to get a better finger position on my groinal area. My nerve endings were popping up and down my body. I let out a slow hissless fart but he didn't seem to smell it. I had my eyes closed. After he was finished with my groin, and he spent a lot of time in that area, he started rubbing the soft hair on my belly and making circles with his fingers around my navel.
This wasn't a massage!
I imagined his mouth over my cock. My eyes shot open and I stared at the ceiling.
"What time is it?" I gasped.
"It's five past eleven," he said. And I jerked my head up in alarm as if I had missed something important.
"I gotta go!" I muttered.
He didn't say anything. He just put his pad on the floor and left the room.
I dressed quickly and accepted the sixty dollars in bills.
"Thanks for the massage," I said.
"Oh, that's nothing. I have oil for next time." He laughed.
I muttered something about seeing him next week as he walked me to the door. And then I galloped to the elevator and as the door closed I began to breathe.
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