Brief Pose

by Wesley McCraw

  I shrug. “You’re just mad BP replaced Little Nil's.” Little Nil's was a Goth clothing and knickknack store. Loo probably wanted to work there and had to settle for this corporate coffee chain job across the street.

  No one else is going to do it, so I roll the mop and bucket into the back room.

  Papers clutter a desk that is unofficially mine. A corny photograph shows our manager’s family (she and her wife, their two daughters, their male nanny, and their pitbull). Once a week, maybe, she comes in to make sure the place hasn’t burned down. She owns four other locations. Every time I see her, she tells me before I get a chance to speak, “I only have so much time in the day. You can handle it.”

  Loo still talks to me from the front. “Nil's sold shrunken heads! Nil's fostered community!”

  I roll the bucket into a supply closet and walk back out front.

  “Yeah, I felt real welcome at Little Nil's,” I say with heavy sarcasm.

  “What’s your problem?”

  “That place was an eyesoar.” She’s offended, but I don’t care. “What? Your need to buy cheap Goth shit doesn’t qualify as community.” Goths, hipsters, gangster wannabes, frat boy douchebags… It’s all the same damn thing. People sporting a superficial style so that they can feel superior and hate on everyone else.

  “And you think BP is better?” Loo asks me, not letting it go.

  “Brief Pose didn’t invent fundamental human nature. They target a demographic like everybody else.”

  JuanCarlos joins in. “Yeah, the racist upper class is a great demographic.”

  I laugh. “Yes, BP created racism now. If only they included a few more Hispanic models in their advertising, we could put racism behind us.”

  “So you admit that they’re racist,” he says as if he caught me.

  “Bottom line: The racist upper class has money to spend. It’s called capitalism.”

  Loo and JuanCarlos don't talk to me for the rest of their shift. I don't blame them. But I’m not wrong.

  3.2

  As usual, on my break, I lean back against our store-front window and drink decaf coffee. One of these days I’m going to fall through the glass and cut a major artery. That’s what I’m hoping for anyway.

  The male model’s body hair has been shaved to show the muscles of his torso better. The implied nudity below the frame is nothing overly sexual, but it makes me uncomfortable anyway. The female model poses with her arm across her bare breasts. Her playful expression conveys confidence. Nothing lewd or dirty to see here, just beautiful bodies and beautiful faces and youth and effortless perfection.

  I like the multi-ethnic urban culture of the city. BP is definitely not that. It’s very “all-American.” Not Arian-Nation bad, but these clothes are only for people with better genes than the rest of us. Elitist white people are as valid a market segment as anyone else. BP isn’t some crime against humanity like Loo and JuanCarlos insist. At worst BP is a racist reflection of our youth and beauty obsessed consumerist culture.

  My foster parents died, and on the wall next to the dirty Santa that caused it all was a Brief Pose advertisement of a laughing white couple. Or maybe the couple wasn’t laughing; maybe they were kissing. Maybe the poster implied they were having sex. It’s hard to remember exactly. But I’ve thought about that poster for the last two years. I’ve never been in a Brief Pose store or bought their clothes online, but the company is no stranger to my thoughts.

  No one goes in or out. I’m not sure this new location is open yet.

  MARSHALL, a middle-aged homeless man with one eye burned out, stands next to me.

  I give him some loose change. I don’t have time to talk.

  I jog across the street with an odd amount of anxiety. It’s just a store.

  I expect the door to be locked. It opens to a lavish space adorned with another beefcake poster that faces the entrance.

  A fragrance hits me: citrus and musk and some kind of spice I can’t quite place. How would a film capture this moment? A close-up zoom on my nostrils. Maybe flashes of lemons and oranges. A sweaty male torso and sex and oak. A snarling animal.

  I venture left into a dark men’s section: Muscular mannequin torsos, complete with genital bulges, are yet to be dressed. Spotlights illuminate merchandise that consists mostly of dark jeans and shirts with the simple text Brief Pose logo. Black and white POSTERS of half-naked men adorn the walls.

  A distant male voice welcomes me over the sound system: “As the founder, let me personally welcome you to the Brief Pose family. Welcome, dude. There’s no better place to work and no better place to play.”

  The store divides into smaller sections, making it impossible to determine the store’s size or even the location of the checkout.

  “I’m Matthew Weber. I oversee every aspect of BP: from our fashion forward designs, which remain on the cutting edge of cool, to our unmatched investments in R & D, to the potent shopping experience of our nationwide chain. Throughout the year I visit many locations personally, so you could be seeing me in person sooner than you think.”

  The place seems deserted besides Matthew Weber’s disembodied voice.

  “I set out to redefine casual sex appeal. That vision now includes you. Welcome to the revolution.”

  The women's section resembles the men’s side, only whiter and brighter. Thongs hang from a rack, with “Brief” printed on the fabric triangles. The women in the posters have on slightly more clothes compared the men.

  “The cornerstone of my vision is the newly revamped BP catalog. The catalog is our mission statement personified: hip, edgy, and aspirational. The BP catalog uses the latest in pheromone technology. You can be proud to sell the fantasy knowing that science supports Brief Pose's sex appeal.”

  In the checkout section, TVs embedded in a wall behind the counter display a video of MATTHEW WEBER. His puffy lips seem malformed. His eyebrows are high and slightly asymmetrical. His chin is too big for his face. While this aggressive plastic surgery makes it impossible to guess his age, the fact he dresses in Brief Pose clothing like a college student is absurd.

  “Both male and female sex pheromone have been bonded to the paper. This cutting-edge technology will invigorate a new campaign with a powerful draw that will revolutionize the industry.”

  Where are the sales associates?

  “Brief Pose isn’t just another clothing company. Brief Pose will change the world. With your help, let's change the world together. Peace.”

  As the credits roll, models lounge among large cushions and gaze at the camera with lustful intention. Heavy female BREATHING completes the effect.

  The video ends, and in the new silence, I still hear the breathing from somewhere nearby. It's not from the TVs; it's coming from further inside the store.

  I tread lightly so as to listen and pinpoint where the sound is coming from.

  Around a corner, a BP employee in her 20s, TARA NICOLET, has a thick Brief Pose catalog open in one hand and her other hand shoved down the front of her jeans.

  Little, desperate moans escape her parted lips as she quickens, her expression mounting with ecstasy.

  Her knees press together.

  Her hips come forward as if pressing into an imaginary lover.

  Her eyes open and she sees me and, startled, pulls out her hand.

  The meeting of our gaze petrifies us for a moment. We’re both caught. I avert my eyes and spin to leave.

  “Wait!”

  I turn back feeling heat flush my face.

  “I wasn't in public,” she says as she wipes her hand on her thigh. “We aren't open until after Thanksgiving. Please don’t tell anyone about this.”

  She advances and I back into the thong rack, knocking it over. The crash as it hits the floor is obscenely loud.

  She shoves the catalog at me.

  “Take it. We can't sell it unless it’s still in its shrink wrap. It’s against store policy.”

  The catalog smells like a fresh spray of cologne.
I take it without looking at her directly and physically resist bringing the cover up to my nose to sniff.

  I rush out of the store and dart between traffic to get back across the street. I can never go back to BP.

  I duck past Loo, making a beeline into the back room, and stash the catalog in the desk.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Debate

  4.1

  While I make espresso, I remember Tara with her hand down her pants. I can’t help it. She must have been looking at the catalog, but when I discovered her, her head was tilted back, her dark, lustrous curls framing her face as she tried for climax.

  While I take orders, I can almost hear her breathy cries and moans.

  While I mop the floors, I imagine her close to climax. I cringe with embarrassment at knocking over the thong rack, at the obscenely loud metallic clang that rang throughout the store.

  It all keeps replaying, until I’m not sure what I saw and what I’ve imagined, and I alternate between arousal and humiliation. She was embarrassed, but she hadn’t acted like she wanted me to leave. Did she want me to stay?

  After counting the money, after making sure everything is in its proper place, and after turning off the lights, I finally lock the front doors for the night, exhausted.

  The cold outside sends a shiver down my spine as it nips at the back of my neck. The catalog is pinned under my arm. Despite my curiosity, I haven’t looked through it yet. It feels like a further invasion of her privacy. Maybe once I get home.

  Loo walks up in full Goth attire: corset, silk shawl, lace gloves, and stiletto heels clacking the sidewalk. She must have been waiting for me to finish my shift.

  “Doing anything tonight?”

  “Slitting my wrists,” I say. “Maybe jumping off a bridge.”

  “Record that shit. That stuff is huge on YouTube.”

  “I'll do that.”

  She fingers a silver cross at her cleavage. Even with her heels, she’s still far shorter than me.

  I take a step back from her hopeful gaze.

  “What's up?” I say to fill the awkward moment.

  “Is there such a thing as straight panic?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I just thought we could have a drink. I like to have a hangover for the big day. Gives me an excuse to duck out early.” She’s talking about Thanksgiving. I almost forgot it was tomorrow, or I guess now technically today. She’s not a big fan of the holiday either. I’ve never asked her why.

  She notices the catalog under my arm.

  “I don't drink,” I say.

  At this point I could open up: I flirted with alcoholism while living with Shirin and Mindy and nothing good came of it (I'm numb and sad enough without adding a depressant to the equation). Instead, I leave her rejected in front of the coffee shop without explanation or goodbye.

  I don't want her pity. I don't want to be around people. What good is getting to know people? I hate people. This is the shit that runs through my head as I hurry home, paranoid that Loo might follow me. I’m too unstable to have friends. It’s too much of a risk. That’s my excuse for being such an asshole. Fuck needing someone. Honestly, I love the fact that I’m okay with being alone forever. I’m independent and strong, and I don’t need anyone. Fuck Loo. If that changes, if I need people, where does that leave me?

  4.2

  I lounge on the loveseat in my shitty apartment. “Lounge” is the wrong word. I'm wound up. My back hurts. I can't get comfortable. My skin crawls and tries to leap off my body. If you can feel all that while lounging, then yes, I’m lounging great.

  Next to my loveseat, my unmade bed presses against a cold brick wall with two windows that lead out to the fire escape and a dark alley. A Hellraiser movie poster hangs on the wall (I trashed the tropical one). Dirty clothes pile up at the foot of the bed. Moving boxes reach the ceiling in front of the permanently locked door to the bedroom. Hopefully, my pack-rat landlord never needs in there. Across from my bed on the other side of my room is an empty fridge, a half-working stove, and a sink filled with dirty dishes, despite the fact I don’t remember the last time I cooked anything.

  I watch a TV stacked on my dresser.

  The COMMENTATORS of Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade narrate the scene.

  “...as you can see right over our shoulder, there he comes. My, he's large!”

  “He's very large.”

  “It's been interesting to watch how they negotiate the turns because this is kind of a tricky corner as you're coming through here.”

  I pull my workout bench to the center of the room and lift with free weights: Bench presses. Curls. Squats. I'm still restless, only now my muscles quiver and twitch. I’m an animal sensing an upcoming disaster. It’s silly. Nothing is gonna happen. No earthquake. No dramatic event. It's me here in my apartment, alone. Like always.

  Last year I planned to celebrate Thanksgiving with Shirin. We broke up, and she ended up going to Mindy's parent's house in the country while I “celebrated” alone in the empty apartment. A week later, they kicked me out.

  It’s a cliché, but it feels like yesterday. Nothing has happened since then. I hate having days off like this and having time to stew.

  I was going to buy an HD camera. I hoped to at least learn to edit footage on my laptop; now my laptop barely turns on. The best-laid plans are worth shit. It didn’t take me long to realize that you can’t make movies alone. It’s a collaborative art. I could be the producer/writer/director/editor/actor like Shane Carruth, but at some point, I’d need to reach out for help. That’s never gonna happen.

  Last year on Thanksgiving I cried my eyes out until I was exhausted and fell asleep. This year I don’t think I’m capable of crying anymore. Is that an improvement? Is this where I wanted to be two fucking years after Foster Mom and Foster Dad’s death?

  4.3

  My room smells of microwave turkey dinner, dirty clothes, and stale sheets. In bed, propped against the wall, I eat from a black plastic tray. When I picked the TV dinner out at the bodega, was I trying to depress myself?

  “Happy fucking Thanksgiving,” I say.

  I set the tray aside and grab the BP catalog. It’s for the Back-To-School season, and it must have cost a fortune to produce, like as much as a feature film shoot. The lighting looks perfectly natural, yet always highlights the models’ physiques to perfect effect. It's more explicit than I expected. They must be courting controversy.

  I can't stop looking. Even after I've gotten off, I still keep studying the pages until I'm hard again.

  It's reassuring to have my sex drive back, but it's just a catalog, and I’m cold and empty when I turn off the light.

  And so I turn the light back on and keep looking until my eyes hurt and my dick is sore, until everything darkens like a closing aperture.

  4.4

  I’m not alone in the dark. Warm bodies writhe against me, a tangle of male and female forms making a protective cocoon. It’s a group hug, only the more I twist and turn, the more sexual it feels. I’m not sure which direction is up. I yearn to penetrate something. I can’t find an orifice, only more expanses of flesh:

  The soft give of a pair of breasts.

  The smooth hair of a muscular arm.

  The ripple of an abdomen.

  The gentle line of a woman's back.

  The more I writhe, the more they writhe, and the closer I come to climax. My body is tied into a sexual knot, pulling tighter and tighter, and an orgasm is my only escape.

  4.5

  My ALARM startles me awake like someone shouted my name.

  I roll onto my side, pulling the pillow over my head, and discover a wet spot on the sheets and the vague smell of bleach: obvious signs of an orgasm (though I don’t remember having one in the dream). I’m still desperately horny.

  The alarm continues blaring.

  I roll onto the open BP catalog, a pinned down lover, and stretch for the clock, the edge of the catalog digging into my abdomen. I hit snooze and col
lapse.

  Stretching into the past of dreamland, reflections of naked flesh infinitely repeat in two mirrors that face each other. All night I was perched on the edge of climax, oscillating between sleep and awake, and never allowed release. It’s fading now, though, like any other dream.

  I’m exhausted.

  My limbs are sprawled out. The citrus, musk smell still intoxicates me.

  It’s pre-dawn. A whole day of work stands between me and the catalog. I hadn't felt this horny since the residence hall, back when I had my first gay experience: Bobby Fisher.

  All the memories come back in a rush. In frustration, I groan into my pillow.

  Bobby wasn’t out of the closet, but the down low nature of the sex didn’t dampen the pleasure. Anticipating when we could be together was maddening no matter how often I masturbated. Man, I fell for him hard. I tried to play it cool, but looking back on it now, I realize I was a mess. I’m not surprised we lost contact after I dropped out, especially since I avoided him and didn’t tell him I was leaving.

  I still remember that first night after we fooled around. I called Shirin and gushed about everything that had happened: Bobby was this sexy geek with godly biceps and a hairy chest, and he was smart and talented, and we both loved the same things. I thought he was straight at first. It turned out he was gay (or at least willing to experiment), and he had been flirting with me the whole time. I went on and on, and Shirin was cool. Homosexuality was against her religion, but she was happy that I was so excited.

  Shirin loved me unconditionally. She was a different person back then. Then again, so was I.

  4.6

  We open the doors, and even though it’s horribly early, people flood in because it’s Black Friday.

  As fast as I can, I make coffee, clean, take orders. Everything runs smoothly, and everyone pulls their weight. Of all days, I should be in the zone, but my usual resignation that lets me focus has changed to impatience. Time drags despite the rush. My mind returns to the catalog. I curse myself for leaving it back at my apartment. I could say I’m sick and go home; I’m in charge after all, but it’s Black Friday, and I can’t abandon my team. I consider jacking off in the bathroom for some relief. Other guys do that kind of thing. Would it even help? I’m not exactly horny. I don’t know what I am, besides desperate to look at the catalog again.