by Gavin Atlas
I’d been there only half an hour when he arrived in a gray limousine along with a throng of assistants. His bodyguard wasn’t going to let me near him, but the designer held up his hand. He was in his sixties but had enough work done that he only looked old enough to be my dad.
“Where did you get those?” he said, referring to the glasses.
“Oh, these? They’ve been my favorites for years. Mr. Bastini, I read on your blog you’ve had a horrid time finding the right music for this show. I have something for you to hear. It’s the perfect tune to walk to.”
The designer quirked an eyebrow as he took my headphones.
“It’s called ‘Whipped Kream’ by Fierce Ruling Diva. You’ll love it.”
His entourage stared at Cristiano and waited patiently while he listened for perhaps forty-five seconds.
His eyes grew wide. “This…this is fabulous. I must hear this on the Center’s sound system. Young man, come in with us. What’s your name?”
“Trip,” I said. “Trip Masters.” Okay, my name is Triptolemus Mickleburg, but that’s irrelevant.
We turned to enter the Javits Center when a taxi pulled up, and…and…oh my God, it was Marc Patrick in the flesh. He was wearing his signature pink cowboy hat that had made him famous. Yes, I know. A pink cowboy hat is beyond ridiculous. But he gets away with it. He has golden blond hair, perfect bronzed skin, and green eyes that will stun you. I mean, you can’t move, they’re that mesmerizing. Just looking at him in his hat, a white muscle tee and bright coral jeans made my heart speed up. He seemed to be about six foot. Good, I’m six-three if you count my shitkicker boots.
The taxi driver yelled, “Hey!” at Marc because he’d left his phone on the seat.
Cristiano chuckled. “That boy would forget his head.”
Even though my pulse had gone into overdrive, it wasn’t the time to barge over and fawn on Marc. But I couldn’t stop looking at him.
I was swept along with the group of models, stylists, assistants on phones, and attendants wheeling racks of clothes into the building. Cristiano rushed my MP3 player over to a guy who I’m guessing was the sound director for his show. I sat on a bench watching the buzzing activity around me, stealing glances at Marc as he did push-ups, had make-up applied and smiled at everyone who came by to flirt with him, male or female. His teeth were dazzling. Also, as if the pink cowboy hat didn’t already announce he was a total bottom, people kept grabbing his ass and squeezing. He’d swat hands and laugh a musical little laugh, eyes dancing. Yeah, he was beyond adorable.
Then, holy shit, people started changing clothes right there instead of going into dressing rooms. What total, unbelievable show-offs. Thank goodness. I casually inspected my nails, pretended I was reading a text, and then “happened” to catch Marc in his briefs. His body was perfectly muscled and smooth like in the photos. His briefs were aqua, a color that looks terrible on ninety-nine percent of the world. On him, they were phenomenal. They hugged his fantastic ass so well I could scarcely breathe. God, Trip. Please stop gaping.
My Fierce Ruling Diva song poured out of the sound system. It has a shimmying, scratchy beat that makes you want to strut, and I saw some of the models start to move to it.
“Hot tune,” one of them said.
Cristiano came over to the bench I’d claimed and clapped me on the shoulder. “Thank you, Trip,” he said in a thick European accent. “Now those glasses. Are they really your favorite pair? They’re in pristine condition.”
“I…uh…save them for special occasions.”
Cristiano smiled. “May I pay you for them? I don’t have a pair of that style in such good shape.”
“Well, I could give them to you,” I said, “if you could be so kind as to introduce me to Marc over there.” What was I doing? They cost a grand! Well…anything for love.
Cristiano took the glasses from me, giving me a friendly smile, but rolling his eyes at the same time. “I’ll do my best, but I’m not a pimp. And I’m sure you know how many fans he has.”
“I understand.”
“I see you have a keychain from something called Handenburg Tech. You wouldn’t be good at math, would you?”
“I’ve won awards in math,” I said, thinking of gold stars I’d received for memorizing my multiplication tables.
“Good,” Cristiano said. “Be different. Ask him about his family. Ask about school. Don’t focus on his looks. He can be shy. Guys who only want him for his beauty make him nervous, and they are a dime a dozen.”
Cristiano pocketed the glasses and walked me over to where a stylist was smoothing down Marc’s hair in places it had been ruffled by his cowboy hat. I wanted to re-ruffle it.
Cristiano made introductions and my stomach flip-flopped as I actually shook Marc’s hand. He had the softest skin, and he gave me a warm smile.
“So how’s…um…math. Cristiano said you need a tutor.”
Marc’s eyes widened. “I do. You can help me?” His Slavic accent was mild, but detectable. His real name was Marik Pakorny. He hit himself in the forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m leaving town tonight to walk in another show.”
“Where are you going?”
“Rio de Janeiro.”
I put on an “utterly shocked” face. “That’s insane! I’m going to Rio, too!” Well, I was now.
Marc appeared startled, but he might have bought it because he said, “Okay. I’ll be there a few days. Maybe you can help me then.”
“Well, why wait so long? I’ll change my flight so we can work on the plane.”
I remained in the back while the show was in progress. To know me is to know I have legendary luck. This moment was the most extreme example. By grabbing my bag containing the broken camera, I’d also grabbed my passport. I had planned to shoot in the Amazon over Christmas instead of Costa Rica, meaning I had a valid visa. This was meant to be.
I made a call.
“Hi, Mom. I suddenly need to go to Brazil. What do you say?”
There was a long pause before she spoke. “I’m afraid to ask, but why do you need to go to Brazil?”
“For love.”
“I see,” she said. “How long have you known him?”
“About five minutes.”
“Trip, be serious.”
“He’s a model. I’m going to be a photographer. This is how you and Dad met.”
She huffed. “Promise me you’re not drinking.”
“I promise you I’m not drinking.”
“No drugs?”
“Absolutely not.”
She sighed again. “Put it on my credit card. No first class. Call me from Brazil.”
First class was delightful. I’d have to explain later to my mother that the flight had sold out in coach, but I hoped her bill wouldn’t reflect I’d paid to upgrade Marc to first class as well. Who knew models flew in coach?
Thirty minutes into the flight, Marc got out his math text.
Please don’t be calculus. Please don’t be calculus.
It was algebra. Phew. However, the book was in Czech. No matter. Math was international.
As I taught him how to solve for X, Y, and Z, I inhaled his scent—a light, fruity cologne that reminded me of coconut tanning oil. I had trouble not picturing myself biting him or licking his neck. My dick was so hard, I had to cover it with an in-flight magazine. I wished I could unzip to relieve the pressure. Math, Trip. Focus on math.
We finished the assignment in an hour. Thankfully, I’d gotten my arousal under control.
“Thank you for the first-class ticket,” he said. “All this good wine and champagne. But you’re only having club soda?”
I looked down, knowing I was about to over-share, but whoever was going to be the guy for me would have to know sooner or later. “I can’t drink. I have kind of a crazy family. My dad began taking me to wine tastings when I was fourteen, and…well…I had to quit and my dad did, too. Sober two years.”
He patted my shoulder. “Good for you.” He motioned for the
flight attendant to take his wine away and requested a club soda for himself.
“So what are you doing in college, Marc? You want to do something besides model?”
He nodded. “This is fun, but at some point it will be over, right? I want to be a teacher. Special education I think they call it in English.”
I blinked. “Wow. That sounds…” low paying and dreadful. “That sounds wonderful.” I thought about it for a moment. It said a lot about him that I liked. I mentally kicked myself for my initial reaction. “I’m studying photography because I want to follow in my dad’s footsteps—maybe travel photography instead of fashion, but that is how he met my mom. She walked runways like you.”
He nodded and smiled, perhaps feeling bashful.
“But sometimes when I hear something like ‘I want to teach Special Ed,’ I think I should do more. I mean, what does a photographer offer the world?”
“Beauty,” Marc said with a confused look, as if to say, “Surely, you already knew that.”
I looked down at my tray table, feeling shy. “You’re the one who offers the world beauty.”
He laughed, and I could swear he blushed. He started fidgeting. Great, I’d made him nervous just like Cristiano warned.
“Should we go back to math?” I asked.
“Okay, but first answer me this. Why are you going to Rio de Janeiro?”
“I…um…honestly? To spend time with you.”
He looked down, but I could see a wide smile. He grabbed my hand and squeezed it. “You’re very sweet. And you’re cute.”
Heaven. This was heaven at forty-thousand feet. I’d never been happier.
* * * *
Neither of us had been to Rio before, and we did the touristy things—took a cable car up Sugarloaf, the famous mountain in the harbor; walked on the beaches of Copacabana, Ipanema, and Leblon, watching men play soccer. He told me a secret. There was a publisher in Germany that wanted nude photos of him for a monograph. They’d pay him a small fortune, but he didn’t want to do it. All of the photographers they had under contract made him uncomfortable. In return, I told him I didn’t want to finish school even though I only had three months left. There was a senior project that seemed impossible, and now I wanted to travel with him instead.
He squeezed my shoulder. “That’s crazy, Trip. I don’t want to be the reason you don’t finish school. Hey! Look at that.” He pointed at a rainbow flag up ahead. It turned out there was a small gay section of Ipanema Beach. When we reached it, we shared our first kiss. As our lips met, a shiver of delight rippled down the back of my neck.
We headed for the fanciest hotel on Copacabana I could find, and I sprang for a room with a spectacular view of Sugarloaf and the crescent-shaped beach.
The moment the door was closed, I attacked him with kisses. My tongue found his, and we shared the longest embrace I’ve ever known, perhaps a five-minute kiss. I wanted to be inside him that instant. My body screamed “now, now, now.” But I took a deep breath and moved us to the bed to watch the strands of streetlights flicker on as the sun set. I ran my fingers through his hair, making him close his eyes and smile.
I asked if I could undress him, and he moaned assent. It was unfair. Even his dick was gorgeous. I’m not much for blow jobs, but his cock was smooth, straight and the perfect shape and size for sucking. I felt a deep longing running up my jaw. I had to have him in my mouth.
He groaned as I held his sides, my lips gliding back and forth over the softest skin. I inhaled his clean scent—a mixture of that coconut fragrance and the sea spray we’d been walking past all day. He started to groan louder and grunt, then he pushed back on my head.
“Please stop. I don’t want to come yet. I want to come with you inside me.”
I’d thought to buy condoms at the airport in New York. It felt surreal that I was going to use one with the man I’d fantasized about for over a year if not longer. I moved an easy chair so Marc could climb in on all fours and watch the glittering bay while I mounted his gorgeous ass and slowly pushed in.
Oh. Oh, God. He was so tight and warm. I couldn’t be bothered with the view outside. Looking at his ass, being inside him, gripping his waist—I was sure I was going to explode and die from ecstasy before I even started thrusting.
He gasped. “Gosh, you’re big.”
I tried to respond with words, but all that came was “mm-hmm.” I swallowed my need. I didn’t want to hurt him. “Should I pull out?”
“No,” he said with effort. “Let me try.”
I thanked the universe he didn’t make me stop. But from holding back and going slow I felt an ache go through my chest and arms. My jaw hurt from clenching my teeth. He must have known from my hoarse breathing I needed to ravish his ass.
But his eyes were closed. His expression was one of sublime pleasure combined with a rhythmic wince and soft moan each time I pushed in. Okay, okay. He likes this. I can’t go crazy.
I took long strokes, pausing now and then to bend over him and kiss his back and neck or massage his taut stomach. I had to close my eyes, too, and breathe deeply to steady my lust. I didn’t want this to be over in three minutes.
Marc continued to whimper softly. “Can we try it with me riding you on the bed? Just for a bit. That will be easier for me. And I want to see your face.”
I lifted him off the chair and held him in my arms. “Will you wear your pink cowboy hat for me?”
“Sure.” Oh my God, the smile he gave me is one I will never forget.
This was miraculous. A picture of this boy (and that hat) was my computer’s wallpaper. Now, I was inside him and from the euphoric look on his face this was as blissful for him as for me.
He was better able to take me now, and his hole felt even more welcoming than before. Again, I had to restrain my urgent need to pound him senseless, especially considering the way he’d begun to grind his hips. Pleasure rippled through my chest and throat as I sank in deeper and deeper.
“Do you want to go faster?” Marc asked. I saw his pleading look.
I sucked in air. “You read my mind,” I said. Thank God he asked. I couldn’t stop thinking about crushing him to me while I penetrated him, needing as much of his warm skin against mine as possible.
He bent his torso and kissed my lips. “Put me on my back.”
Now that I was given free rein, I flipped him over, lifted his legs, and drove my dick into his ass. Yes.
Marc cried out with each stroke. I sped my pace—faster, deeper, harder. Sweat dripped from my forehead. Marc thrashed like a wild animal and jerked his cock, his mouth contorted in fevered need.
Watching him writhe in passion was more than I could bear. I shot deep inside him, filling the condom with my seed. At the same time he reached his peak, howling as jets of his come hit his neck and cheek.
I reluctantly pulled out while my dick was still hard. He lay there panting for at least a minute. I collapsed next to him.
He kissed my neck. “Can we shower and then cuddle?”
“I’d like nothing more.” I kissed him back on the mouth, long and deep until his tongue found mine
“Then after…can we have sex again?”
Holy, oh my damn. “Yes. You don’t have to ask. I promise.”
* * * *
It turned out the fashion show featured underwear and bathing suits—I should have figured since it was Rio. I was in the audience watching for Marc. Holy cow, he came out in black briefs that were almost sheer. His body was oiled. His face oozed confidence. Remember how I said his looks would stun you? My mind was blitzed. I wanted nothing but to fall at his feet and worship.
He gave me a mischievous wink before turning and pacing down the catwalk. I felt the heat rise in the room as the entire audience watched his miraculous backside shifting with every step. Someone behind me said, “That ass!” I hardly had the presence of mind to take pictures with my phone. Yes, me, the photographer, almost too overwhelmed to shoot a photo. There’s a first time for everything.
Of course, I sent the pictures to Pete. I couldn’t help but brag. “We spent the night together,” I said in a text. “He’s so much better than I dreamed.”
Marc and I were at a steakhouse for dinner when Pete buzzed me back. “Fine. You win and you’re right. He is amazing.”
I felt a triumphant smirk come over my face, and Marc asked me what was up. Before I could stop myself, I explained how Pete said I would never do better, and now I had. Clearly and absolutely.
Marc frowned. “So…this is about a competition? About getting back at someone?”
Shit. “No! Not at all! I’ve wanted to meet you for months and months! I’m crazy about you.”
He got up from his chair. “I feel like a conquest. I don’t like that.”
“I don’t see you that way. I promise.”
He put some money on the table. “Finish your meal. I want to be alone for a while.”
I closed my eyes in anguish. Was he right? Was I using him because of his looks? Was that all that mattered?
I mulled over what Cristiano had said. Looking at Marc makes me happy. It’s fair to want that, isn’t it? Or am I a “dime-a-dozen” guy?
Maybe it would be shallow of me if his beauty was all I cared about. But Marc seemed like such a sweetheart. The tightness in my gut and behind my eyes was something I hadn’t felt before. Yes, looking at Marc made me happy, but all I could think about was making him happy.
I arrived at the hotel, prepared to plead my case, when something pink caught my eye. On one of the lobby couches, Marc had left his hat, his phone, and his math book. I collected them and brought them upstairs. All I found was a note. He said he was sorry, but he’d decided to go back to Prague early. Damn it. Hey, wait a minute. Luck was still on my side, wasn’t it?
I called my mom again. She wasn’t happy.