by Gavin Atlas
“Prague, now? If you’re this reckless with money, Trip, we’re not going to get you a condo when you graduate. You’re going to have to live with us until you calm down.”
I didn’t hesitate. “I understand. I’ll live with you guys if it means I can go.”
I could hear my mom’s disbelief. “Wow, Trip. Really? Well, if it’s that important to you.”
We hung up, and I called the concierge.
“Could you find me the first flight to Prague? First class? No, wait…coach.”
* * * *
Maybe it’s because I live in a blocky brick dorm on a drab campus, but to me, Prague was almost as beautiful as Rio. Gorgeous orange rooftops and church spires as far as I could see. Well, not quite that far. Way in the distance there were ugly communist-era high-rise apartments, but if you ignored them, it was breathtaking. I felt a pain in my chest that I wasn’t discovering this city with Marc the way we had in Rio. I’d known him for two days. I already missed him more than anything.
I decided it wasn’t an invasion of privacy to turn on his phone and find his home number. I had to ask a passerby for help since his entries were in Czech. I called and his mom answered. He lived with his family? She told me he was at school, but I could stop by later. I found out they lived in the ugly high-rise neighborhood on the outskirts. I wondered if his family was poor. It was no big deal to me, but I knew from experience a lot of regular folk are turned off by how I drop cash left and right. I guess just because you have a glamorous job, it doesn’t mean you always make glamorous bucks. I hoped he didn’t think I was trying to buy him.
I took a cab to his apartment, feeling beyond depressed. His family lived on the eleventh floor. The building look clean and in adequate condition, but I was surprised when his mother opened the door. They had sleek, modern furniture and a flat screen TV. I suspected Marc’s mother was wearing real pearls.
She clapped her hands. “You have his hat! He’ll be so happy.” She yelled for him, I think, and then motioned for me to sit on their black velvet couch. I did come in, but I remained standing.
Marc came out wearing a baby-blue T-shirt and old jeans. He looked like he hadn’t slept, but he was still breathtaking. I sighed.
“Here’s your stuff,” I said, handing him his textbook, phone, and hat.
He gave me a sweet smile and said, “Thank you” in a quiet voice.
“I had to switch planes in Madrid,” I continued, aware I was mumbling, “and I bought you something so you won’t lose your phone anymore. Attach this to your jeans.” I handed him a black leather holster. It was designed by Cristiano Bastini, of course. I hoped it would remind Marc of me.
“Well…I don’t want to intrude,” I said. “I was lucky enough to be the one to find your belongings. I’m glad I had the opportunity to return them and to say I’m sorry. I’ll get out of your hair now.”
“Wait,” he said and he ushered me out into the hallway. He pulled me into a tight hug. “That’s the best thing anyone’s ever done for me,” he whispered. “I can’t believe you flew thousands of kilometers to return my hat.” He kissed me on the cheek.
My heart leaped. “Do you think you could give me a second chance?”
“I want to, but we live so far apart. Perhaps—”
“Oh, I forgot to tell you. I’m moving to Prague today. I’ve been called in to assist with the terrible shortage of algebra tutors here.” Good, I was back to my old self, and I made him laugh. “Seriously, though, I can visit you. A lot. If things work out, I could try to find a job here.”
Marc smiled, but gave me a scrutinizing look. “Do you promise to graduate first?”
“Yes, I promise.”
“In that case…” Marc ran his hand down my side, and his lip curled in a grin. “…there’s a certain photography contract I may be able to get for you.”
I tilted my head and smirked. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yes.”
“My fantasy come true.” I kissed him on the lips, the thrill of being close to Marc shooting through me. “I can’t wait to start.”
Revenge as an Art Form
I promise I’m not bad. Revenge is not my thing. Except this once.
Not long ago, I dated gallery owner Casper Glansing. I’d be lying if I didn’t say the relationship was purely physical at first. I liked how little he resembled the New York art crowd. He never dressed all in black, nor did he have an emaciated frame. He was muscle-bound, almost a giant.
“I need to have the body to match my huge endowment,” he’d say, adjusting his crotch. However, he did drop dough on styling his blond hair. Why was never clear. By the end of the day, his histrionics left him looking like Andy Warhol meshed with a version of He-Man who possessed permanent rage creases on his forehead.
He insisted the way he handled stress was good for our relationship. “After work, I need something to pound hard,” he’d say. “Your ass is a perfect fit.”
I wish Casper hadn’t turned me on with that logic. Or I wish he hadn’t been more than a turn-on.
He considered Glansing Gallery the hottest in Chelsea, and some would agree. As a twenty-three year old starting out, I knew other artists in our circle whispered I’d use Casper for connections. I didn’t think I’d have to. Casper promised he wanted to be my exclusive dealer from the start, and why not? I had talent. I did note his promises of a solo show coincided with requests for me to cook for “business dinners” he held at his home or when he wanted me to pose nude for one of his portraitist friends. Those sessions were also in his brownstone. He often watched from a distance.
One night, while helping clean up after a show Casper had put up for an abstractionist from Brooklyn, I asked why he hadn’t scheduled my debut. He put his hands down the back of my jeans, squeezed hard, and said, “Why do you think?”
I never liked it when he answered my questions with a question. “You don’t like my paintings?”
“No. The erotic power is great,” he said. “They make me want to screw you.”
They did? I had a few R-rated reinterpretations of famous works, but he hadn’t seen them. “I don’t see how my still-lifes are sexual. In fact—”
“Flowers are sex organs, boy.” Now my jeans were around my ankles.
“Because I need to earn success on my own?”
He whispered in my ear. “If I mount your work for a show, you’ll be too busy to let me mount you.”
“Wait, what?” When Casper drank, he often revealed more than he’d planned. As he began biting my neck, the smell of tequila on his breath almost knocked me over.
“You should have gone to culinary school.”
“Why? I’m an artist. I’m not chef material at—” He cut me off by putting a cloth napkin in my mouth.
“Stop arguing, little boy. Everyone loves the food you make for me.” With one of Casper’s hand between my legs and the other brandishing an XL condom, I couldn’t focus well enough to protest.
We were close enough to the gallery windows that, despite the darkness, we could be seen. Easily. Still, that was not my first concern when he laid me down on a long mahogany display table. Figurines which fetched thousands stood in the space on either side of my hips. Every thrust threatened to knock them over. What was he doing? Considering how much money meant to Casper, this was insane. I gripped the table, trying to limit the rocking. The tension in my arms and thighs felt overwhelming but exquisite. And yes, when he came with a shout, a cobalt blown-glass vase fell, exploding in all directions.
Casper grinned and bent down to kiss me. “Stay right there. Don’t even lower your legs. I’m not going to risk my model getting scars from glass cuts.”
It was then I noticed we had an audience. Two women who, from their coats and hats, had addresses on Park Avenue, clapped and scurried off.
* * * *
After that evening, the first inklings of anger and disappointment began gnawing at me. I noticed looks while Casper circulated and flirted with potential clie
nts at his events. Once Vlad Strashko, one of the older artists for whom I modeled put his arm around me and said “Is it true? You let him do you in public when he sees other men? I wouldn’t do that to you, Mick.”
I had no idea what Vlad was talking about and told him so.
Vlad took a sip of Scotch and looked away as he spoke. “You know the reason he has you model nude for his circle of friends isn’t to help you with connections. It’s so he can display you while making sure everyone knows only he can fuck you.”
I felt my face enflame, but said, “It’s nice he’s proud to have me.”
“Ask him how many of us he’s told to stay after you’ve modeled to watch him fuck you from the roof.”
“What?”
“You never seem to notice the shadows from the skylight. Or the sounds of steps on the fire escape.”
I bit my lip. “You’ve watched me get fucked?”
Vlad smiled and ruffled my hair. “Don’t be a stranger,” he said before walking away.
Wait. What? Also, Casper sees other men? After everyone left, I asked Casper if I was his one and only. I should have remembered that like any question I asked, the response was more sex.
“This will calm you down, Mick,” he whispered as he pulled at my shirt, popping buttons off right and left.
* * * *
I’d told my favorite relative, Aunt Lauren, about my relationship with Casper. A week after the conversation with Vlad, she invited me to her house in the Hamptons and told me to sit down.
“So I have information.” she said. “Listen to this.” She turned on some kind of spy-tech recording device that looked like a sapphire brooch.
I should mention Aunt Lauren is romantic mystery novelist, Delia Blantyre. Delia is also known for her collection of antique and contemporary paintings. She is in the unique position of knowing Casper, while he has no idea who she truly is or that we’re acquainted. The recording was a conversation between Casper and Delia’s art buyer, Rosalie. There were sounds of clinking glasses and silverware mixed with muffled background conversation. I pictured a lunch in Manhattan.
Rosalie: “Delia is looking for undiscovered talent again. Someone mentioned you know a Mick Cutshaw?”
Casper (slight slur, tipsy perhaps): “Mick Cutshaw? He’s just a model. No one considers him an artist. How would Delia have heard of him?”
Rosalie: “It was I who had heard. I thought you were grooming him for a solo show. Perhaps I heard wrong?”
Casper: “I enjoy his company, if you know what I mean. I’d be surprised if his work is up to Delia’s standards. If there’s a reason to give him a show, I haven’t seen it.”
Aunt Lauren stopped the machine. She’d already poured me a drink. I needed it.
I searched for something to say that would disguise my rage. “Do you always have conversations tape recorded?” I asked.
“I do with people I don’t trust. Like Casper. Or my husband.”
I fell silent. Casper and I had never said “I love you” even though it had been over a year. I thought I’d shown my devotion. I spent a moment recalling all I’d done for him.
I’d planned each month’s “anniversary.” I didn’t think it was enough to buy someone flowers. So much better to sculpt a vase on a pottery wheel, paint it, and grow roses in a community plot.
I’d cooked lavish meals for him: duck, veal, whatever he asked for. He needed sumptuous dinners for potential buyers which I wasn’t asked to stay for.
I decided not to be dramatic and cry. Instead, since I was so not dramatic I would wait for a good time to confront him. New Year’s Eve, for example.
The holidays were a month away. I spent the time listening to gossip and found the name Darren Davidson came up in tandem with Casper’s, in phrases such as “I had a delicious dinner with Casper and Darren the other night.”
Darren Davidson was another gallery owner whom I met through Casper about three months after we began dating. I’d found Darren intriguing. He seemed quiet and observant, but he revealed an abundance of wolfish lust made all the more enticing by his neat black goatee and dazzling teeth.
Darren and I behaved. We agreed to keep it platonic since we’d both just “started seeing someone special.” Now I wonder if it was the same someone. Darren left town to guide student groups through London soon after we met. I hadn’t stayed in touch.
Here is where I went bad: I obtained Darren’s online chat screen name from a mutual acquaintance. Then I pretended I wanted a simple hookup with him. Darren’s flirtations were heavy. He remembered me, recalling I was a nude model, and the rumor I was an “outstanding bottom.” He’d never heard I aspired to be an artist. Then Darren mentioned he dated a gallery owner from Chelsea who had a “remarkable invisible chef.”
Christ. Casper was in trouble.
It turned out Darren had spent another semester in London and had returned only this fall. He had no idea Casper was cheating. Fine. Casper had two boyfriends. It was now my goal to leave him with zero. When I vented to Aunt Lauren on the phone, she told me revenge was unwise. I wouldn’t listen.
Darren told me his plans for New Year’s with Casper included an evening in the hot tub and two bottles of champagne. No surprise, Casper informed me he would be out of town.
That night I showed up at Casper’s after I saw the two of them leave for dinner. The maid allowed me entrance to his duplex, figuring I was performing my invisible chef routine, making puff pastries for a gallery event, and not realizing one boyfriend at dinner plus one in the apartment did not bode well.
When they returned and headed for Casper’s hot tub in the master bath, I was already on the bed unclothed. “Happy New Year!” I said, full of cheer, then gave Casper a confused look as if I had no idea Darren would be with him.
“What the—” Darren began, “Casper, what is he doing here?”
Casper’s eyes popped, but he recovered.
“How did you get in?” he demanded. “How many times do I have to tell you it’s over?” He turned to Darren. “Meet Mick Cutshaw, delusional former trick from before you and I met, and current stalker. He’s harmless, but hopeless.” I didn’t know Casper could think so fast. I needed a back-up plan.
I didn’t have one.
Darren alternated between hungry looks at me and angry looks at Casper. He decided he was hungry. Casper saw that.
“Since he’s here, Darren,” Casper said, his voice smooth with mischief, “perhaps this is just what we need. You know, since we’re both tops. His ass feels wonderful if I recall.”
I had at least ten seconds to protest, but my dick was thinking for me and wouldn’t let my voice work. Darren had spread my legs with such speed and force I was surprised I didn’t strain a muscle. Then he climbed on top of me and kissed me so hard, it hurt my jaw. I heard something about “he’s noisy as hell, so we need to keep him quiet” before Darren lifted his lips from mine long enough for Casper to push a ball gag inside my mouth. Casper’s eyes expressed feral satisfaction and entitlement, but no anger. He had no idea I’d meant to cause trouble.
On the other hand…his language. “God, this ass,” he said as he rammed me with more fervor than ever, “We should fuck it all the time.” Then “Ooh, yeah, push his ankles back to the mattress. Just like that. You’re turning me the fuck on, Darren.”
Darren was out of his mind with ecstasy, and his language matched Casper’s. With his mouth contorted, eyes shut tight, and gasping for breath, he could barely form the words “Oh, this ass…this ass…it feels so fucking good.” He came so hard inside me I could feel the condom swell.
I thought I sensed Casper’s confidence slip when Darren pulled out and Casper pushed back in. Darren was bigger, more energetic. For the first time, I could give Casper a bored expression and take his XL dick in silence.
Okay, now Casper was angry. He flipped me onto my back, raised my ass, and rammed so hard it was a good thing I had the ball gag. His gasps were so strained I thought he was giv
ing himself heart failure. Finally, he bent over me and put his arm around my neck. This hurt. I began to feel dizzy. Choking me created the struggle he wanted. His body shook in violent orgasm.
As Darren removed my ball gag, I saw him give Casper a look that said, “I think you scared the boy, and that crosses the line.” Casper didn’t see it, looking down to stroke himself before removing his condom.
“By the way, Casper. I have it on good authority your chef quit today,” I said. They both looked at me, eyes wide.
Then Darren turned to Casper, waiting for an explanation. I didn’t stay to hear it. I grabbed my pants and shoes and left the room, still naked. I’d been treated like this before and Casper knew it. It wasn’t wise to go out in the cold shirtless, but I was too hurt to think. When I reached home and got under the blankets, I realized the drama might have helped. Darren couldn’t miss that much emotion.
Casper soon called to tell me my plan did not leave him boyfriendless. “I had to apologize and tell him I knew you from your nude modeling work,” Casper said. “I told him I figured you like that kind of thing.”
“And that was the one apology needed?” I said.
“It is. Now I have to hire a cook every night Darren comes over so he won’t think you were the chef. Do you have any idea how much I’m spending?”
“Suffer,” I said. “Considering how gossipy your friends are I’m surprised Darren doesn’t know the truth.” I couldn’t believe Casper’s priorities. Darren might have been gorgeous, but he was older than Casper, and thus not to his tastes from what I’d seen. Moreover, I could no longer imagine Casper loving anyone besides himself. I didn’t know how insecure and jealous I felt until I realized I’d been biting my lip so hard it’d begun to hurt. Why did Casper need to save his relationship with Darren?
“You can forget any help I was going to give you with your career,” Casper said. “It won’t be long before you realize you needed me.”
I didn’t mention Casper’s conversation with my aunt’s assistant. Instead I said, “If I find I’m short on lying psychopaths, I’ll be in touch.” I clicked off the phone. Thinking of Darren made me realize I’d been rash, not to mention selfish. I’d only thought about getting back at Casper. I’d made him angry and maybe poorer. That didn’t feel like enough, but I was out of the revenge game.