Model Men

by Neil Plakcy

  It’s true I borrowed Pete’s Mazda without asking, but it was his fault for leaving me with a set of keys. I did call him from the road to let him know I had it because that’s me. Always thoughtful.

  “What possessed you to leave for Manhattan during midterms?” His tone was decidedly unamused. I almost snorted. Since when did Pete care about school?

  The answer to his question was a male model, Marc Patrick, the hottest, handsomest man on Earth, but why tell my ex that? “Oh, I’ve just had enough of Handenburg Tech and Rochester for the moment,” I said. “The city is only five hours away, right?”

  “Six and a half.”

  “Yes, okay, Pete. But you know speed limits aren’t my thing.” I noticed he didn’t ask why I didn’t take my own car. He knows I don’t like risking dinging my Viper in crazy Manhattan traffic. And my dad would kill me if it got stolen.

  My ex sighed with exasperation. “You shouldn’t get on Twitter and scream with glee that Pink Cowboy Hat is in the same state if you don’t want people to know you’re e-stalking him.”

  Whoops.

  “You’re not going to get him,” Pete said, trying to sound bored. “I told you. You’re never going to do better than me.”

  My anger at Pete reignited. True, with his black hair, ice-blue eyes, and an athletic body shaped by years of hockey, Pete is hot. But I quit doing drugs, and Pete, that asshat, still wanted to party. We’re friends still, but that’s it. I’m not bitter. Pete’s kind of a slut with other guys now, and I sometimes want to put my fist through a wall when I think about it, but I’m totally, totally not bitter. Especially not today, because today I have a plan that, if successful, will ensure I have no reason to bother with Pete again. Except to return his car.

  I found my way to the Javits Center where Christiano Bastini’s fall collection would be presented, and I hung around the back entrance in the chilly spring air, texting people while waiting for the designer to show up.

  I may not be hot enough to stop traffic like Marc Patrick, but in shitkicker boots, a black leather jacket, a tight navy T-shirt, and crotch-hugging black jeans, I thought I’d have a chance to catch the eye of most guys. But a designer who saw models every day might be a different story, so I had on vintage Bastini sunglasses I’d found on eBay. Set me back a thousand. See, if you Google, you find out that Christiano adores it when people wear his father’s creations.

  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 that 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 for the models 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 Christiano 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 Triptol-emus Mickleburg, but that’s irrelevant.

  We turned to go into 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. 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 literally stun you. I mean, you can’t move, they’re that mesmerizing. Just looking at him in his hat, a white muscle T-shirt and bright coral jeans made my heart speed up. He seemed to be about six feet tall. Good, I’m six-foot-three if you count my shitkicker boots.

  The taxi driver yelled, “Hey!” at Marc because he’d left his phone on the seat.

  Christiano 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. Christiano rushed my MP3 player over to a guy who I’m guessing was the sound director for his show. I sat on a box watching the buzzing activity around me, stealing glances at Marc as he did pushups, had makeup applied, and generally smiled at everyone, male or female, who came by to flirt with him. 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, but he definitely ate up the attention.

  Then, holy shit, people just started changing clothes right there instead of going into dressing rooms. What total, unbelievable showoffs. Thank goodness. I casually inspected my nails, pretended I was reading a text, and then “happened” to catch Marc in just his briefs. His body was perfectly muscled and smooth, like in the photos. His briefs were aqua, a color that looks terrible on 99 percent of the world. They were incredible on him. They hugged his fantastic ass so perfectly, I could scarcely breathe. God, Trip. Please stop gaping.

  My Fierce Ruling Diva song poured out of the sound system. It’s hard to describe, but it has a shimmying, scratchy beat that just makes you want to strut, and I saw some of the models start to dance a bit.

  “Hot tune,” one of them said.

  Christiano 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.”

  Christiano smiled. “May I pay you for them? I don’t have a pair of that style in such good shape.”

  “Well, I could just 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.

  Christiano 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,” Christiano said. “Be different. Ask him about his family. Ask about school. Don’t focus too much 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.”

  Christiano 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.

  Christiano made introductions and my stomach flip-flopped as I shook Marc’s hand. He had the softest skin, and he gave me a warm smile.

  “So how’s…um…math. Christiano said you need a tutor.”

  Marc’s eyes widened. “I do. You can help me?” His real name was Marik Pakorny, and his Slavic accent was mild but detectable. 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 may have bought it because he said, “Okay. I’ll be there a few days. Maybe you can help me then.”

  “W
ell, 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. 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 class, but I hoped her bill wouldn’t reflect that 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 a bit 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, and 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 overshare, 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 really did say a lot about him that I liked, and 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, possibly a bit bashful.

  “But sometimes when I hear something like ‘I want to teach special ed,’ I think I should do something else. I mean, what does a photographer offer the world?”

  “Beauty,” Marc said with a slightly 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 Christiano 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 an incredible 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 street lights flicker on as the sun set. I occasionally 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 usually not much for blowjobs, 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 and lovingly glided my lips back and forth. 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 cum yet. I want to cum with you inside me.”

  I’d brought condoms with me from home, and it felt surreal that I was actually going to use one of them with the man I’d fantasized about for over a year. 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 thrust in. Oh. Oh, God. He was so tight and warm.

  He gasped. “Gosh, you’re big.”

  I practically purred at the compliment, but I didn’t want to hurt him. “Should I pull out?”

  “No,” he said with effort. “Let me try.”

  I felt a pleasant ache in my chest and arms caused by my body’s need to ravish Marc with abandon. I took long strokes with occasional pauses to bend over him and kiss his back and neck or massage his taut stomach. I had to close my eyes and breathe deep to steady my lust. I didn’t want this to be over in three minutes.

  Marc still whimpered with each thrust. “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?”

  He gave me a mischievous smile. “Sure.”

  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 just 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 had 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, and I saw a look of need in his beautiful eyes.

  “You read my mind,” I said.

  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.

  Marc cried out w
ith each stroke as I sped my pace—faster, deeper, harder. Sweat dripped from my forehead. Marc thrashed like a wild animal, and he jerked his cock feverishly.

  Watching him writhe in ecstasy was more than I could bear. I exploded deep inside him, filling the condom with my seed. At the same time he reached his peak, howling as jets of his cum hit his neck and cheek.

  I reluctantly pulled out of him while my dick was still hard. He lay there panting for at least a minute.

  “Can we shower and then cuddle?” he asked.

  I kissed his mouth. “I’d like nothing more.”

  “Then after…can we have sex again?”

  “Oh, God. Absolutely.”

  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 mostly sheer. His body was oiled. His face oozed confidence. He couldn’t have looked more amazing. I wanted to fall at his feet and worship.

  He gave me a mischievous look before turning and pacing down the catwalk. Damn, if his ass did not look perfect. I felt the heat rise in the room as the entire audience watched his miraculous backside shifting with every step. I barely had the presence of mind to take pictures with my phone.

  Of course I sent them to Pete. I couldn’t help but brag. “We spent the night together,” I said in a text. “He’s amazing.”

  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.”