by Ophelia Bell
My studio apartment takes up the entire second floor of the building, so it isn’t small, but it isn’t finished either. There are no interior walls other than the walls surrounding the bathroom in the far corner, and my bedroom is only separated from the rest of the space by a few panel screens lined up side by side. When I first rented the place, it was filled with junk and dust. Some of the junk was salvageable, like the kitchen table and one of my two mismatched nightstands. It’s still kind of a dump, but it gets good light, and I have enough room to move and enjoy my solitary existence for the first time in my life. It’s comfortable but lonely as hell, and I feel it more at this moment than I have all year.
I hit the remote for the stereo, and “Short Change Hero” flows from the speakers. The music fills the emptiness, offering the illusion that I have an actual life and I haven’t just been going through the motions since my discharge. I thought I was doing fine, making progress, but all it took was one taste of her to drive home what’s missing.
Leo is standing in the corner that faces the south windows, which I’ve staged as a photo set. The walls are adorned with more of my professional shots, and he’s inspecting each one with keen interest. I get a vague thrill that he’s here, which manages to dull the edge of frustration Celeste left me with—not just sexual, but emotional too.
“You didn’t tell me you had a fucking porn studio, dude.” Leo points at one of the photos, which is an action shot of a woman on all fours, mouth open, in the throes of an orgasm. She’s in sharp focus while the man nailing her from behind is in shadows and slightly out of focus. He has a fistful of her hair and is riding her like there’s no tomorrow. Leo glances between the photo and the antique, brocade-upholstered sofa that sits under the window in a patch of sunlight. It’s the same piece of furniture that the couple is fucking on in the photo, and I can see the pieces fall together in his mind.
“Is that you?” He points to the man in the background of the photo, whose face isn’t visible.
“I don’t fuck the models, man. Nah, they’re just friends who run an erotic blog and hire me to take photos of them fucking. I don’t do videos unless they ask.”
He scrutinizes me for a second, then browses the art again. Finally, he shakes his head. “I guess you’re right. He doesn’t have any ink. Are these for sale?”
“You can buy prints on their website. These are just part of my portfolio. Are you ready to get started?”
He looks at me with a level of respect that wasn’t there last week. “You’ve been holding out on me. No wonder you get all those pendejos to pose for you if you show them these.”
“I have photos just as good downstairs, and it’s the porn that you pay attention to?” I shake my head and chuckle, then head to the storage cabinet and pull out my gear.
I’m still wired from seeing Celeste, my mind in overdrive while I set up my tripod with my digital camera on top. My neck prickles and I glance up to see Leo staring at me with a frown.
“You okay? Or are you just that serious about shooting my tattoo?” He wanders toward me, hands on his hips.
I huff out a breath, cursing myself for getting so lost in thought but pleased he cares enough to ask. “I’m fine. I need you to sign that form first, then we can get started.” I jab my finger at the waiver laid out on my coffee table. Leo heads over and settles on my sofa, leaning over to read. After a few minutes he says, “No shit. This says I get paid. You didn’t say anything about that. How much? The number’s blank.”
“That’s up to you. If we just do the tattoo itself, then I use it to promote the shop and that’s it. I’ll pay you fifty bucks. If you’re game for a full-length photo shoot with body oil and costumes and props, I’ll pay you based on how much time you’re in front of the camera. Fifty an hour. It’s all in the contract. We’ll just fill in the numbers when we’re done, or we can set a timer. And if you hate all the shots, we rip that up and I delete the files. But you’ll love them, so we don’t need to worry about that.”
His eyes widen. “Fifty an hour for a few snapshots? Do those prints downstairs sell that well?”
“When they’re digital, yeah. Half-naked, tattooed bangers are a hot commodity in digital stock. You can never have too many. Just fair warning, if you don’t want your face on a romance novel cover, I can frame the shots so you can’t see it.”
His wheels are turning as he sets the pen down and stands up, pulling off his shirt. He gives me a wide grin. “Hell yeah. Where’s that oil?”
Leo’s in rare form now that I’ve put the idea in his head that he could wind up on the cover of some best-selling smut. The truth is that I get paid far more for the erotic art shots hanging on my wall than the stock images. The couple in those images, James and Sequoia, are internet porn celebrities, their website bringing in mid-five figures a month, so they pay me well when they come in for shoots once a month to keep their rabid fans happy.
On a few occasions, they’ve thrown me a bone and invited me as their third, which I only said yes to after figuring out James was bi and I’d be the meat in their horny little sandwich. They even have a few unidentifiable photos of me on their site, tangled up with the pair of them while my camera was set on a burst timer. I made a point to wear a long-sleeved shirt in all the shots just to make sure there were no identifying marks visible.
I turn up the music and Leo gets into a groove, his gaze sliding to the photo on the wall of Sequoia getting nailed doggy style while I snap a few test shots before adjusting my settings for the afternoon light. He sports half a chub but seems unaware. I, on the other hand, am hyperconscious of everything about him and can’t help but feel a giddy rush when I grab a bottle of sweet almond oil from my cabinet and toss it to him.
“Let’s get you glossy.”
He starts slathering on the oil, and I walk over with a tub of Wet Wipes for his hands. When he’s done, I hand him one, take the oil, and motion for him to turn.
His tattoo is every bit as epic in its completed state as I’d envisioned, and I spend a moment just admiring it, basking in a self-congratulatory glow. The newest section near the bottom is still a little dry and flaky. I pour oil in my palm and begin rubbing in circles over his back, beginning at the center, where his reach ended.
The man is cut like a diamond, his shoulders broad and tight, the muscles bunching when my hand glides over a spot he’s already covered in oil. I let myself indulge a little more than I should because I need something to get the memory of Celeste’s taste off my fucking mind. I try to keep from lingering and make the application more businesslike, but that doesn’t keep me from enjoying the fact that I have my hands on him.
Without asking, he unbuckles his jeans and lets them fall partway down his ass, revealing black knit boxers that he tugs lower so I can reach the rest of the tattoo. At the sight of the tight, pale swells of his ass, my dick insists that its turn has come for pleasure, and I have to focus hard to get it under control. I regretfully finish up rubbing the oil into his tattoo and stand back.
“Spin around, let’s check you out,” I say.
He turns and sways his hips to the beat of the rough, bluesy music, hands resting just above his groin to keep his jeans from sliding down. His chest, shoulders, and both arms are covered in swaths of blackwork, much of it inspired by ancient Aztec tribal art. He’s the only gangbanger I’ve ever tattooed who doesn’t have a Christian cross somewhere on his body, nor a single Latin phrase rendered in a fancy typeface. It’s all detailed artwork, which he explained was part of his personal art collection, gathered from some of the most prominent tattoo artists he’s met. It includes an anatomical heart rendered like an old etching in the center of his chest, and the sole piece of color is a two-headed snake that weaves across his lower abdomen, highlighting the definition of his abs and Adonis belt. Toni Valentine’s work is always unmistakable, and I’m frankly envious as hell that she got to tattoo that particular stretch of skin. If I’m ever in San Diego, I plan to visit her shop and ma
ybe work out a trade.
“Do you do action shots for solo shoots? Or should I pose like Fabio?” He grabs a cushion off the sofa and embraces it, bending over and letting his hair fall across his face as he puckers his lips and gives the tassels a sultry look.
“Just be you, asshole,” I say, unable to suppress a laugh. “Let’s get the tat shots done first though. Hold your horses while I finish setting up.”
The lights come on, and I nudge him over toward the expanse of bare plaster wall that usually serves as my primary backdrop. It’s plain white but textured—enough to be interesting on its own, but easy enough to blend out if needed. I position a couple reflective umbrella lights, then I hand him a pair of barbells. He stares at the fifty-pound weights like I’ve grown an extra head.
“You’ve seen a barbell before, haven’t you?”
“Yeah, but I thought I just stand here and let you take pictures or some shit.”
“Being a model isn’t easy. I need those muscles flexed. Now, turn around and pump, pussy.”
The dig gets him moving. We’ve never worked out together, but he’s as big as I am, so I have no doubt he can bench his own weight, if not double.
I give him a series of instructions to get a variety of different poses, then head back to my camera. He grumbles about it but gets to work while I snap bursts of shots at his back. The muscles flex, giving his tattoo fantastic definition. The lion’s eyes rest right in the hollow beneath his left shoulder blade and seem to follow me when I move.
I have the camera hooked to my Wi-Fi so it sends the shots directly to the cloud when I’m at home, and my laptop pings with little notifications of the files transferring over. I ignore them, giving Leo more instructions. I’m going to put him through his paces so he knows he’s working for the money I’m paying him once we’re done.
“Jesus Christ, you weren’t kidding. This isn’t easy,” he says, exhaling a breath after I make him hold a tightly flexed pose for a minute to get his veins bulging in his biceps. The tattoos on his arms and chest gleam with the oil, and I move in with the camera for some close-ups, crouching down a little to get a different angle.
“We can take a break in a few. Just want a few more up close. Unbutton your jeans and let them hang a little.”
He does as I ask, moving as if to strip out of his pants entirely, then pauses with a wry grin. His waistband hovers low across his hips so the snake tattoo is fully visible. “You think the romance chicas will like this look?”
The barest hint of pubic hair peeks between his thumbs, the thick bulge of his dick below the elastic band. He isn’t hard though; he’s just big, and my mouth waters as I imagine what lies beneath. I regroup with gritted teeth and nod, shooting him a roguish smile, like I’m in on the joke. “You better believe it.”
I’m ready for a break when we stop. I was dumb enough to touch Celeste earlier when I’m painfully aware of the consequences. With Leo, I realized halfway through the shoot that I’d signed up for a torture session by giving him the option to draw it out. I could have limited it to a half-hour shoot. Hell, I could have gotten away with less down in the tattoo shop and not even paid him, but I didn’t want it to get back that I paid any of the other guys and never offered him the same opportunity.
I pull two fresh beers from my fridge and pop the tops, offer him one, and lean back against my counter. “I admit, I’m a little surprised you survived the week. How’d you get away with what you did to Gustavo?”
“I didn’t,” he blurts and grabs the beer. “He’s kind of my supervisor, so he’ll get me back. I just don’t know how yet. The fucker just pisses me off. He had no business dragging Celeste along with him like she’s nothing but his arm candy. That’s how he treats her. And I can’t believe Toni’s brothers didn’t do anything.”
“I don’t remember Celeste being someone you could push around. It sounded like she had a reason to come.” I narrow my eyes at him, remembering the look he had when he defended her. It was just like the one she gave me this afternoon before he interrupted our moment and spooked her. “You’re really in love with her, aren’t you? What I’m curious about is how the hell you can stay sane spending so much time with her while feeling how you feel. You know it’s never going to happen. Even if she did return your feelings, there are elements outside your control. Really fucking deadly elements.”
My voice goes tight because I realize I’m grappling for answers to my own dilemma, which is twofold now: I want them both. That revelation hits me like flying shrapnel to the back of my skull. My feelings for Leo have been a year in the making, and I could map out every conversation in the lines of ink I’ve inscribed over half his body. But now Celeste is back in the picture, and I know there’s no way I can get her out of my head even if Leo were open to something. In a perfect world, they’d cancel each other out.
My world has always been far from perfect.
“I don’t know, man,” he says with a helpless shrug. “You don’t really get to choose who you love.”
That statement gives me pause, and on impulse, I open the cabinet and reach for my tequila, then fill a pair of shot glasses. I grab a lime, slice it into quick wedges, then hand him a glass and a wedge followed by a saltshaker.
“Here’s to not having a fucking choice.” I give him a humorless grin, then lick, slam, and suck.
“A-fucking-men.”
We move back to the couch with the bottle and are three shots in when he asks, “So the girl downstairs. Is it serious?”
“I fucked her in a locker room. What do you think?” I ask, proud of myself for the quick deflection.
He snorts. “You’re a regular Casanova, aren’t you? How did I not know this about you already?”
My head is muddled from the booze, so with the soundest of logic, I pour us more shots.
“Seriously, man, I see hot women in your shop all the time, but you don’t react. You don’t check them out at all. I’d love to see the woman who actually caught your attention enough for an afternoon screw in a locker room.”
“Maybe it was a timing thing,” I suggest. Of course, it’s a timing thing. Mostly the answer comes down to the fact that every time Leo witnessed me around women, he was there, and when he’s there, my attention is already spoken for.
“Nah, that’s a cop-out. I want to know what she’s like. Describe her to me.”
I scowl at the tequila and pour him yet another shot, hoping it’ll distract him and he’ll drop it, but he’s as attached to this line of questioning as a pit bull to a stick. I don’t know how to distract him, so I say the absolute dumbest thing that comes to mind.
“What if it wasn’t a woman?”
First off, he saw a woman’s purse, so if he picks up on that, he’ll know I’m full of shit. Second, what the actual fuck am I saying? I don’t need him to know the full truth, or even a piece of it.
He’s so quiet I’m afraid to look at him, and it’s difficult to congratulate myself on actually diverting his attention from the identity of the woman.
“All right, I’ll bite,” he drawls. “Describe him to me. Was he wearing shoes to match that fancy handbag?”
Fucking hell.
I give him a wary but hopeful look. “You seriously aren’t bothered by the idea that I could’ve been nailing some dude back there and not a woman?”
His eyebrows lift and he stares at me as if to say, What is this, the dark ages? “It’s the fucking twenty-first century, Mad Dog. Anyone who’s bothered by the idea of two dudes fucking should just move to an island and stay there. Are you saying you’re gay?” He sits up straighter, his eyes widening in excitement. “Dude, are you coming out for the first time to me?” There’s still a note of mock incredulity in his voice. He smiles around the mouth of his beer bottle as he takes a swig.
I pin him with a serious stare. “You’re a motherfucker, Leo. No, I’m not gay.” I sigh. “I’m also not joking. I mean, it was a woman, but it could’ve been a man.” I clear my throat and bl
urt, “I’m bisexual.”
I don’t have the balls to confess to him that there’s only one man alive who I’d have taken a risk like that for, but the tequila in my blood desperately wants him to give me a reason to come clean.
His dark eyebrows draw together and he scowls at his beer bottle, picking at the label. My heart is in my throat, and I force myself to take a swallow of mine. The mood in the room has shifted from lighthearted to serious as a heart attack. I should just make a joke. Laugh and yell “gotcha” or something. But I’m stuck to my chair, too terrified by his reaction to say or do a damn thing.
“You mean that, don’t you?” He doesn’t look at me, only squints at the peeling label on his beer, scrapes at it with his thumbnail until it tears away. I feel a little bit of my hope tear away too, and I know I’ve made a huge fucking mistake.
“It’s not what you’re thinking,” I say, though I have no goddamn clue what he’s thinking, much less what “it” even is. Our friendship? This photo shoot? This conversation? I don’t fucking know.
He shakes his head, clears his throat, and gets to his feet. His movements are exaggerated and deliberate as he sets down the beer and retrieves his shirt. He’s still not looking at me after he slips into it.
I stand and reach into my back pocket for my wallet. “I owe you—”
Leo cuts me off with a sharp swipe of his hand through the air. “Some other time. I’ll, ah . . . see you later.”
As he climbs into the lift and turns to close the gate, his eyes catch mine, and what I see shatters me. I expected revulsion, disgust, the usual looks I see on the faces of homophobes who learn what I am—and even the odd gay man I’ve hooked up with who finds out I like fucking women too.
But all I see on Leo’s face as it disappears from view is the stricken look of confusion, pain, and betrayal, which is somehow ten times worse.