All About Yves

by Ryan Field

  One afternoon, while Jane Francis was speaking on the phone with Marco's publicist, Yves practically yanked the phone out of her hand and took control. Jane just stood there with her mouth hanging open while Yves told the publicist Marco was too busy to come to the phone and he'd take the call next week when he had more time. Marco was in the room, lounging on the sofa and eating handmade bon-bons. It was Saturday and his calendar was blank. He just didn't feel like talking to the publicist, and he told Yves to take care of it for him.

  When Yves hung up, Jane Francis put her hands on her hips and said, “That was an important call about the project in Atlanta for Home Value. You could have spoken with him.” Her lips were pinched and she was frowning.

  "Nonsense,” Marco said and pouted. “It's the weekend and I don't feel like talking business today. I just want to eat my bon-bons and relax right here.” Then he pointed to an empty glass on the coffee table and said, “Yves, would you please get me something else to drink? This candy is making me thirsty."

  Yves ran up to the coffee table and reached for the glass. “I'll get you an ice-cold lemonade, Marco, with a straw. I bought straws yesterday because I thought it would easier for you to drink. I'll be right back."

  Jane watched him pick up the glass and leave the room. When he was gone, she folded her arms across her chest and said, “Why don't you see if he'll get down on his hands and knees and scrub the toilet with a toothbrush with his left hand while he gives you a foot massage with his right hand? He seems so willing to do anything you ask, I'm sure he won't mind."

  Marco waved her off. “Don't be jealous, Jane Francis,” he said. “I still love you, too. He's just a good, responsible guy who loves his job. And I work hard. I deserve to be pampered once in a while. You never bought me straws."

  "Well, excuse me, your highness,” she said. “I'll start cutting the crust off your peanut butter and jelly sandwiches if you wish.” Then she curtsied.

  "Don't be droll,” Marco said. “I have a headache."

  Jane Francis shook her head and turned. She knew how far she could go with Marco, and as an employee she didn't want to overstep her bounds. On her way out of the room she said, “If you need me, I'll be in my bedroom planning ways to make your life better than it already is, your highness."

  The extra free time Jane Francis had wouldn't have been a bad thing, except she kept noticing little things. Peculiar things that bothered her. The more she grew to know Yves the less she understood him. Yves had a few quirks Jane didn't mention to anyone. One night while Yves thought everyone was sleeping, Jane Francis saw him sneak into the kitchen and devour an entire roasted chicken. He scooped it into his mouth with his fingers, forcing large chunks of chicken down his throat. He hardly chewed. His eyes were wild and he took deep breaths through his nose. It looked as though he hadn't eaten a decent meal in months. Then he ate a bar of cream cheese, a half dozen bagels, a container of leftover macaroni and cheese, and half of a large chocolate cake.

  He didn't know Jane was watching him devour this food. She was standing in the dark hall near the kitchen doorway. When he was finished, he wiped his hands and his face with paper towels and turned off the lights. Jane stepped into her own room so he wouldn't see her. When it was safe, she followed his footsteps to the powder room in the front hall. While she stood outside with her palm pressed to her throat, he was inside the powder room leaning over the toilet throwing up everything he'd just pilfered from the refrigerator.

  Jane Francis kept this to herself, along with other things she'd seen and heard. She figured it was none of her business and she wasn't a gossip. But then something happened one night at the TV studio and Jane had to say something to Marco. They'd just taped another reality show. They were in the dressing room and Marco was removing an expensive outfit he'd just worn on the show. It was from Frazier's new collection.

  "You were wonderful, Marco,” Yves said. “I almost cried when I saw you show those models how to walk down a runway in this outfit."

  Jane furrowed her eyebrows and listened. The outfit was one of those outrageous couture deals no one would have worn in public. The jacket was soft amber suede, with extra wide lapels, and flared out at the hips. The black slacks were skintight, see-through nylon/spandex that resembled pantyhose. The boots were three-inch stacked heels that looked more like women's shoes than men's shoes. Jane Francis knew this was the type of dramatic outfit male models wore during fashion week to impress the critics and journalists. It was all about effect, and as uncomfortable as any outfit could get. The see-through pants were so tight they rode up the crack of Marco's tight little ass.

  "You didn't get the right size thong, Jane Francis,” Marco said, removing the jacket. “It's so tight it's cutting off circulation to my balls."

  "It's the same size I always get,” Jane Francis said. She was lying. She'd given him a thong too sizes too small because she was annoyed at him for letting Yves take over his life and so many of her responsibilities.

  "Well, I should let you try it on for size,” Marco said, adjusting the waistband of the thong.

  "If I tried to pull that little thing up around my fat ass it would split in three different places,” Jane Francis said.

  This made Marco laugh. He was removing the high heeled boots and he almost fell over the dressing table chair.

  Yves reached out to balance him. “Are you okay, Marco?” His right hand was on the small of Marco's back and his left was on Marco's flat stomach.

  "Yes, I'm fine,” Marco said. “But I'll be better once I get out of this thong."

  "Do you like the new pillows, Marco?” Yves asked.

  Jane Francis stared at a couple of animal-print pillows on a small love seat and pressed her lips together. Since Yves had started working for Marco, he taken it upon himself to accessorize the dressing room in the TV studio. He'd polished the floors himself, he'd rearranged the furniture, and he'd repainted everything in the same shade of taupe. Yves claimed that when a room was monochromatic, it was more relaxing. And he wanted Marco's dressing room to be a peaceful, uncomplicated place to be. He even filled small vase on Marco's dressing table every night because he knew how much Marco loved fresh flowers.

  "The pillows look wonderful, Yves,” Marco said. “I love them."

  "All you need is a red light and a massage table,” Jane Francis said. She knew Marco couldn't have cared less about how his dressing room looked.

  Marco gave her a look. Then he yanked off the black tights and tossed them on top of the suede jacket and the high heels. This was work. Marco didn't care about Jane Francis or Yves seeing him in a tight thong.

  Yves bent over and picked up the discarded clothing. He pressed the clothes to his chest and said, “I'll take these out and hang them up, Marco. I don't want them to get ruined. They're so beautiful."

  Jane Francis's eyes opened wide.

  "You do that, Yves,” Marco said. “I'll get dressed."

  When Yves stepped out, Jane Francis said, “Are you sure about this?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Did you forget about Rebecca Braun?” Jane Francis said. “She's the one in charge of your wardrobe and she doesn't like it when someone else handles the clothes from the collection. The last time it happened it took three days to calm her down. She takes her job very seriously and she's the one responsible for all those clothes. If something is missing, it's her fault."

  Marco stopped moving. “You're right. Would you go after him before Rebecca finds out? I can't go out like this. I'm half naked.” He smiled. “If those young camera guys see me like this there's no telling what might happen."

  "Oh, get over yourself,” she said. “We all have assholes."

  Then she stomped out of the dressing room and turned to left. But she didn't have to walk far. Yves was standing at the edge of the set, all alone, staring into a full-length mirror. He was wearing Marco's suede jacket and the high-heeled boots, posing and dipping with dramatic moves as if he was a model walking d
own a runway.

  Jane Francis cleared her throat to get his attention. Yves stopped moving and turned in her direction. His face dropped and his eyes widened.

  "I was only trying it on for a moment,” he said. “I just wanted to see how it looked and felt. I didn't mean any harm. Please don't tell Marco or anyone else."

  Jane Francis smiled. “C'mon, kid. Let's go back into the dressing room. I think it would be a good idea to just let Rebecca Braun take care of these clothes.” It was hard to get mad at such a sweet young man, even if he had quirks about food. The look she'd seen in his eyes had been absolute fear. Though she was rough on the outside, Jane Francis had a soft heart. “Don't worry. This is our little secret. Besides, you look cute in the jacket. You could be a model yourself if you wanted to."

  "Ah well,” Yves said. “I'm afraid I wouldn't be a very good model. I'm a simple guy with innocent dreams. I don't have the personality to be a model, and I'm not nearly good looking enough. But thank you for the compliment."

  Up until those last few comments, Jane Francis had been on Yves's side. But when he spoke about himself in this self-deprecating way, as if he were nothing but an awkward, worthless slob, she couldn't help question his motives and his sincerity. She'd run across both men and women with low self-esteem and poor self-images. Most of the time, they had good reason to have poor self-images. They weren't attractive, they had no talent, and they had to learn to make due with the cards they had been dealt in life. But there was one thing she'd never run across. In all her years working in and around the fashion industry, Jane Francis had never met a young man as good looking and smooth talking as Yves Marisano without his own personal agenda. And those agendas had nothing to do with simple, innocent dreams.

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  Chapter Six

  On the night of Marco's and Frazier's fifteenth anniversary, Marco went to bed alone as if it were any other night. Frazier was down in Atlanta again, but he was flying home the next day and they were throwing a big anniversary party in the penthouse. They'd never been able to legally marry, so the anniversary they celebrated each year to recognize their relationship was in honor of the first day they'd met. They'd discussed doing a commitment ceremony several times over the years, even though it wouldn't be legally recognized, where they'd take vows and exchange rings. But after the first ten years it seemed kind of amateur to them. Their relationship was strong; the love they shared was what kept them together, not a ring or a piece of paper. So they decided to wait until gay marriage was recognized as a legal union. If and when that ever happened, they'd be the first ones in line to get married.

  And they rarely made big productions of their birthdays and other personal dates. Typically, these dates were their quiet times together. They spent so much time in the public spotlight they didn't want to share a hint of their personal lives with anyone. The only reason they were having a big anniversary party that year was because Frazier had suggested doing it. He was proud of the fact they'd been together for fifteen years and he wanted to celebrate it openly for a change.

  When Marco rested his head on the pillow that night, he was exhausted. He'd been working all night in his office on a book he'd been writing. The book had nothing to do with modeling or fashion. This was a book about home organization, with unusual little hints and helpful solutions to problems that came up around the house every day. Marco had been working on the book for five years. It was a hobby that took him away from all the pressures of the fashion industry, where he could get lost for hours and release unwanted stress. That night he'd been writing about how to remove wine stains from clothing, upholstery, and carpets. He'd come up with a technique involving ice water, kosher salt, and white vinegar. White vinegar played a huge part in his book. He'd devoted a whole chapter just to white vinegar. People didn't realize how handy it was to have around the house.

  Marco hoped to finish the book one day, then try to get it published. He loved writing it and he loved offering people solutions to problems. Though he didn't have formal training in interior design, he'd studied the best designers in America, from Sister Parish to Billy Baldwin. When he combined their knowledge to his own design experience and added helpful household hints, it was an interesting combination that kept him busy for hours at a time. He thought this quirky household hint book that was filled with tips and solutions might be his next career. He still had a few more years left to model. It wasn't as bad now as it had been back in the days of old Hollywood when a career was basically over after age thirty-six. But he liked knowing there was something else for when he decided to stop modeling.

  He loved working on this book so much he rarely talked about it. He didn't discuss it with his friends or with Frazier. He didn't even mention it to Yves. When Yves had asked what he was doing that night, Marco lied and said he was going to read in his office and Yves was free to do whatever he wanted. Lately, Yves had been getting on his nerves and he wasn't sure why. He always seemed to be there with that dopey expression, offering unnecessary help.

  It was just after midnight when the telephone rang. Marco was drifting into a deep sleep and he bolted forward to reach for the phone. No one called this late at night. He was worried it was bad news. “Hello,” he said hoarsely. It sounded like a direct order.

  "Hey,” Frazier said. “I just got your card. I opened my suitcase and saw it on top of my clothes."

  "My card?” Marco asked. He hadn't placed a card in Frazier's suitcase. He didn't know what Frazier was talking about.

  "I feel guilty now,” Frazier said. “I didn't get you a card. I thought we agreed years ago not to make our anniversary a cheesy Hallmark event like other people. You're the one who insisted you hated buying me anniversary cards because they weren't geared toward gay couples. And the ones geared for gay couples weren't very good."

  "You don't have to get me a card,” Marco said, sitting up. “I decided to get you one this year as a joke. I figured you'd get a good laugh.” He had no idea who would slip an anniversary card into Frazier's suitcase, but he didn't want to let Frazier down. He sounded so happy and excited to see the card. For a moment, he was sorry he hadn't given him the card himself.

  "You're a sneak,” Frazier said. “But it was cute. I love it. I was missing you all day, and I hate being away from you on our anniversary."

  "I do too,” Marco said. “But at least you'll be home tomorrow and we can celebrate with everyone.” He tried hard to sound as if he was looking forward to the party. But he would have preferred to spend his entire anniversary celebration in bed with Frazier, with his legs over Frazier's shoulders and Frazier's rough beard rubbing against his shoulder.

  "How much do you miss me?"

  "You have no idea,” Marco said. “I've had an erection all day."

  "What are you wearing right now?"

  "Ah well,” Marco said. “You're being naughty now. You know I never wear anything to bed. I'm naked."

  "Put your hand down between your legs and touch yourself,” Frazier said.

  "Are you serious? It's late and you should get to bed."

  "C'mon,” Frazier said. “Do it for me. I'm sitting here all alone in a hotel room and my dick is ready to burst just hearing your voice.” His voice became low and soft. “Put your hands down between your legs and play with yourself for me. Put the phone on speaker and pull the covers back so I can pretend I'm watching you do naughty things to yourself."

  Marco smiled. They hadn't done this in a while, not since the last time Frazier had to fly to Paris and Marco had to do an interview on a talk show in L.A. So he pulled back the covers and pressed the speakerphone button. When the phone was on the bed next to his thigh, he reached down between his legs and grabbed his dick.

  "Are you touching yourself now?” Frazier asked.

  Marco stretched out on the bed and spread his legs. “Yes,” he said. “What do you want me to do next?” These phone sessions worked best when Frazier gave the orders and he followed them. Fra
zier liked to be in control. He'd always been the dominant one in bed.

  "Are you hard?"

  "Yes."

  "Start stroking your cock with one hand."

  "I'm stroking now,” Marco said. His penis had become a full erection. He loved listening to Frazier's deep masculine voice, especially when he talked dirty.

  "While you jerk, lift up your legs, spread them wide, and play with your tight little hole for me. You know how much I love your tight little hole."

  Marco closed his eyes and moaned a few times. When he lifted his legs and pressed two fingers up against his anus, he arched his back and said, “Yes, Frazier. I'm pretending it's you. I'm imagining you're between my legs and you're ready to enter me.” Actually, it felt weird. But he didn't want to disappoint Frazier so he continued to play along.

  "What do you want now?” Frazier asked.

  "I want you,” Marco said. “I want you to open me wide and fill me up until I can't take anymore."

  "Are you my bitch?"

  Marco laughed. “I'm your bitch."

  "You need a man, don't you, bitch?"

  "Yes,” Marco said. “I need a big, strong, handsome man like you. I need your big strong hands all over my body. I need your big thick cock to bang me into the headboard. You know how to do it. You know how I like it. Give it to me."

  Then Frazier told him to lift his legs higher and shove two fingers into his body. Frazier told him to imagine he was there, on the bed, fucking his brains out like a dirty little slut. Marco responded with moans and sighs. When he inserted his index finger and his middle finger into his ass at the same time, he said he was imagining Frazier on top of him, rocking and grinding his hips. His said his legs were over Frazier's shoulders and he was ready to take all Frazier had to give. He told Frazier he loved being his dirty little cock slut and he was willing to do anything to please his man. The more they talked, the worse it sounded. It was cheesy and melodramatic and cliche. It was bad, weeping-cock, meaty-nuts porn without any hope for redemption. But more than that, it was something Marco and Frazier would have dissed and laughed at if they'd read it in a book or seen it in a film. And at the same time, within the context of their private relationship, it was their own little playful secret, and it was the next best thing to being with Frazier.