by Ryan Field
When Frazier turned, Harris stepped to his right so Frazier wouldn't see him lurking in the hall. Harris had to control his breathing; he couldn't wait to see Yves's next move.
"Don't be afraid of me, Frazier,” Yves said. He didn't tie the belt on the robe. He left it open, exposing the front of his naked body.
Frazier smiled and faced him again. “Yves, I'm not afraid of anyone or anything, especially not a twenty-year-old boy."
"But I'm not a boy,” Yves said. “I'm a man, a full-grown man with needs."
"I'm thirty-nine years old,” Frazier said. “Trust me, you're still a boy."
Yves lifted his chin and looked into Frazier's eyes. “Sometimes I'm afraid of you,” he said. “I'm afraid of your strong shoulders and your big hands. Sometimes when I'm near you, my heart beats so fast I feel it in my ears.” He spread his legs wider and he had a semi-erection by then.
Harris, the consummate voyeur that he was, licked his lips and took a quick breath. Young Yves was practically begging Frazier to have sex with him. Harris hadn't expected a private show. But if he couldn't go down on his knees for Yves, at least he'd be able to watch Frazier suck Yves off. Go ahead, Frazier, suck that big dick, he thought.
But Frazier smiled and stepped back. “You're not quite as innocent as I thought you were. And you shouldn't tweeze your eyebrows so severely. It makes you look too much like a girl."
Yves grabbed his dick. He was fully erect now. “No one has sucked my dick in a long time,” he said.
"I don't suck dick,” Frazier said. “I get my dick sucked."
"I'm versatile,” Yves said. “I can be whatever you want me to be, Frazier."
Harris took a quick breath. He'd been wondering about whether or not Yves was a top or a bottom. Yves looked like a top, but now he was claiming he was versatile. Harris smiled; more than half the queens he knew said they were versatile when they were really bottom whores. He had a feeling Yves really was willing to be anything Frazier wanted him to be, whether Yves liked it or not.
"I have a partner,” Frazier said. “His name is Marco Denny and I'm in love with him. In case no one has mentioned it to you, Marco is my life."
"People tell me all kinds of things about you,” Yves said in a breathy voice. He reached forward and tried to grab Frazier's crotch.
But Frazier stepped away fast and lifted his arms in surrender. “Well, there's a rumor you obviously haven't heard,” Frazier said. His voice became deep; his eyebrows pointed down. “I don't fuck around with anyone behind Marco's back. And if I did, I'd be the one to go after him. I wouldn't want him coming after me."
Yves glared at him, then turned in the opposite direction. He clenched his fists and took a deep breath. Harris had a feeling handsome Yves didn't know rejection well.
While Yves was sulking, Frazier grabbed his coat and said, “Don't be too upset. You did a good job as Marco's replacement on the show. You just couldn't pull it off with me, is all.” Then he stomped out the door.
When Frazier slammed the dressing room door, Harris slipped back behind a prop wall so Frazier wouldn't see him. Harris stood there in the darkness for a moment in shock. Frazier hadn't allowed Yves to seduce him. Evidently, Frazier was as deeply in love with Marco as everyone had always said he was. There weren't many gay men on the planet who would turn down a man like Yves Marisano.
A minute later, Harris knocked on Yves's door.
"Who's there?” Yves asked. His voice was abrupt and his tone sharp.
Harris opened the door slowly and smiled. “May I come in?"
Suddenly, Yves stopped frowning and he smiled. “Of course, Mr. Wolfe."
"I expected you to be surrounded by paparazzi and members of the press, my dear,” Harris said, in his best Joan Collins imitation. “And here you are, all alone, in a cute little black robe.” He stared at Yves's waist for a moment, then looked his body up and down. The robe was tied now, but it was so short it stopped just below his penis. Yves had the strong legs of a young swimmer, with long lean muscles and smooth firm skin. He didn't appear to be hairy from the waist down. If he was, he shaved regularly.
"Thanks,” Yves said. “But I'm just the replacement for Marco Denny. I only did what I had to do tonight to keep the show going as planned.” Then he sat down in front of the dressing table.
Harris sat down on a chair beside the dressing table and smiled. If he hadn't just heard the way Yves had tried to seduce Frazier, he almost would have believed Yves's modesty was sincere. So he laughed and said, “You're much too humble."
"I'm pragmatic,” Yves said, wiping stage makeup off his face with a tissue. “I'm nothing more than a back-up for Marco Denny. I'll probably never get a chance to do anything like this again. I know my place."
"Well,” Harris said, “a true pragmatist doesn't have to be humble or modest. He just has to see things the way they are. And he has to know how to play by certain rules in order to get the attention he so craves."
Yves turned and looked into his eyes. “I'm not sure I understand."
Harris reached down and placed his palm on Yves's firm young thigh. He squeezed it gently and said, “Your performance tonight was excellent."
Yves spread his legs wider so Harris could look under his robe. “It will be forgotten by tomorrow."
"It doesn't have to be forgotten,” Harris said. Then he slid his hand up toward the back of Yves's thigh and squeezed a little harder this time. “You have soft skin for such a strong young man."
Yves adjusted his body and arched his back. He allowed Harris to go far enough up the back of his leg so Harris could place his palm on his thigh and squeeze the bottom of his ass a couple of times. Then Yves stood up fast and smiled. He grabbed a large white towel and crossed to the bathroom door as if he were teasing Harris.
"Even if I stop being so modest,” Yves said in his timid voice, “I don't know how to play by the rules. I'm nothing but a back-up model. I'm no one special. I'd need a strong, powerful guide to help me mold my career as a model.” Then he opened his robe and let it slip off his shoulders. As the robe fell to his large feet, he placed the white towel between his legs to cover his genitals.
Harris blinked, then stood up. While he glared at Yves's naked young body, he licked his lips and said, “I have all the right connections. I'm strong and powerful."
Yves smiled. “Yes, you are.” He opened the bathroom door and tossed the towel on the white tiled floor. Then he lifted his arms high and stretched toward the ceiling, allowing Harris to view his entire body.
Harris's eyes focused on the huge penis between Yves's legs. His heart began to race and suddenly the small room felt warm. Yves's pubic hair had been trimmed into a neat little arrow pointing down. His light brown testicles were large and tight and smooth.
Harris removed his jacket and said, “Would you like some help in the shower? Afterwards we can go out for a bite to eat and talk. I'd like to write a column about you and about how wonderful you were tonight filling in for Marco."
Yves smiled and crossed toward Harris. He reached for Harris's right hand, lifted it up, and placed it on his bare ass. “I'd love some help in the shower,” he said. “And after you help me get all soaped up, I can bend you over in the shower and help you get what you want."
Harris took a quick breath; he wanted this young man inside his body. He placed his other hand on the opposite side of Yves's ass and squeezed gently. “I'd love to learn more about you. I've heard the story about how you were forced to go to one of those places where they try to make gay men straight again, and I've heard about your football-player boyfriend beating you up. You have an interesting past."
Yves reached down and grabbed Harris's wrinkled hand. He guided Harris’ sixty-year-old fingers toward his twenty-year-old dick. When his warm dick was in Harris's palm, he smiled and said, “Let's stop talking now and step into the shower,” he said. “We can talk later."
Harris giggled and he felt his face flush. “Oh dear,” he said in his m
ost effeminate voice. “Are you trying to take advantage of me now?"
Yves said in a deep, low voice, “I'm just extremely attracted to intelligent, mature men. I admire you."
Harris gulped. He knew Yves was lying, but he didn't care. He hadn't been fucked in a shower by a twenty-year-old guy in ages, and he wasn't going to miss a good opportunity. And when he thought about all the fun he'd have writing his next column about Marco's back-up model for the magazine, his erection grew even firmer.
"Where would you like to go afterwards?” Harris asked.
"Are you saying you want me to take charge?” Yves asked.
Harris stroked his erection, and then ran the tip of his thumb across the head. “I'm counting on you to take complete charge tonight,” he said. “I adore a man who knows how to do that."
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Chapter Fourteen
The next day, several newspapers mentioned how well Yves had filled in for Marco. And all of the gossip Web sites and pop culture news shows on TV mentioned the event, too. E! News even showed clips from the show and their host made a few edgy quips about the bulge in Yves's ample crotch. It didn't make headlines and it wasn't top news, but all the comments about Yves were more than positive. They raved about his looks, his ability to control an audience, and the way his dimples stood out when he smiled at the camera. No one said anything negative.
Molly couldn't understand how in the world anyone had even found out about Yves taking over at the last minute. She had assumed it would have gone fairly unnoticed. She would have understood if one or two people from the media had mentioned it quietly. News spread fast these days on the Internet. But there were too many stories that had been printed or broadcasted overnight and it didn't make sense. Molly knew that in order for comments about Yves to be posted or mentioned so quickly, someone would have had to make publicity phone calls to these journalists and bloggers. The only two people in the world who could have known about Marco not being able to go that night were Molly and Yves.
Two weeks after that, Molly dressed for a private lunch with Marco. They did this about four times a year, dressing formally and joking about having their “girls'” lunch together. They would sip martinis all afternoon and talk, picking at salads and breadsticks to keep them from getting too drunk. Molly was going all out that afternoon. She was wearing her new lime green Chanel suit and a hat. Marco loved it when she wore hats. This one was an updated variation of the old pill box design. Marco had always told her she was one of the few women he'd known who could wear hats well.
But Molly was still feeling guilty about what she'd done to Marco two weeks earlier in Vermont. She just wanted to forget all about it and move on. After that one show Marco missed, no one in the press mentioned Yves's name again and she thought Yves had slipped right back into complete obscurity.
They were having lunch at an exclusive restaurant on the Upper East Side. Molly was excited; you never knew who you'd run into there. It was one of those storied places, filled with pop culture, that no one knew about unless they were invited by someone with special connections. This had been one of the less publicized old haunts where Truman Capote had lunched with his swans. Lee Radziwill supposedly still went there on occasion, though Molly had never seen her in person. But there were always tons of other famous people moving around. Once, Molly had run into Joanne Carson, Johnny Carson's ex-wife, while Joanne was in New York talking to her publisher about a new book.
When the taxi dropped her off at one fifteen in the afternoon, there was a doorman waiting to escort Molly into the restaurant. He knew her well; he welcomed her and walked her into the waiting area.
"Is Mr. Denny here yet?” Molly asked a young man standing behind a tall podium. “I'm meeting him at one.” She was fifteen minutes late on purpose, knowing Marco had never been on time for a luncheon date in his life.
The young man smiled. “He's not here yet. Would you like to be escorted to your table, Mrs. Page?"
"I'll wait,” Molly said. She hated sitting alone in a restaurant as much as she hated being called Mrs. Page.
But when she crossed to the other side of the waiting room, she saw Yves Marisano walking out of the men's room.
"Yves,” Molly said. “I'm so glad I ran into you. I've heard some wonderful things about the night you filled in for Marco on the TV show. People raved about you. I'm so happy for you.” She felt bad about Marco, but she was thrilled poor Yves had found a small glimmer of success, even if it only had been for just one night.
"I'm just glad I got through it without ruining the whole show,” Yves said in his typically humble voice. He was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt open at the collar. “I'm glad I wasn't a disaster."
Molly didn't find it unusual Yves was there until Harris Wolfe walked up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder.
"He was just stupendous,” Harris said. “I was amazed at his talent and his ability to take full control.” While he spoke to Molly, he stared into Yves's eyes and smiled.
"So you heard all about it, too,” Molly said. She was smiling for Yves, happy he'd been such a smash.
"I was there,” Harris said. “I saw the entire live show from the audience."
"You were there the night Yves filled in for Marco?” Molly asked, still smiling, but wondering why he'd been there at all.
"It was a lucky coincidence,” Harris said.
"We're having lunch with a Hollywood agent today,” Yves said, changing the subject fast.
"That certainly is good news,” Molly said. She was surprised. Yves had only done one show and people from Hollywood were already after him.
"It's just lunch,” Yves said, sounding even more humble than earlier.
"It's nothing serious,” Harris said. “Yves is going to be a famous model and he has no intention of going to Hollywood right now."
Molly stopped smiling for a moment. Harris Wolfe seemed to have taken quite an interest in Yves Marisano. Molly had no idea they'd become this close.
"I assume by the way you're dressed you're having lunch with someone special,” Harris said, touching the upper sleeve of Molly's new Chanel suit.
Molly smiled. She couldn't tell if he was smiling or making a face. It was a question, not a comment. She'd always hated the way Harris had looked her up and down, as if he were analyzing her wardrobe. Molly wasn't a fashion model; she didn't care what anyone thought about her clothes. “I'm meeting Marco. He was supposed to be here at one, but you know how Marco is about keeping time."
"I have a feeling Marco be much later than you think,” Harris said.
Harris left Molly standing there with Yves. He crossed to a small table next to the podium and reached for a copy of his own magazine. He opened the magazine to the center and handed it to Molly.
"Why don't you read my latest column in this month's issue?” Harris said. “It just hit the stands today. I'm sure you'll enjoy it.” Then he nodded at Yves and said, “We should go inside and meet our lunch date now."
After they said goodbye and walked into the dining area, Molly smiled and looked down at the magazine. Normally, she didn't read Harris's columns in Menswear Monthly. Molly had little interest in the fashion industry and even less interest in Harris Wolfe or what he had to say. Though she was friendly with Harris when she saw him in public, if it hadn't been for the fact her husband worked in the fashion industry she would have ignored him completely. Harris's dry wit made her stomach turn. His snide comments and his effeminate mannerisms made her feel sorry for all the gay men in the world like Marco and Frazier who were just ordinary men. Harris Wolfe was the kind of stereotypical gay man who made other gay men look bad. Unfortunately, he had a very loud voice.
Molly sat down in a leather chair to wait for Marco. She lifted the magazine and crossed her legs at the ankle to get more comfortable. But when she read the first line in Harris's latest column, she grabbed the arm of the chair and leaned forward. Her heart began to race and her eyes opened wid
e. She continued to read:
When talented young male models like Yves Marisano come along, what happens to aging male models like Marco Denny who refuse to step down from the runway? Something interesting happened two weeks ago when Yves Marisano was forced to fill in for Marco Denny on Marco's hit TV reality show. The viewers were actually treated to what a real male model is supposed to look like instead of watching the remnants of what a top male supermodel used to be
Molly stopped reading and took a deep breath. She felt a lump in the pit of her stomach and she couldn't continue reading. Harris Wolfe wasn't just promoting Yves Marisano in his column. He was going after Marco at the same time. She put the magazine down on the table and stood up. When she left the restaurant without saying anything to anyone, she hailed a taxi and told the driver to take her to Beekman Place. She knew Marco had seen this column and the last thing on his mind was meeting Molly for lunch. Marco never missed one of Harris's columns about the fashion industry. No one in the industry did, which made all this even worse for Marco.
When Molly arrived at Marco's penthouse, Jane Francis escorted her into the living room. Jane Francis looked up at the ceiling and walked back to the kitchen. Marco was pacing back and forth, holding the magazine in his right hand.
"Did you see this?” Marco shouted. “I can't believe that vile old nellie queen would have the unmitigated gall to print something like this about me. And to praise that slimy little gutter whore, Yves, is even worse. I'd like to string them both up on meat hooks and swing them back and forth. I can just see them dangling in mid-air over an open fire pit."
"Marco,” Molly said.
Marco didn't want to listen. He continued to pace. His face was red and his teeth were clenched. “Did you read this part?” Marco asked. “Listen to this trash: ‘We've all heard them talking about how forty is really the new thirty, and fifty is really the new forty. But that's only in the real world, not in the world of male models selling new fashion trends to a youth-oriented market that is only getting younger as I write this column. Marco Denny is over thirty-five, not twenty-five, and no matter how hard he tries to pretend he isn't, it is what it is.' Can you believe this shit?” Marco shouted. “He's making me sound like I'm ready for Medicare. Did you read it yet?"