Nude Men

stuff. Then he asked me where I lived. But he’s not gay. He’s a playboy. Loves girls. Good-looking. He is very conscious of fashion and tries to dress in a manner considered cool, but he wears decorative pins on the crotch of his torn jeans, which is something I don’t like. What does he think he has under there?: Something very special? One of the pins has a buffalo on it. Another one has a bicycle under the words “Put some fun between your legs.” These little medals are like a crown for his dick.
    He collapses on my bed and clasps his hands behind his head. “I like you, Jeremy,” he says. “I like you a lot. You’re very comfortable.”
    But he’s not gay. He comes and talks to me when he has nothing better to do. He’s one of the only people I allow in my repulsive apartment. Even when he makes a comment on the filth, I don’t mind, because we come from two different planets, and his rare criticisms of my life have never hurt me.
    I sit on a chair, still dripping wet, cold. He finally leaves.
     
    I t is 5:55 p.m. I arrive at her building. Her doorman rings her. When I step out of the elevator, the door to her apartment is wide open. I enter. There is no one in the large living room. There is an easel in the middle, with a big blank canvas, and tons of paint beside it. Behind the easel is a couch, covered with many pieces of long, colorful fabric. In a corner of the living room there is another couch, comfortable-looking, made out of parachute material, and next to that another couch, even more comfortable and luxurious, covered in beige suede. There are tables and curtains, thick curtains. The walls are covered with life-size paintings of beautiful nude men. I start getting more nervous, because I’m obviously nowhere near as beautiful as they are. On her coffee table there is a novel: The Picture of Dorian Gray , by Oscar Wilde. I’ve always meant to read it. Under the novel lies a large book of paintings: Mirage, by Boris Vallejo. Its cover has a painting of a beautiful naked woman with wings. I flip through the book and see many beautiful naked women. Some have wings, some have tails, some are half snakes, some are riding dragons, some are making love to naked devils, some are making love to naked men, some are making love to other naked women, some are warriors.
    “Boris is the painter who has influenced me most,” says Lady Henrietta, standing in a doorway.
    “I can see the similarities,” I say. “You both have a beautiful technique.”
    “Thank you. I call it the ‘more beautiful than life’ style.”
    “Indeed more beautiful than life.”
    I had almost expected her to come out in a satin dressing gown or something, but no, she’s perfectly normally dressed.
    “Please sit down,” she says.
    I sit on the couch, and she goes to the kitchen. She comes back a moment later with herb tea. I drink the tea and sit there, tense, knowing that any minute now I will have to take off my clothes. I am resting my elbow on the arm of the sofa, and I am resting one of my front teeth against the cap of my Bic pen, which I happen to be holding, I don’t know why. I took it out of my pocket without thinking. I often do this when I’m tense. The tip of my tooth is lodged inside the little hole at the tip of the cap. The tooth is supporting the weight of my entire head. I guess it relieves tension because of the slight danger involved. The danger is that sometimes the pen slips and stabs your palate. And that’s what happens to me now. My pen slips and stabs me right behind my front teeth. Blood is invading my mouth, gushing out. I lick it up and swallow it as quickly as possible. I don’t want the blood to spread in front of my teeth and be visible to Lady Henrietta. If she sees my mouth suddenly full of blood, she’ll think I’m weird. I make a mental note never to rest my tooth against my pen again.
    “Would you please take off your clothes,” she says.
    Does she mean right now, right here? She gets up, walks over to a corner of the room, and pulls back a curtain, revealing a little changing room, exactly like a fitting room in a clothing store. I’m very nervous, but I don’t want to seem like a chicken, so I walk to the fitting room and step inside. She pulls the curtain closed. There is an odd-looking mirror on the wall. It is very wide but very low. I can see myself only from the waist down. I undress. When I see the reflection of my naked stomach, penis, and legs, I want to