Date: Tue, 11 Apr 2006 15:38:16 +0200 From: Julian Obedient Subject: Broken It was hot, it was humid, it was goddamned sticky and everybody in the city seemed to be simmering and tense as hell trying to contain a rage that would bubble over at the slightest added friction. The studio was air-conditioned; even so everyone was edgy. Warren, the dresser was particularly bitchy, and there were more than the usual number of changes today. It was Friday and the whole series with Alan had to be finished by five if it was going to get into the next issue of Vanity Fair, and it was. The worst was Kurtin. He was a great photographer, or he had been. He was still damn good. But he was an incredible letch, and he was after Alan, so the kid spent the day fending off his pawing without surrendering his affability. Maintaining a seven figure income can help you learn to keep a smile on your face even when. It was a posh Caribbean spread, and he had to pose in everything from a beach bikini and scuba gear to evening lounge and formal wear. There were some solo shots. There were a few romantic scenes with Angela. Alan could handle that. In one they were in an embrace on the verge of kissing. In another -- just posing against a tropical backdrop gazing at each other over parrot-colored cocktails. And there were a few ensemble settings, at a bar, at a gambling table, in an airport lounge. Alan pulled at his collar after the last shoot and let the jacket fall from his hand once it was off him. Aren't we the Star? Warren mocked. I need a shower, Alan said. Sorry, honey. Water emergency. It seems a bunch of kids from Spanish Harlem have been opening fire hydrants all over the city, and the water level is dangerously low. There's a three hour water moratorium. A what? Said Alan. A water moratorium. All the water is turned off at the reservoir from four to seven. It was five-thirty. You're kidding. Uh-uh. It's true. Just turn on the radio. Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink. * * * It's not going to work your way, Richard said quietly to the director. You've got to try it, Mel said. He was angry, but trying to sound like he was just being reasonable. It's my face they look at on the screen, not your name, Richard said. You won't do it? I'll do the scene, but not in the fucked-up way you blocked it. With the uncompromising intelligence of a spontaneous artist, Richard was right. Mel apologized, conceded he was no match for Richard when it came to putting a movie together. * * * Alan had gotten soaked through by the surprising and welcome summer downpour. So it might have seemed unnecessary to huddle under the awning of a fashionable men's store with a bunch of strangers likewise drenched. But it was good to have an excuse to loiter, and Alan let his eyes scale up the facades of the skyscrapers. Water moratorium! The evening sun was bright. The air was light again. Alan took a deep breath. You're quite wet. Alan turned in the direction of the voice. The man was rugged with sandy blond hair. He was so good-looking, it was hard to look at him and hard not to look at him. His eyes were warm, inviting, piercing, determined, assertive. Alan was caught. You can get a chill even in the summer. I live over there. Come with Me. I'll give you some dry clothes. Alan fell in step beside him. * * * Richard groped Alan in the elevator. Alan sighed and parted his lips until feeling Richard's lips pressing against them, he responded, shivering at the intensity of his energy. His palm pressed against Alan's chest and he cupped his breast as if Alan were a woman and then with thumb and first finger tortured the nipple under the cloth. Alan lost his balance. The elevator swooshed to a stop. * * * Get out of those wet things, Richard said, handing Alan a patterned silk burgundy robe. Yes, Sir, Alan said, responding jokingly to Richard's commanding tone, but it didn't sound funny the way Alan had intended it to. Quickly stripped to nothing and Alan put the robe on, tying its tasseled belt loosely. Taking him squarely by the shoulders Richard looked into Alan's eyes. Alan was blinded by the brilliance of his gaze and could only gasp. He felt himself slipping away and dissolving. * * * You'll stay, Richard said. We'll shower first, and then I'll take you to eat. Richard threw open a closet. All the world is before you, he said. * * * It was. There was candle light in a teak-paneled restaurant. There were lithe waiters in hip-clinging trousers and snug vests. There was fillet of salmon; there was champagne. Alan sat across from Richard, wearing a suit from his closet, a shirt from his drawer, a foulard from his collection. The low-heel boots that hugged his calves were from Richard, as were the rings on his fingers. His underwear was a thong Richard had handed him after the shower. The silver cock ring that no one could see but which exerted a continuous light pressure at the base of his longing came from Richard's jewel box. Richard looked at Alan solemnly, raised his glass, and whispered, a toast. Alan, following his example without breaking eye contact, raised his glass. You are mine, Alan. I own you. Richard put the glass to his lips and drank. Alan did likewise. Setting his glass down, Richard said, smiling, you offer no resistance. I have none to offer, Alan said. And if I had, I do not feel I would be able to resist the power I feel emanating from you. Richard covered Alan's hand with his own. Alan continued. The candle light, the teak wainscoting, the tulips, this damask tablecloth, the rose blush of the plaster above the wainscoting, the graceful serving men, this exquisite cuisine and this wonderful see I am tipsy, but what I say is true, nevertheless...these handsome suits we are wearing - all this makes sense, feels not only right but essential, because of You. You are at the center of it all. It glows because of you. It'd be all flat, ridiculous, absurd without you. You are a slave and I am a Master. Yes, Alan said. I have always wanted you. Alan felt his knees weak. His lips parted slightly. His eyes closed involuntarily. My Master. * * * Richard pulled Alan closer to him. The carriage rolled slowly through the park. The tlot tlot of the horse's hooves induced a dreamy languor. Alan swooned as he yielded himself to his Master's kisses. You cannot help but yield, yet it would be a mistake if you thought that you were anything but my slave. You are not my lover. Disappointment clouded Alan's face. You have a romantic fantasy about two becoming One, Richard said. But that is not the present case. You want love. I offer discipline. * * * July gave way to August. Richard had been entirely forthright. After several weeks Richard began to tire of Alan. And he put him aside. Alan bowed his head. He had flourished as a slave and he dreaded that his blooming season had passed so quickly and the time for wilting had come. * * * On his own, Alan became distraught. The pleasure of life vanished. The glamour of his work left him indifferent. Despite his gloom, or, perhaps, because of it, he was more in demand than ever as a model. Socially too, he had taken off, and nowhere he went were there not people, men and women who tried to pick him up, to engage him, to bring him into their orbit, offering themselves to him. But in none could he find delight. He had no use for them, and, he knew, they had not the beginning of an idea about how to use him. * * * Yes, he said, pulled from sleep by the ringing telephone, and suddenly he was awake, Without thinking he pulled on a leather jock, a pair of tight jeans with a wide belt, a chest-hugging t-shirt, motor cycle boots and a leather jacket. Helmeted, he sped through the park. [When you write to me, please put the name of the story in the subject slot. Thanks.]