I hung out with this ex-model who had once been someone in the 70's. He was cool but you could see that he'd never graduated from that scene where the late night parties were not to be believed (it had been the pre-AIDS era.) His thing was to be in touch with young guys so that he could taste and feel life through the eyes of someone 'brand new'. He assumed that because the look was fresh, so was the outlook. You couldn't tell by looking at him that he'd been a model. Back in the 70's the look had been more European and he still wore clothes from that period. Only thing is, they were back in style now, so he looked hip for the moment. After that, he'd have to wait another twenty years. He carried on big time about my not smoking in his apartment (smoke out the window if you have to, he told me.)

He had photos of himself in strategic places. There was a grand piano on top of which was a picture of him of when he was hot and untainted.

I was among the first, he said.

I was kind of taken in by it. Which explains why I usually go with older johns. No matter how prehistoric they may seem, you have the opportunity to take a glimpse into what once was—forgotten years, the so-called yellowed pages of time which cruelly pass away only to be replaced by the infinite pages to come.

I've been describing them as sad sacks from Sorryville, I know; well, the lot of them were. This model guy sure had been a face once. He'd had classy black curls; you could see it in the black and white photos arrayed around the glass coffee table and the white shag (yep) rug. I was lounging on the sofa really bored and thinking of how it had been back then. It seemed so long ago but it looked like everyone had run wild.

His eyes were droopy, red-rimmed; they were a little sad. His looks had betrayed him. I don't think they'd given him what he thought they would. For one, they hadn't lasted. Before he could really make them work for him, they'd started fading. It took a while, true, because looks don't disappear overnight. But as he got older he couldn't turn heads in the way that he used to. He'd become this. Bad posture, slouching over his drink. Yes, he was trim and lean but his skin was x-rayed from the sun for years it seemed until he looked like he was made of some sorry looking plastic. I'd seen a lot worse, but he was no picnic.

He rapped about how much money there was to be made in the modeling business. Guys like him had forged the way for boys like me. (Tricks? No, that's way too vulgar a word.) His words were—'boys like you'.

Boys like me didn't really let old perverted men take advantage of them. It was simply a way of paying your dues; an exchange of sexual favors for things a lot more useful.

He told me that money wasn't important in the grand plan; it had its uses, but there were a lot more useful things you could barter for. You could see the bastard had money. It wasn't like he was living in a tenement; plus his bad taste spoke volumes. He was one of the talkers. Could talk all night. He had to, because his time was running out. And when your time is running out, a long night looks pretty inviting. I had my shoes off. He was giving me a mini course in what the world is like and what's open to a person, if only I'd open my eyes and look.

You're young, he said; my youth was a fetish to him, something as good as gold because gold doesn't betray its shape; it stays the same, while youth runs away like a bastard dog.

He wouldn't have to get pornographic with his mouth or work hard at sucking the jism out of my balls, either when the time came around for it.

He merely had to be reminded of the fact that youth was in the room to get a smile on his face. The fear would be gone away for awhile; he could re-live the male model life once more, maybe do a few turns on the shag—imagining a runway lined with the keen stares of an audience who could never get its fill of beauty.

He seemed to believe that if he could hand his knowledge over to me, perhaps he could live through me, this new trick/model who still had so much to learn.

His legs were spread; his back was pressed against the black leather of his chair. His tight blue jeans cut into his belly. They were ridiculously tight so you could make out his dick, balls, etc.; but there was certain softness to these parts as well.

Modeling is like hustling, he said.

How so?

You've got to get the job; it's based on how you look; you have to perform in front of a camera… He was expecting me to substitute the obvious.

You're not really gay, are you? I said. I sensed pure love-for-self. He'd thought of young boys his whole life. As I too am guilty of; he thought of fucking himself when he imagined boys. Like I do.

But I couldn't rattle the bastard.

You mean I'm not a faggot? He asked.

Homo, fruit, I said. I'm a little confused. Because it seems like we're here for more than mere chat, aren't we?

My boy, he said; things don't always turn out as you expect them to. You should realize that.

I heaved a sigh. This holier-than-thou bullshit was beginning to bore me.

Look. I don't care if you fuck sheep, I said, and I don't care if you're a queer or not; 'cause my meter's running, and when that clock strikes twelve, it's pumpkin time...

That's fine with me, he said; I only invited you here to—talk about things.

I understand, I said. You're not the first guy who's wanted to talk. In fact there's been a slew of them… He cut in with an I don't want to hear about them. His mind was infected with AIDS scares and probably other gems of experience.

We can just talk, he said. Fine with me, I said. Because this all seems—interesting. He leaned back in his chair, and tilted his head towards the ceiling.

All I can ask you to do now, he said, is take off your clothes.

I complied like the half-drunk houseboy he mistook me for. I tried to steer him away from reminiscences of the 70's, but he wouldn't let me.

I was now lying totally nude on his tacky couch (some kind of red leather fiasco from the 70's). He would dart his eyes at me quickly and take in what he saw. Mostly he did it when he thought I wasn't looking. It was like he pretended we were both still dressed, preferably set off from each other in the front window a chic bistro, having cocktails. I couldn't see it that way, of course. He'd paid me my half night fee and there was something like three and a half hours to go.

Do you have any plans? He asked.

Plans? For what.

Well, for the future…

Yeah, maybe, I said. I didn't know what he expected me to say.

Make a lot of money, I said. Buy something--like a house.

I've got a burial plot picked out too, I said. The expression on his face told me he didn't find that very funny.

A burial plot? He asked.

In case I don't make it past twenty-five, I said.

Are you sick, or something? He asked.

Not especially, I said; but you never know. It's just. Well, twenty-five seems like an ok age to go.

The expression on his face was as if someone had let a cobra loose in the apartment.

You kids sure push it these days.

Yeah, I said. The world ain't what it used to be.

But actually, I said, two hundred years ago you weren't expected to live past forty, right. Do you think the dead out number the living? I added.

What? He asked. I don't think this is what he'd planned on talking about.

I read that somewhere, I said. It makes sense, doesn't it?

I guess so, he said. I could tell he wasn't even considering it.

I gave up and stared at my toes. When I looked up I saw he was standing over me and you could see that he was semi-erect through those tired old Sergio's.

It was time to play David to his Goliath.

Are you afraid of death? he said. I looked up and stared at his dick.

No.

Well, that means you're either very brave—or very stupid, he said.

That's what people keep telling me, I said.

Why don't you have another drink, I said, looking away. And maybe we can talk about something more exciting.

Yeah, he said. That's a splendid idea. Would you mind getting it for me?

No I wouldn't mind, I said, getting up off the couch. Fucking prima donna. What could you expect from a guy who probably had them lined up around the block to suck his dick once upon a time. Only now…

What're you having?

Scotch, rocks…

I was on my best behavior, which isn't very difficult. I can kiss ass like the best of them. He was being defensive because he perceived my I-don't-give-a-shit attitude to be about not caring for his over-the-hill body, and out-of-date dreams. And he was right on that account. He was afraid of young people—he couldn't relate to something, which manifested in ways so different from him. He was over the hump, so to speak, longing to hump. And I was on what they'd call an ascent except from my perspective it looked more like the highway to nowhere. He couldn't see that. Like everyone else, he saw only what he wanted. I fought my way through his liquor cabinet; found some hard stuff and some clean glasses; threw some ice cubes into them and returned to find him lying on the couch Roman-style. I gave him the drink and he gazed fondly at what he saw before him. I didn't know what he did with his spare time, because he seemed utterly opaque. Probably went from beauty parlor to beauty parlor chasing the broken dream; getting his nails done, hair dyed, his body zapped with ultraviolet radiation-then the gym of course. Not to mention the bars.

Have a seat, he said.

We left the disturbing subject of death and he plunged back into reminiscences of the 70's.

So you must have known Studio 54, I said.

Yes, I did, he said.

What was it like?

Fabulous.

But what was fabulous?

The time, the people… Everyone knew how to have a good time.

And you had a good time.

Oh, I did.

Well, did you dance with anyone interesting?

Like you'd know if I told you.

Well, I might know.

And you might not. All he did was strike poses. There must've been a mirror somewhere. A mirror where he was twenty-nine forever; smiling back at himself with those impeccably capped teeth.

Well I'd like to know…

Does Halston ring a bell…?

Are you kidding?

I was much sought after.

He was by now not sought after. Here I go again. Same old story.

I was, shall we say—celebrated.

Shit, you could drop a few details, I said. He wouldn't.

Time goes by, he said; you don't really evolve. (Old news, good news?)

It doesn't seem like it from where I'm sitting, I said.

Oh, it will, he said. Meanwhile my attempt to pick his brain over 70's memorabilia was failing.

Wasn't it one long decadent party, I asked, with bowls of cocaine lying around?

What? He said. Where do you get your information? He asked.

Everyone knows about Studio 54, I said.

He wanted to talk about modeling, not about who he'd rubbed dicks with at Studio 54.

What's the hot new club now? He asked, clueless. It's not the Limelight, I said.

All right, I don't know.

I like to drop a tab of X now and then and dance to techno… I said.

I turned to one of the nearby photos.

He was staring straight into the camera, his lips slightly parted. The photo was more alive than he was now. He saw me staring at it admiringly, and his eyes seemed to say—can't you see me now for what I once was? It would be a hard order to fill. All we ever love is ourselves--when we are least like what we are.

I felt sorry for him. And I hated him a little when it came time for him to go down on me. Because when I came I saw someone else sucking my cock—yeah that old man was not the first in a long line of cocksuckers.

Come to think of it, not too many beautiful guys have sucked my cock. Perhaps because not too many beautiful guys are willing to pay for it. They're too busy getting their own dicks sucked.

I was in on what he once was; in on the life that once enveloped him. I was in fact living that life now myself. The huge paychecks, the red-carpet treatment, clothes, restaurants, a greedy mouth that could suck me anywhere, anytime…

Opportunity is everything, he said. It doesn't knock twice. By now I'd gotten the idea that I should maybe carry a notebook with me and take down these little pieces of advice so that they might be of some use to me some day. Perhaps I'd write a how-to book, and call it: You don't Step in the Same Shit Twice…

The party had finally ended and he'd gone back to being a nobody. And nothing can transform you back into what you once were.

I'm not going to sit here and kvetch to you, he said; because you've probably heard it all before. It's just that I don't have anyone to talk to…

I flashed him my phony lay-it-on-me smile.

Hey man I am dying to hear what life was like in the 70's, I said. You must've worked with some pretty cool photographers.

Most of them were gay, he said.

They must've vandalized his pristine form before he could show them his portfolio.

It had been a good lead-in to the swinging life. But now what was left? Hemorrhoids; an ex-wife most likely, and tons of alimony. Plus memories to sit and drink yourself silly to.

Photography is a filthy business, he said suddenly. But if you can make it work for you…

What were my last words to him? Now I remember. I may have been going on a little too much about penises, but then again that's a fault of mine, to carry on about things endlessly. When it came time for the bye-gotta-go, I just said, hey—keep it real. Because looking at him you could tell how long ago the 70's were. Decades ago, many decades ago.

 

©2002 Van Scott - Contributor's Bio