This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult males, so if that's not allowed where you live then you should march in the streets. I'm releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license, which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as you give me credit and don't use it for commercial purposes of any kind. If you enjoy the story, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.
CHAPTER ONE
"Models aren't paid to think. You are paid to stand the way I tell you, and look the way I tell you, and breathe if I give you permission, got that?" This stream of invective was delivered in a choking cloud of cigarette smoke. "Now get the fuck away from me, you fucking meat puppet."
Pete had no response prepared for such an overwhelming load of abuse being heaped on him at once. With a blank, glazed look, he returned to his mark in front of the cameras, next to his fellow model.
They were standing in a cornfield. Or, really, a field that had grown corn previously, but was now a stubbly wasteland, covered with drifts of snow. In the steely blue sky above them the sun shone brightly but without warmth. It was not terribly cold, if one dressed appropriately. Pete was not dressed appropriately. He was wearing, at the moment, a tie. And a pair of white boxer briefs. And that was all. He was cold, and now even his asking an innocent question had been summarily rebuked by that reptilian photographer. This was turning out to be less fun that he'd hoped.
"Nailed ya, did he?" asked his fellow model, who was similarly attired, but did not seem in the least bothered by his state of undress.
"Hell yeah he did," Pete replied. "He called me a 'fucking meat puppet.' What does that even mean?"
"It means you don't ask questions, ever. It sucks, but it's the way these gigs go, so you just learn to shut up and pose."
"I've never done this before," Pete offered, by way of defense.
"No kidding," came the chuckling reply. "What did you ask him, anyway?"
Pete wasn't sure that he should answer this, because it might expose him to more abuse. But this guy looked sincere, and how much worse could his reaction be than the photographer's?
"I asked what we were modeling."
"Why?" He was laughing, but not cruelly, so Pete continued.
"Because I thought I could do a better job if I knew. You know, show the product off better. That kind of thing."
"Look, we're wearing exactly two items of clothing here: a tie, and underwear. That's not a lot to work with in terms of creative expression. It may be the tie, it may be the underwear--ooh, here's a thought--it may be both!" Here he bugged his eyes out and waved his hands in a faux panic. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and continued. "So what? It's not going to change how you wear 'em, right?"
"But why have us just standing here in a barren field if they want people to buy their clothes? It just doesn't make sense."
"Have you been to an X&Y?"
"No," Pete admitted.
"Have to been to an Abercrombie and Fitch?"
"Well, yeah. So?"
"Xavier and Young is trying to be the new A&F. So they're basically copying everything A&F does. A&F has a sexy catalog, so X&Y has a sexy catalog. A&F's models are naked, so X&Y's models are naked. Heh," he chuckled, "A&F has a two-letter name, X&Y has a two-letter name. Not a lot of creativity there, huh?"
"So, that explains us standing in a field--how?" Pete asked.
"Duh. We're mostly naked, and that creep over there is taking our picture. If he thinks we're sexy enough, then we get to be in every X&Y store in the country. The clothes don't matter. What they're selling is us."
Pete considered this.
"Doesn't that sort of make us, well, prostitutes or something?"
"Kind of, yeah. Cool, right? You work out, you pose, you get the money. Is this a great country or what? I mean, look at those guys over at the catering table. See them? The ones in ties and aprons? Well, they haven't taken their eyes off me since I came out of the tent wearing these tight boxers. Every time I flex or smile or whatever they perk up like they hope I'm about to strip off and start beatin' it for them."
Pete saw the hungry, rapt attention of the three cater waiters. He turned back, intending to ask why provoking waiters was a desirable pastime, when he was interrupted.
"Hey--watch this."
As Pete stood bewildered, his companion pretended to notice something terribly interesting on the ground; he turned, facing away from the catering table, and bent over slowly to take a closer look. His arched back caused his his muscular buttocks to be thrust out, and he slowly shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
"So, did they notice?" he asked in a stage whisper.
Pete turned to look at the catering table, and saw all three waiters staring slack-jawed at the white-cotton-covered cheeks. Pete wasn't sure, but they didn't seem to be blinking. Or breathing. One dropped a bottle of mineral water into a bowl of hummus. Clearly this display was having the desired effect.
"Uh, I think they noticed." He turned back and saw that he was once again face to face with his fellow model, who was grinning widely.
"Awesome, right? I could do this all day."
"Why? I mean, why does it matter to you that three waiters--" Here Pete lowered his voice to a whisper, "Who are probably gay--" He returned to normal volume and continued, "are looking at you? Isn't that kind of creepy?"
"Hell no it ain't creepy! Why have a body like this if no one's going to look at it?" He breathed deeply and sighed. "This is the best job in the world, man!"
