The winters in Ohio can get pretty brutal.
I sat at a red light watching the snow fly, my wipers beat a fast tempo in an attempt to keep up with the white stuff. I gazed into the murky twilight hoping that the photographer would still be there. I was late, as usual, and had little time left to get my passport photo taken. With the total fuck-up of the state department, time constraints were now prohibitive.
My name is Allan. I go by Allan even though my first name is Lawrence. L. Allen Emirich is a respectable moniker for the busines world. It was just one more thing that made me a corporate whore. I was five years post- MBA at The Ohio State University and using it to bash rivals over the head on my way to the top. The two years I had spent as an intern at my current employer led me to become their golden boy upon graduation. Five more years and I was sent to my hometown as V.P. of acquisitions and expansion for the conglomerate. I didn't worry too much about the shit heads left in my wake. "Get out of my way or get stepped on." was my motto. You probably think I am an egomaniac, but I am proud of my accomplishments. I suppose I sound driven. I am. Not so long ago I was a scrawny kid from the wrong side of the tracks, giving blowjobs to married men for money to buy school clothes. Don't get me wrong. My family was and is a good one, just economically challenged. I took that scrawny cocksucking kid and built him into a handsome, physically fit, 29 year old King Of The World. Of course, I was still a cocksucker. Some things never change.
The light turned green as I readjusted my ample package of hung man. Did I forget to tell you about my nine inch cock? Surprising, apart from my personal metamorphasis and business accomplishments, it is the thing I am most proud of. I drove through the light looking for the sign of the portrait studio. Cindy, my secretary, told me they closed at seven. I was cutting it close.
On the right, the sign for Raber's Photography Studio appeared. I quickly entered the strip mall and found a parking space in the nearly deserted lot. I parked next to a vintage black 1979 Monte Carlo, a car that would have given me a towering hardon in high school. Hell, it still caused a chub.
I was glad to see that the lights were still on through the wind-whipped snow. I regretted that I did not have time for a smoke before I went in. I didn't smoke in my new Cadillac. I exited my power chariot and pulled the collar of my black, silk-lined London Fog overcoat around my face. I felt the soft wool against my cheek as I ran to the entrance of the studio.
Inside, I felt the welcoming heat envelop me. I shook my coat of any remaining moisture and hung it on a coat tree. I looked down to see my Gucci loafers caked in grime from the dirty snow that exists in any winter climate. I wiped them on a red runner that was put inside the door for that reason.
The reception area was deserted. The walls were mounted by many examples of the studio's work. I could see that someone was quite talented. The quality of the photographs was more than wedding, bar mitzvah, or graduation fare. Some of them were nearing the kind of photographs one might find in any good gallery. I perused the photos, waiting for someone to acknowledge my presence. I meandered around the room until I found one black and white photo of a man looking off into the distance. His body was startling. I have a nice toned physique, but this guy was in a league of his own. The neck was sturdy with veins running down to broad, sculptured shoulders. The shoulders melded into his pecs, almost as if they were one. The pecs were so defined that they cast a shadow on eight of the most perfectly defined abs on the face of the Earth. The V-shape of his torso ended at a pairs of jeans that looked painted on. The thighs bulged as if barely contained. The jeans creased from the hip to a prominent bulge in the front. The bulge was so prominent that the waistline of the jeans dipped below a small treasure trail that ended above one undone button of the fly. Next to the fly lay hands inserted into the pockets. The hands led to bulging forearms that formed a perfect segue to the vein encrusted biceps. There was only a hint of hair under his arms, everywhere else was smooth sailing.
"That's me."
I turned around to see a face smiling from across the room. I looked at him and then at the face in the photo for the first time (sorry, never got that far). They were similar. The one in the picture looked younger and familiar, while the one in person was more rugged and held two beautiful shining brown eyes.
"Did you take it?" I asked, still gazing at photo.
"A long time ago when I was in High School. One of those self-portrait projects. I thought it was pretty good." He said, looking at me questioningly.
I had to agree, it was pretty good.
"Hey don't I know you?" He asked, causing me to leave the God in the photo and deal with the present.
"Allan Emirich." I said, holding out my hand in greeting.
"Mark Raber." He said, taking my hand.
Oh My God. Mark Raber, as in Mark Raber the most popular guy in my high school? Mark Raber, as in the hottest thing this town produced since Lillian Gish? Mark Raber, as in my classmate who inhabited all my teenage jackoff fantisies? I looked into his eyes and he held the gaze a little longer than I usually found comfortable. I let go of his hand and couldn't believe my nervousness. I was King Of The World, I was Master Of The Universe, I was Conqueror Of All. I was a teen-ager in serious rut over this guy's body.
I can't breathe.
I wonder how someone so together could become unhinged over the presence of another person. I had to remind myself that I was not that scrawny teenager blowing strangers for change. I was me. That was enough.
"Sure you know me." I said, trying to sound casual. "My first name is Larry, I go by my middle."
"Oh yeah, Larry Emirich. I remember. Good to see you again. Wow, you've changed." He said, casting an appraising gaze over me.
"I guess. It has been over ten years." I replied, enjoying the attention. Could he be looking at me as an equal? Not some fawning, gushy loser, craving even a small acknowlegement of my existence.
"Yeah, I guess it has. It looks like life has been good to you." He offered, sticking his hands into his pockets and parting his legs into a triangle stance with the floor.
"It has. Looks like you have a nice business here." I allowed, gazing into his lipid brown pools. What a powerful thing it is to look into another man's eyes and see him looking back at you.
"Thanks, What can I do for you?" He asked, snapping me out of my interlude.
"I need a passport picture." I replied.
"I don't blame you, fucked-up time to be here anyway." He said, nodding to the weather.
"Unfortunately, I won't be leaving until spring."
"Yeah, I heard it can be a real bitch getting a passport right now."
"You do take passport pictures?" I asked, wishing this repartee could go on forever, but anxious to see what else would happen.
"Sure." He replied. "Just follow me."
Mark turned to walk to the back of the studio. My eyes instantly followed his back down to a gorgeous bubble butt that did incredible things to the khakis he was wearing. I memorized the rise and fall of his powerfully muscled ass as he led the way to where he would take my picture.
"Just stand there and let me get a straight on view." He said, instructing me to stand before a white screen. I stood straight, wondering if the camera would catch the lust in my eyes. Mark looked through the camera and then approached me.
"Put your head back like this." He said, touching my chin and lifting. I almost came in my pants. He moved my head around a couple of times until he was satisfied. I could smell his scent, somewhat spicy and masculine. My mouth watered.
I'd like to say that he threw me to the floor, but he didn't. He was professional and quick with the tedious chore. When he finished, I followed that magnificent ass to the front of the store.
"Sorry, I kept you so late." I apologized, offering my credit card for payment.
"No problem man, nothing else going on." He said, taking my AMEX. This was my chance. Did I dare? Of course I did.
"Would you like to go get a drink or something?" I asked taking back my card and inserting it into my wallet.
Mark smiled and handed me the receipt to sign. "Sounds great." He replied. "Just let me close this puppy down."
I donned my coat and walked outside to wait for him. I lit a cigarette with shaky hands. I looked at the hushed surroundings that only those who have been in a northern climate can appreciate. The hushed sounds of a city after the snow. I smoked my cigarette and waited for Mark to finish. He exited the studio and locked the door.
"Just what I needed. Got a light?" Mark asked, holding a cigarette to his succulent lips. I brought out my lighter and offered him the flame. He cupped his hands around the end and sucked. I could see his handsome face illuminated by the fire as he lit his cigarette. Even the way he lit his cigarette was infused with testosteronic sexiness.
We finished our smoke and decided to go to a small bar in the strip mall. Rather than drive, we walked to the place. There weren't many people out on such a dismal night, so we were pretty much alone. We both ordered a beer and caught up on our lives. Mark told me about his failed marriage to one of the high school cheerleaders. What a bitch (and a fool), I thought. I told him about my rise in the corporate world and my ambitions. Mark wanted nothing more than to take his pictures and live in our small town, 'with periodic excursions to take pictures and you know.' He explained.
"Where do you go?" I asked, just enjoying our close proximity.
"I like Key West. I like San Francisco." He replied, smiling a crooked gaze. The beer was getting to both of us. I smiled back and allowed that I enjoyed both Key West and San Fran.
After a few more beers, we decided to go outside to smoke. In this day and age, the powers that be won't allow smoking even in a bar. Idiots.
