Wonder: Andy

In the late '90s I was teaching art classes at a couple of different colleges in a mid-sized Midwestern city, piecing together a minimal living from adjunct teaching gigs and trying without much success to get my own artwork into some galleries. I was in my mid-twenties, feeling good about being independent, but living at a distance from most of my friends and family, I was often lonely, too.

One of my jobs was an evening life drawing class, and getting a roomful of kids in their late teens and early twenties to settle down and draw from a nude model was not always a picnic. On the night this story begins, I was really hoping for a hassle-free evening. I had just gotten yet another rejection from a gallery, and also hadn't had time to eat anything before class. It would be nice, I thought, to have my favorite model, a plump, pretty young woman named Julia who was completely nonchalant about being naked, stared at, and scrutinized. She had both a sense of humor and a take-no-shit demeanor that made my life easier. One class, from across the room, I got the sense that a male student had made some inappropriate comment to her. As I started to rush over, slightly freaking out about how to handle the situation, I heard her scoff and announce loudly in a witheringly contemptuous voice, "You couldn't handle it." Crisis handled.

But—no Julia that evening. Tonight, someone I'd never worked with before, and on top of it, a man. I always faced the prospect of male nude models with mixed feelings. The positive part of my reaction needs no elaboration. But it was always an off class when we had a male model. Seeing a real live naked man still seemed to be a major taboo for many of the students, and even those students who I thought were a little more worldly than their peers tended to leave their sketches with blank Ken doll crotches rather than attempt to draw male genitalia. Male models also heightened the likeliness that at least one kid would ask to leave class because of religious objections, as if looking at a naked man was inherently more sinful than looking at a naked woman (although I guess for some of us, it is). Plus, there was always at least one asshole dude who had to make a big macho-bullshit production about how he didn't want to have to look at a naked guy (methinks the lady doth protest too much).

Compounding the general unease in the room was the fact that the newbie model was palpably nervous and infectiously uncomfortable. He never spoke, and throughout the session held his body rigid, staring straight ahead blankly. He followed my instructions when I asked him to shift poses, but otherwise gave no indication that I was speaking to him. A couple of times when I neared him to instruct a student in some point of anatomy she or he was having trouble with, he leaned away as if I might touch him.

I was uncomfortable, too; I found myself in the awkward situation of being incredibly sexually aroused by the model. He was beautiful. He looked to be in his early twenties and was boyishly handsome. His close-cropped hair and the scattering of strands across his chest, forearms, and legs were bright orange. A flaming ridge of hair blazed from his bellybutton down to a glorious burning bush, and I tried to purge my mind of thoughts of how much I'd like to follow that trail with my fingers or tongue. He had a redhead's snowy skin, and looked like he was chiseled out of a giant bar of Ivory soap.

Now, my hair's a little bit reddish, and I'm pretty pale myself, so maybe my intoxication had a touch of narcissism to it, but on top of everything this magnificent specimen was fucking ripped. His slim body had such sharp muscle definition, he would've been perfect for an anatomy-for-artists demo. I could imagine myself standing next to him with a pointer: "All right, class, here are the digitations of the serratus," pointing to the side of the upper rib cage. "And here," I would say, tracing down the trembling model with the rubber tip of my pointer the line that runs along the center of the torso, "is the linea alba. And here, at number three on the top-ten list of sexiest parts of the male anatomy, is the iliac furrow, or 'Apollo's belt,'" that exquisitely, excruciatingly touchable line that curves from the jut of the hip bone to the crotch.

I was doing my best to downplay my jitteriness and distraction by keeping things light, bantering with the students. But I started to feel shaky. The drawing studios were kept at a higher temperature in consideration of the naked people at the center of the action, and I was starting to sweat. It felt like the effort of suppressing my attraction to the model was making me all the hotter—heat that radiated out from me in shimmering waves threatening to give away my unseemly and unprofessional horniness.

I poured what little energy I had into going from student to student, assisting and critiquing, which for better or worse meant that I had to gaze upon this beautiful man from every angle. As I was working with one student I noticed the model had a few scrapes and bruises on his knees and shins, which somehow made him even more desirable. "It's a losing battle," I complained to myself.

A student piped up. "Mr. Lukasik, should we draw his tattoo?" I looked at the blurred, obviously amateur wad of greenish-black lines on his left deltoid. What exactly was it? "No," I replied, "just focus on the parts that are three-dimensional," almost adding, "Why would you want to look at anything else?"

At ten till nine, I announced, "OK, everyone, that's it for tonight. Don't forget your portfolios are due next week, and don't forget to clean up around you before you go."

As I was speaking, the model hustled into the white terrycloth robe the school provided, jumped down from the platform on which he had been posing, strode across the room to scoop up a big, bulky backpack and skateboard over in the corner, and bolted from the room before some of the students had lifted the charcoal from their drawing pads.

"Buh-bye, you sexy motherfucker," I thought as I packed up my stuff, figuring the only time I'd ever see my exquisite redheaded Barberini faun again was in some good masturbation fantasies—wherein he did indeed pay me many a lovely visit. As it turned out, though, not only would I eventually see him again, but I'd get to make some of those fantasies into reality. Read on.

It was a chilly mid-February twilight and I had just finished up with an afternoon class. I'd unlocked my bike and was heading across an almost empty parking lot out towards the road when the streetlights came on and I could see in the cold bluish light that there was someone sitting on a parking curb by the sidewalk. As I got nearer I could see it was a guy, wearing a dark hooded sweatshirt and voluminous cargo shorts, hands jammed into pockets and leaning forward. As I got nearer, I saw the red hair and wondered, dreaded, hoped. As I passed I nearly hyperventilated. It was him. I froze in my tracks. What do I do? What do I do? I tried to dredge up some courage from the pit of my lurching stomach.

"Hey," was my suave opening line; I tried to make my voice deep and steady to conceal my nerves.

"Hey." He glanced up briefly, squinting at me, then back down to the ground.

"You modeled once in my life drawing class, didn't you?"

"Yeah..." There was an awkward pause in which it seemed like he was going to say something else, but then didn't. He hunched his shoulders like he was cold, and looked over to the side, as if scanning for someone he'd been waiting on. An internal voice coached me, "OK, well, at least I was sort of brave. Clearly he doesn't give a fuck, so just walk away now..."

"Well, good to see you again," I said as I began wheeling my bike away. Damn—so fucking inconsequential. But what was I expecting?

"Hey, man, could you spare a couple of bucks?"

I froze. That wasn't exactly what I'd been hoping for, but it was something, one more moment.

"Uh, well, I don't make much money, but..." Did I dare? "I'm on my way home to fix myself some dinner. You could come with, if you want." A moment passed in silence, a silence I was certain would be broken by him spiting back, "fuck you, faggot." Without speaking, though, my redheaded object of desire stood up. He was about three or four inches shorter than me, which took me by surprise: up on the platform in the studio, he had looked monumental. Now, he just seemed very young, lost, sad. I longed to kiss him.

"I'm Andy, by the way." I stuck out my hand, a sort of "nice to meet you" reflex, and immediately reprimanded myself, "Oh, you dumbass! Try not to act so dweeby."

He looked down at my extended hand for a second, then pulled one out of his pocket and reluctantly gave my hand an unenthusiastic shake.

"C.J."

So now my little creamsicle dreamboy had a name.

"It won't be anything fancy," I told him.

"That's OK."

"It's a little bit of a hike, about half a mile in that direction." What the fuck was I doing? This guy could be some maniac, some rough trade scumbag waiting until we were behind closed doors to beat me up and take my money, some Jeffrey Dahmer, Jr. But no—he was sullen, but I didn't feel there was anything threatening there. "It's worth the risk," I told myself, "even if all I get out of it is helping someone who needs it." Saint Andy.

C.J. hoisted his pack onto his back and followed me. I walked my bike; he carried his skateboard under his arm. As we headed towards my apartment, I awkwardly tried to make conversation, which got one-word responses from C.J., and not always that. My stomach was doing flip-flops, my knees were shaky, and I was terrified of saying something that would make me sound dopey, or lecherous, or both, so I just followed his lead into silence.

"It's this one, right over here." I gestured towards the nondescript building across the street. Heading in, I hefted the top tube of my bike's frame up onto my shoulder for the two-flight haul up to my apartment.

I unlocked the door. He was standing unexpectedly near, watching as I turned the knob. "Come on in."

My little apartment was nothing special, but I still have fond memories of that place. Where some might have seen it as cramped, I saw it as snug. Where some might have considered it run-down, I saw it as full of character. More than anything, it was my own space, just the way I wanted it to be, my little retreat. Nothing more welcome to come into from the cold. The light from the old floor lamp I turned on burnished everything a warm gold. Now that I was in my own place, my nerves were starting to settle.

C.J. looked around. "You got a lot of books."

"Yeah, I guess I do..."

"You read all of 'em?"

"Some—not as many as I should."

Hands in pockets, C.J. scanned the shelves. He pulled out a book and held it up: The Lesbian and Gay Studies Reader. "How 'bout this one?"

I stuck my hands in my back pockets and raised myself up on the balls of my feet, an anxious reaction. "Parts of it."

C.J. slid it back into its place on the shelf without comment.

"So, I'm starving," I announced, trying to distract from further perusal of telltale titles. "Do you still want something to eat?"

"Yeah," he answered.

While I got stuff ready in the kitchen, C.J. wandered around, eventually squatting down by the stack of CDs I'd left by the cinderblock-and-plank contraption on which perched my stereo. "What kind of weird music is this? I never heard of any of this stuff."

"Put something on, if you want."

From the kitchen I could hear him fumbling around, then the start of Coil's "Love's Secret Domain" album—a loop of heavily distorted voices accompanied by horror movie organ and a sound like a thin whip flicking through the air. I also heard C.J. say to himself, "What the fuck?"

"Uh, here," I came over and quickly rummaged through the discs. Einsturzende Neubauten—no. Swans—no. Diamanda Galas—definitely no. I found an Astrud Gilberto compilation someone had given me as a gift and switched it out. "Here, this is probably better dinner music."

To the background of bossa nova, I made a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches, heated up a can of soup, sliced up some carrot sticks, a couple of oranges for dessert. Plain but reasonably healthy. I set the food out on the little table in my kitchen.

Dinner was, unsurprisingly, a quiet affair, over quickly. As C.J. was peeling his orange, I mentioned that I hadn't seen him around the art department for a while. "Are you still modeling for classes?"

He concentrated excessively on stripping the pith from his orange. He shrugged. "When I have to."

"Yeah, I kind of figured you didn't like it," I said. "You sure didn't look like you were enjoying it much that time in my class."

He made a scoffing sound. "Does anyone?"

"Well... good point," I admitted. "Some exhibitionists, maybe? There are a couple of models who seem to get into it." And then, before I could stop myself, I added, "If I had a body like yours, I'd probably be running around naked all the time."

C.J., still focused intently on the orange, shrugged again. "You don't look like you'd be so bad."

I snorted. "Yeah, if you like 'em tall and skinny." I've never been able to take a compliment. "Anyway..." I went on, "It sucks when you have to do a job you don't like to get by."

"It's not the worst I done," he said quietly.

I was struck again by how abandoned he seemed, how forsaken—and of course, how incredibly fucking hot I found him. If I couldn't touch or kiss or do a whole host of other things I wanted to do to him, maybe I could express something like affection—which, it seemed to me, he could use—or just an appreciation of him being here, in some other way.

"Um, back in the parking lot earlier," I said, awkwardly, "you asked if I had a couple of bucks to spare." C.J. seemed to go rigid, looking down at his lap and giving the impression of someone bracing for bad news. "I've got a little bit of money in my wallet, and you're welcome to it." It was a sacrifice, but I figured I could go another month without getting any new music.

I pulled a twenty-dollar bill and three singles from my wallet—all I had—and slid them across the table. C.J.'s reaction was not what I had expected: a look almost of panic spread across his face. It was the first sign of emotion I'd seen from him, though not quite what I had been hoping for. He shook his head.

"Come on, it's OK, man," I tried to reassure him. "You can have it, and I don't want anything in return. OK?"

His eyes were fixed on the cash, but he left it lying where it was. He looked up at me, and after an evening of nervously averted eyes, I was startled by the way he looked at me directly. "Everybody wants something in return."

I stammered, trying to figure out how to make him understand I genuinely did want to help him out, but to say it so he wouldn't feel like I was treating him like the Little Match Girl or something. I'd obviously already offended him. Way to go, Mr. Smooth. "Look, I mean... you can just have the money. Or, if you model in my class some time again and can pay me back then, it's cool. Don't worry about it. For real."

C.J. slouched down in his chair, eyes back on the money—or so I thought at first. He was staring at the tabletop beyond, at nothing, rapt and still, far, far away. An uncomfortable moment passed before he spoke. "Is it OK if I take a shower?"

"Uh, OK." Well, that was something else I hadn't expected. I pointed out where the bathroom was, and told him where the clean towels were (Fuck! I do have clean towels, don't I?). Was this weird? I couldn't tell, but being very careful not to betray any trace of excitement or anxiety or imminent arousal, I acted as if his request to suddenly go bathe was perfectly normal.

Once he was in the bathroom, I went over to the kitchen counter and started cleaning up. As I heard the shower running, I found it impossible to concentrate on doing the stupid dishes. Drying my hands off, I walked to the bathroom. I leaned against the door and wondered what he looked like with water streaming down his magnificent body. I pictured his hands soaping himself up, and wished they could be my hands, sliding, touching, feeling him all over. I imagined myself in there with him, wet and steamy, pressing my naked body against his. Kissing him. Fondling his hard cock. My own cock had gotten hard as I stood there, and I could feel a wet spot in my underwear where I'd oozed precum. I put my hand on the doorknob and gave it a slight twist. It was unlocked. Was that intentional? Jesus, if only I were bolder, I thought. Maybe, though, this is my chance to change that—be a man of action. I geared myself up to fling open the door and stride in, but then I stopped. No, that's not the kind of guy I want to be, some creepy sex predator taking advantage of a poor, vulnerable urchin...

I went back to the kitchen and the dishes. I could tell when he was done because the water pressure at the sink suddenly surged. The soft, scuffling sound of C.J. drying off caught my ears. I wondered now what that would look like and sighed. I put the last of the dishes in the rack, went into the other room, and sat on the couch.

The bathroom door opened and C.J. came out slowly, hesitantly, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. He stood there in the doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot, looking down at the ground, then up at me, and when he saw I was looking at him, shifted his gaze back to the floor.

Truly perplexed, I asked, "What's up?"

"Nothin'"

He continued to hover there, silently, irritatingly, temptingly. "For Christ's sake, man, go put on some fuckin' clothes. You're driving me up the wall, standing there!" I frisbee tossed a pillow off the couch at him to make it seem like I was kidding around, but he really was making me crazy. Could he tell how attracted to him I was? Was he deliberately tormenting me? Or was he, unbelievably, coming on to me?

The thrown pillow hit him on the leg. "I thought maybe you could draw me, to pay you back for the twenty bucks." He sounded dejected.

"What, now?" I asked, and sighed. Just the prospect of seeing him naked, right here in my own place, threatened to cloud my judgment, but I also knew it would be like a form of torture, to be alone, to look, to be so near, but not to be able to do anything else.

"That's a nice offer, pal, but I've had a long day and I just want to relax for now, maybe watch some TV or read a little before bed."

Wordlessly he slipped back into the bathroom. He came back out momentarily, now in his cargo shorts, but nothing else. Was I reading too much into this to conclude that something was going on here? Was it just wishful thinking, or was I just clueless?

"Is it cool if I hang out awhile?"

"Yeah, of course," I said, and I think I actually patted the empty spot next to me on the couch. "Dork!" I scolded myself.

He came and sat down beside me—not near enough for the situation to be unambiguous, but not far enough that I lost hope. Out the window behind the TV, I could see snow flurries in the streetlight. One of those sensationalistic cop shows that make it seem like there's a child-murdering pedophile behind every other tree was on, but I had lost any ability to concentrate. This was a dream and a nightmare. He was so close, his naked skin so near to me I could see the blue veins in his shoulders and upper chest, could feel his body heat, could smell the soap he'd just used. I couldn't, though, make myself stop staring at him. My head felt so hot, and even though I had just eaten, my stomach felt empty and cold.

My eye fell on his tattoo. I could now tell that it was woman's face, copied from a photograph by someone who didn't know how to draw. There was no clear separation between the image and the lettering, but I managed to discern the word "Granma." C.J. caught me peering at his tattoo and quickly slapped his hand over it.