I decided to screw around with writing styles tonight and this odd piece of crap is what fell out.The Artist and The Model
Once upon a time, there was a boy. The boy was not special; he couldn’t fly or shoot gamma rays out of his eyes. He was just a normal boy growing up in a small town. The boy, Bruce, was about 15 when we pick up his story. He was in his sophomore year of high school, the year when adolescence hits full force and hair pops out in places it had never been before. The girls were developing bosoms like a peach orchard, and they boys noticed. Not Bruce though. Bruce noticed the fine hairs growing on the other boys’ legs, and the first dawning of muscle tone in his own body. Suddenly, he could no longer walk without tripping, and zits cropped up on his face every morning like a rose in bloom.
He went to school, enduring the juvenile insults of the teenage years, and doing his best in every class. He wasn’t exactly a perfect student, but he tried, and maintained a 3.0 average. He tried playing sports, but his inherent awkwardness made it impossible for him to excel. He tried the academic squads, but the cliques of brainiacs wouldn’t accept him either. He was an island, a man unto himself. He began to resent his classmates, occasionally plotting to do something to embarrass them the way he was. Every lunch, he would sit, eating his school food, all the while writing names and grievances in his private notebook, the one no one ever saw. He filled it with every point scored at his expense, every little snub someone played against him, every dirty glance given from across the hall. But there was one name he never added to that list, one person who he felt had never wronged him. Roger Mallory was the boy who never wronged Bruce. Roger was not the loner that Bruce was, no, Roger was popular, hanging out with his jock friends and the taunting cheerleader bitches. But Roger never laughed when Bruce tripped over his own feet or dropped his books or missed a pass in gym class. Roger never laughed and Bruce loved him for it. One day, while Bruce ate his lunch and filled in page after angst filled page in his notebook, Roger left his friends and sat down across from Bruce.
“Hey Bruce,” Roger said, his voice deep and not cracking on every syllable, “I hear you might be able to help me with my Art project.”
Bruce, aware that his god was talking to him squeaked out, “What do you need help with?”
Roger laughed a deep baritone that filled Bruce soul with hope that this wasn’t a cruel joke thought up by the sweater monkeys and steroid junkies. “Well,” Roger replied, “I’m supposed to do some profile work for my sketch class. Would you like to come over today?”
Bruce paused over his greasy fish nuggets to ponder the implications of this invitation. “Yes,” he muttered, trying to keep his voice low, so as not to show that his voice wasn’t as perfect as his idol’s voice.
“Meet me at my car after the last bell,” Roger said, referring to the Camero his parents had given him for his 16th birthday, the car that Bruce could never afford and so he convinced himself that it was ugly.
Bruce agreed, trying not to look lonely as Roger returned to his steroid crazed teammates and his pom-pom whore friends. He looked down at his notebook, and realized that perhaps people weren’t that bad after all, maybe he should give up the rage that surrounded him, become a good little automaton like the other loners in the school had. But his truer self warned against that, worrying and fretting that this was another set up, another joke waiting to be played, a trap he had just walked into.
He finished his lunch and dumped the remnants in the trash, walking to his locker and then to his last few boring classes, filled with apathetic peers and teachers who no longer cared about those they saw in front of their faces for 50 minutes at a time, worrying and hoping, hoping that this would somehow be good rather than bad, that maybe he’d have a friend after the day was done.
The last bell finally rang the clarion call of freedom from classes, tolling its iron peels to the fresh air and freedom that lay beyond the doors of the bricked in prison it hung in. Bruce ran to the parking lot looking for the Camero, hoping the Roger would be there, that he would be alone, and that he could finally just finally be himself and not fall all over himself and make an ass out of himself and for once feel not so alone. Roger stood next to the maroon car, already idling the engine and waving as Bruce walked up to him smiling the big smile of a new friend. Roger opened the car door and let Bruce in to the leather comfort of a classic car with its air already cooling down the interior from a warm spring day in the asphalt lot.
Roger pulled out of the lot and started the drive to his place, as Bruce thought as hard as he could for a way to start talking without sounding stupid, without sounding like a confused adolescent boy with no friends hoping this was not some sort of cruel joke to humiliate him in front of everyone. Roger just smiled as they drove, turning on the radio to the local pop station filled with the anorexic pop starlets singing about the angst only rich little anorexic pop stars with handsome boyfriends can feel. He drove with the arrogance of the newly licensed driver where everyone should clear the road for you and your new wheels because they are you and your wheels and that makes you special. He pulled up in front of his parents’ mansion in the rich section of the farm town, and motioned for Bruce to get out. Bruce climbed out slowly, feeling poor and out of place among the window treatments and the well manicured lawn filled with the kitsch lawn gnomes and pink flamingos. Roger led them on to the double front door, the gateway to sanctuary or hell whichever it turned out to be thought Bruce. Bruce allowed himself to be led through the empty house filled with antiques and painting his parents could never afford to the quiet teenage attic loft that Roger called home. Roger pulled a sketchbook from under the mattress of the canopy bed and told Bruce how to pose for the portrait he need to sketch to pass his art class. Bruce sat still holding the pose of one in deep thought while Roger’s hands flew with the pencil across the blank page. Roger looked up occasionally to study his model sitting in the window and then went back to furiously carving with the lead into the page. Finally he ripped the page out of the book ripping it to shreds screaming about how it wasn’t right and would never be right. Bruce looked at his idol, scared of the anger he saw there. Roger looked at him and suggested that Bruce remove his shirt that his form would be better rendered that way, making it easier to sketch. Bruce hesitated scared of exposing his ugly teenage body to the deity in front of him but Roger was insistent as he finally took his own shirt off to show that there was nothing to be afraid of. He started the furious sketching again as Bruce stared at the tanned chest of the man who had never wronged him wishing that he could look like that. Again, Roger tore the sketch to shreds saying he was uninspired and again asked Bruce to remove more clothing in hopes that seeing the form unclothed would inspire him to draw better than before. Bruce relented again as Roger again removed the same amount of clothing to make the model feel more comfortable being exposed before the artist. This time the artist decided to pose the model with his hands in hopes that the perfect pose could at last be found to spur his creative juices. The model was excited and scared of this as the naked artist stood behind the naked model touching and bending the model to fit the form the artist wanted and the model felt the hot breath on his back and was scared that the awakening desire would show to the artist and the artist would hate him for it. But then the model felt a strange sensation on his leg as he realized that the artist was just as excited about the possibilities as the model was and he realized that his own excitement was rising noticeably as the artist’s hands stopped posing and started exploring more and more of the model’s body feeling the model like warm clay waiting to be shaped into something new a new creation. The model’s breath quickened as the artist’s lips touched the model’s bare flesh and as the artist’s flesh merged with the model’s until the were one creature breathing the same air in the same lungs panting their unison desire and love for each other one at last within the long repressed desire of the flesh until the kindles passion exploded from both of them as one on the carpet of the nice bedroom. The artist withdrew and sat down with his sketch book drawing three pictures one for class and two of the joining of flesh for both the artist and the model. Bruce the model reclothed himself as Roger the artist took a few last looks of longing at his perfect model and then escorted him to the door.
Bruce did all of his homework and ate and slept anxious for a new day to begin at school with a new friend to see again and less bile eating at his heart. He arrived to the laughter of his classmates as they pointed at him calling him faggot and pointing and his heart shattered as he saw that his deity was numbered among them calling him queer. Bruce ran home to his ugly bedroom and his poor house with sheets over the windows where there were no curtains and pulled out the drawing of the merging. He scrawled I loved you over the picture and sliced his wrists open over the notebook and the drawing.