by A Zukowski
everything he’s been thinking and feeling about
Chris.
Freno. A brake.
Chris sucks in a hasty breath and moves away, his
palm on Alex’s chest, pushing, creating distance
between them.
“Don’t kiss me like that.”
“Like what?” Alex is breathless and confused by
Chris’s alarm.
“Just don’t, all right?” Moisture glistens in Chris’s
turquoise eyes.
Alex’s brows draw up. “But you kissed me back.
What’s the matter?”
“It always starts this way and inevitably ends
another. This whole thing was a mistake. I don’t
wanna lose you.”
“Why would you lose me?” Alex is as confused as
ever. “What are you talking about?”
“Don’t you understand? Because sooner or later
people leave. I let them kiss me and touch me, and I
have sex with them, and soon they tire of me. Too
much too fast. They’ll find some mysterious flaw in
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me by the third date or the sixth fuck. Sometimes I
don’t even progress to that stage.” Chris frowns at
Alex, his face turning pink from fear.
“I’m not like them. I mean, I want to kiss you and
touch you, and maybe we’ll fuck. I’ve never slept
with a man before. Or queer, not male or female.
You get my gist.”
Alex scratches his head and gazes at Chris. He
adds steadily, “But we don’t have to do anything if
that’s what you’re scared of.”
“I’m not scared. I’m being sensible. You and I.
We’ve been doing it all arse-wise. We go out and
have fun even though you’re frightened of the
crowd, and we cook. We go for a walk and talk
about shit. You don’t expect me to have sex unless I
want to. You ask silly questions about me, but I like
that. When something is too good to be true, it
usually is.”
“We’re back to that, are we? If I care too much
about you, I’m being controlling. If I worry about
you getting hurt, I’m undermining you. We’re never
going to get anywhere if you don’t ever tell me the
truth. What the fuck are you frightened of?” Alex
seldom talks so much in one breath.
Chris laughs bitterly. “The truth? There’s no such
thing. I haven’t lied to you if that’s what you’re
insinuating.”
Alex is stunned silent while he reminds himself
what he has come in to tell Chris. How have they
managed to have an argument instead?
Chris schools his face back to nonchalance—the
default that Alex recognises. “I don’t know what I
was thinking. It’s better we stay friends. Only.”
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Chris shakes his head, wags his forefinger and
moves further away. “Sorry. I think you should
leave.”
“Chris.”
“Leave me alone.” Chris pushes Alex’s chest. “Go!
Go back to your room.”
When Alex refuses to move, Chris shoves him
again. “Leave, Alexander Whale. I mean it.”
Alex reluctantly stands up, but he stares at Chris’s
slight frame as he departs. Chris has turned to face
the wall, refusing Alex. Fucking stubborn idiot.
Chris made him stop breathing with the kiss, and
yet his reaction was to push him away. Alex sighs
and walks out.
~~~
Chris shuts the door behind Alex and stares at the
discoloured paint on the panel as if it can protect
him from the world, from Alex. He’ll stay in his
room, where he should feel safe. He sits on the bed,
opens his tobacco tin and, with the meagre remnant
of hash, rolls a joint.
A stupid kiss.
Why are you acting like this?
Chris is so angry with himself he wants to lash
out. The only thing stopping him would be Alex
barging in to check on him because the man would
do that. And he cannot see Alex now without
turning into a helpless heap in his arms again.
The beginning.
Chris was twelve. Annette had taken him to the
set. He never knew what the shoots were about until
they got there. Half a dozen people: the
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photographer, the director and his personal
assistant busied themselves with preparation; two
other kids, a boy and a girl about Chris’s age, sat on
the plush sofa, absorbed in some kind of handheld
device, playing games.
One of the young women with a clipboard
approached him, “Christoph?”
He frowned. “It’s Chris.”
She bit her bottom lip, which sported a piercing.
Chris stared at the small silver stud. “Ah, okay.
Chris. Would you come with me, please?”
Wow, someone who could actually speak
properly. Said please as though he mattered. He
was already impressed with this job, whatever it
turned out to be. He looked around to see what his
mum was up to, but she was nowhere to be found.
Chris could only guess that she’d gone outside for a
smoke or a sneaky happy pill.
He shrugged and followed the woman. She
gestured for him to sit in the chair in front of the
short bank of mirrors. She left him with, “Okay,
make-up will be with you shortly.”
Chris knew the drill. He had already found out he
liked cosmetics. Even so, those long sessions were
boring.
The make-up artist was another cookie-cutter
creative hopeful.
“Okay.” She immediately sponged foundation on
him before Chris could close his eyes. The sweet
smell of face powder travelled up his nose. “You’re
pretty, kid.”
Kid? She was only young herself.
“Not too much of this, though.” She put some
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blush and the faintest eye colour on him. “They
want you boys to look natural.”
Boy or girl. Not between or both. Naturally. They
wanted the illusion of happy, healthy pre-teens.
Chris had already gathered it was a catalogue
shoot. He knew how fucked up his life was, while his
‘jobs’ all seemed to be about selling unrealities.
When the truth is too ugly, believe in the lies.
Next, the wardrobe guy came in with his call
sheet. “Hey, Christoph, isn’t it? I’m Jude.” He
offered his hand, and Chris shook it.
“Just Chris.” He looked up and was dazzled by
Jude, who had a top knot in his hair, red cheeks and
twinkly brown eyes. Chris felt warm suddenly. He’d
known for a few years that he liked more than one
gender.
Chris thought about attraction, but he was
confused.
At that age, he’d already seen sex—too much of it
—starting with his mother in videos that no one
thought to hide from him. It wasn’t a secret that sex
brought them money to live on. So, what do you call
the sensation in your groin when you see someone?
Is it only s
ex? Does it have anything to do with that
thing called love? Chris had heard the fairy tales,
the princes and princesses and Father Christmas.
He understood the falsehood of those stories. That
consciousness had come long before he realised he
was different from most other kids—those with
doting
parents
and
brains
that
weren’t
contaminated by matters they had no business
knowing.
Jude smiled, showing neat, white teeth. He was
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the same age as the make-up artist, maybe only ten
years older than Chris, but they were adults. Right.
Chris had always worked with adults. He’d been
working for about ten years already. His earliest
memories were of shooting commercials for toddler
products—some healthy yoghurt or shit.
Jude handed him his first outfit. “Can I help you,
or, do you want to put it on yourself, hmm?”
He was speaking to Chris as if he was six, and he
didn’t like it, so he grabbed the clothes without a
word and headed towards the changing cubicles. No
adult ran him around their fingers, not since Chris
was three or four.
He changed into the bog-standard boy’s T-shirt,
turtleneck and jeans. His dick twitched when he
thought about Jude and his elegant face. Chris
would be thirteen next month, and he’d been
jerking off for a few years, but the want to touch
another was new.
Later, Chris stood in the changing room again,
with the nth set of clothes. Seriously, the outfits all
looked the same to him, and he was so tired and
hungry. He was given a Danish pastry for lunch
because Annette told him he shouldn’t eat much
when he was working. For his figure. Chris had
repeated many times that he hardly gained weight;
Annette never listened. Besides, boys’ clothes were
usually baggy, but his mother still imposed her body
insecurity on him.
“Chris. They’re chasing. What are you doing in
there?” Jude must have been calling his name for
ages.
He stared at the fabric of the curtain as though it
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concealed a premonition.
Jude pulled it back and ogled him.
Chris realised he was in his underwear and his
dick was at half-mast, which would be quite obvious
to the assistant.
Jude looked over his shoulder, then drew the
curtain closed again and scrutinised Chris’s face.
“You’re pretty. Eleven, you say?”
Chris huffed. “I’m twelve, nearly thirteen.”
“I see.” Jude elongated his two words.
What happened next seemed so quick, Chris was
completely caught off guard. Jude pulled down
Chris’s briefs, wrapped his hand around Chris’s
penis, stroking it and massaging the base and the
head. It was unexpected and so different from
masturbation. Chris gazed into Jude’s dark eyes;
he’d never been this close to another. Jude
whispered pretty boy into his ear while Chris was
paralysed by the scent of Jude’s cologne and the
heat that coursed through him. Over the years he
had wondered if he was addicted to those senses,
allowing him to fall for the illusion that there was
more to sex.
Chris came in about two minutes. His heart was
pounding hard and he froze in fear once his arousal
had died down. Jude passed some tissues to him to
clean up. Chris managed to pull his underwear back
up when Jude moved away.
Jude dried his hand and picked up the clothes
Chris was supposed to put on. As if they hadn’t done
a thing, Jude ordered, “Come on. Let me put these
on for you.”
Chris let him then and held out his arms like a
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toddler being waited on by an adult. He turned his
face away, though, so he wouldn’t have to see Jude’s
face and those dark eyes.
Chris had seen in some men’s eyes what they
wanted to do to him. Annette told him again and
again, “Don’t let them touch you.” It was the only
useful thing she had taught him, but he had let Jude
jerk him off. I’m an idiot. It felt good even though it
was wrong.
For the rest of the shoot, Chris avoided Jude,
frightened by the strong attraction he had felt and
the guilt of letting the man play with him and
enjoying it. He feared everyone on set could tell
what had happened.
Finally, the producer declared the shoot wrapped.
Chris was eager to get home. He had homework to
do and his studies were getting harder and harder.
He was in his first year in secondary school. The
teachers seemed to do nothing but frown at him
and, in turn, he scowled at the books. The words
always looked jumbled up to him. Chris had learned
later on that it was likely dyslexia but he was never
diagnosed. His formal education ended at sixteen
with two GCSE passes to his name. Annette had
never managed to help him with his education.
After all, he was just a pretty face and, in a few
years’ time, a hot body.
But hang on.
Jude ran up and whispered something to the man
in charge, who shouted, “Chris. Daniel. Wait!” The
girl had already left with her mother.
“We’ve missed a couple of the planned photos.
Can you stay for a few more minutes? We’ll make it
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as quick as possible.”
Jude shifted on his feet. “Eh, but they are for a
boy and a girl.”
The camera operator looked at them and pointed
at Chris. “Can’t you make him up? I’ll fudge it with
the angle and lighting. He’s got girl’s features.”
He’s got girl’s features.
Chris liked being a girl sometimes. He
remembered how he felt so beautiful in the pink and
purple dresses, with a hint of rouge painted on his
face and a hat to hide his short hair. The
photographer told them he’d take one from the side
and another one with more shadow on his face.
Chris wanted to ask him not to because he wished to
see himself as a girl in full, not shadowy and fuzzy.
The two photos were his favourite for a long time.
He soon pushed aside the excitement and shame of
the hand job in the changing room. He was
ridiculed for being like a girl. Some girls at school
wanted to be like him; some became his girlfriends.
He had crushes on some boys and fought the
bullies. He wanted so desperately to not care about
what everyone said because it felt nice to be a girl as
much as a boy. He should refuse to feel ashamed of
his beauty.
As Chris remembers the tangled beginning of his
being, he stares at the door—the portal beyond
which is Alex’s strong body. He recalls others who
have departed from his lif
e and deserted him. Tears
begin to fall and Chris can’t stop them. He hates
crying and dislikes himself for being out of control
of his feelings. He crawls to lean against the
headboard and holds his knees tight to his chest. He
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lets himself bawl while rocking back and forth until
there are no more tears. Chris can blame his mum
and all these other people who make him feel
worthless. He has used the one thing that his mum
has taught him to use, to make a living, to support
both of them. All the men and women who recoil
when they think of Chris as ugly inside, so
incongruent with his beautiful anatomy.
Alex. The one who has accepted him, despite his
own darkness. Only his useless soul holds Chris
back from wanting this nameless yet profound thing
the two of them have shared. The lack of control of
his feelings drives him insane. He needs to go back
to that place of emotional security. He doesn't know
any alternatives but to hurt Alex with his words.
~~~
Alex retreats to his room and takes a headache
tablet before he lies down and stares at the ceiling.
Chris is too good for him, but the kiss was…sweet
and right. It seemed to him the most instinctive
thing to kiss Chris, and Chris responded with
sensuality and surging intensity. What did he do
wrong?
He definitely can’t sleep now, even though he is
utterly exhausted with a grief that shouldn’t have
been there. He can’t miss something that hasn’t
happened yet. He should have told Chris how he
felt. He should have done a lot of things, but he’s
broken inside and out. He’s going to spend the rest
of his days on antidepressants. Alex has no career to
speak of, no money. He has little to give, and it’s
unbearably discouraging.
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Alex wants to think of Chris as his, someone he
will protect and provide for. Despite everything, he
smiles to himself.
Yeah, right. If he utters those thoughts to Chris,
he’ll get a mouthful.
Who the hell needs you? I can take care of
myself.
Alex can imagine Chris’s scowl as he dismisses
the idea. All he can think of is how cute Chris looks
when he gets annoyed and calls him an idiot.
But then Alex remembers Chris’s face when he
told him to leave, his eyes full of fear and confusion.
Alex can’t process the barrage of thoughts flooding
his brain, so he has to shut down. He wants to
scream, and yet no sound comes out as a silent
