Beautiful Man

Chapter 1: Mr. January John Nasdell enjoys his singlehood far too much to want to be my boyfriend. I know this by the s****l longing in his almost-amber eyes and the boyish sneer on his face. Mind you, he’s not a boy at all. The man is thirty-six. He’s content playing the field of men, random in his selections, perhaps even slutty. Rumor has it, he’s fairly wild in bed: a bear that growls, grunts, and claws his ways through orgasms. Animal-like. Someone from the wilds of Peru or Nova Scotia. A beast. But a beautiful beast. I usually don’t personally know the models who enter my studio, but I know John well. He makes his money by gambling, an astute player of blackjack, gaining millions. He travels all over the United States, from casino to casino, obtaining mounds of cash, addicted to the sport. He can retire if he wants, but he chooses not to. He’s told me, “Gambling’s a drug for me. It’s painfully pleasant and damaging.” The man has a mansion near the Ender Estates and Golf Course, south of Pittsburgh along the Monongahela River. I’ve never been to it, but I’ve seen pictures on one of the city’s architecture/home/garden magazine covers. His house is titanic, with eleven bedrooms, an indoor swimming pool, and his own private casino. I know he goes from one man to the next in his life, preferring gingers like me. A bed-hopper who follows his d**k anywhere it wants to go. A c**k-sniffer, similar to a bloodhound. He’ll never settle down and marry. He’s a player and a playboy. I guess if you have loads of money like he does, why be anyone else? It makes sense to me. We shake hands. His bear-palm massive, grizzly-like, similar to a lumberjack’s. I take in his six-three frame, sculpted eyebrows and beard. He has a tiny mole under his left eye that looks irresistible, making him more attractive. He’s not bad to look at all. In fact, he’s a beautiful man. Model nice. Perfect for my photographic needs. A needed beast, if I tell the truth. “Nice to meet you, John. Thanks for doing this.” “I’ve seen your work. You’re one of the best photographers I follow. I love your Amish Men series. Where did you find such beautiful Amish guys in Pennsylvania? I didn’t even know they were handsome Amish men out in the world.” He’s confident when he speaks, aggressive, and overpowering. He’s not a pansy or girlie by any means. Everything about the guy yells butch, badass, and brawny. He’s talking about my project from two years before. I get half of what he says. He mumbles about some of the most beautiful men in Amish country I have photographed throughout Pennsylvania: Foxburg, Lancaster, Big Valley, Smicksburg, and New Wilmington. Once I discovered the delectable men, I obsessed over their beauty and snapped photos of them, obtaining special permission from their affiliates since its considered an Amish community law not to have your picture taken if your Amish. After traveling throughout the state and taking over two thousand photographs of twenty Amish men, I gathered the photographs and organized them into a coffee table book called Amish Man. It sold well, particularly in the gay community. Ten percent of the profits went to Allies for Health Against AIDS (AHAA) in Pittsburgh. The remaining profits I tucked away into a retirement fund. John continues, “It’s my pleasure to do this shoot for you, and helping to raise money for AHAA. You’re a good man for doing this, Mr. Manda. I really respect you for sharing your talents for a reasonable cause.” “Burne,” I tell him. “Call me Burne. I’m not very formal when it comes to doing shoots.” He takes off his lamb’s wool jacket and drops it over a Scandinavian plastic chair in my studio. He sports a red-and-black plaid shirt underneath. Tight jeans are snug against his muscular legs and hips. “What’s the calendar going to be called?” he inquires, unbuttoning his shirt, showing off beefy muscles and springs of black chest hair. The chest’s tangles of hair are the same color of his eyebrows and beard. “Beautiful Man.” “And it will be released on sss and elsewhere?” “Yes. There’ll be a premier party at Bantum Hall in April. My friend, Bill Bookes, owns the place. All twelve models, AHAA representatives, my editor, agent, and my staff will be there.” “I’m sure the calendar will sell just as well as your Amish book.” He removes his plaid shirt and drops it over his winter jacket. His chest is beyond model perfect: muscular and shaped like a V, pink n*****s, dented navel, and six rippled abs. No wonder he doesn’t settle down with a man and get married. No wonder he swings from one d**k to the next. He’s far too busy pleasuring men with his beautiful body and endless charm. Perfection. The most handsome model for my project. I toggle the lens of my Sony AA9 II camera, adjusting it for proper use. “Let’s hope, since one hundred percent of the profits are going to a good cause.” Timmy Riley, the nephew to the best-selling thriller author, Robert Riley, fiddles with an LED ring-light to the left of the green screen/backdrop. Timmy’s only twenty, interning with me for the next six months. He attends Gossner Tech, an arts school, working to obtain his degree in photography. The kid is Tinkerbell all the way, a pure delight to have around: funny, intuitive, bitchy, biting, sweet, and not at all redundant. His dating tales are hysterical, one misfortune after the next. Timmy makes me laugh and lightens up the studio. A great companion who attempts to keep my heart and mind young at thirty-eight. I have a fresh idea and tell John, “Can you put the lamb’s wool jacket on? I’d also like it if you unbuttoned the top button on your jeans to give the shot some sexy, if you don’t mind.” “I’m not wearing any underwear. Some of my pubes will show.” Timmy unprofessionally snickers. “Even better,” I say to the model. Mr. January stands in front of the green screen and smiles. He faces me: bulky arms at his sides, fingers in his jean’s pockets, chest looking stunning, glowing in the bright lights. “Give me one without a smile. Sinister would be nice.” He listens. Happy to oblige. Content as Mr. January for the calendar. I tell him, “You’ll have Colorado mountains behind you and lots of snow. I’m thinking of placing you in the woods.” “Like a lumberjack?” “More like a sexy pioneer.” He shows off one n****e and pec; a perfect shot. “Let’s play,” I say. “Give me a wink.” He listens. “Pouty lips,” I instruct. He listens. “Now your best seductive look.” He listens. I take two hundred-plus shots of the gambler. Some of the shots are without the jacket on. Few are of his strong and muscular back and tight-packed ass. Before he leaves my studio on Liberty Avenue in downtown Pittsburgh, I tell him, “You should be a professional model. You’re easy to work with.” “And you should go on a date with me,” he says, flirting while dressing in his plaid shirt again. “I’ll pack your ass with some lumber. What do you say, Burne?” I shake my head. “I don’t mix business and pleasure. Plus, my heart’s interested in a guy. Sorry to spoil your plans for my rear.” I don’t want to be one of those kinds of men who jumps from one man’s bed to the next like John. I’m the settling-down type of guy. Serious about relationships. A man who can fall in love and be a strong, tender, understanding, honest, caring, and devoted partner who isn’t a w***e. He winks at me. “If you change your mind, let me know. I’m sure we could have fun together. My d**k is always hungry for someone like you.” I shake his hand, ignore his comment, and tell him, “Thanks for doing this chartable deed.” “No problem. I enjoyed it.” And off he goes, into his world of gambling, traveling, and bed-hopping.