Beautiful Man

Chapter 2: Mr. February

Chapter 2: Mr. February

January 20

“I want to make love to you, Burne Manda,” Jake Leo, the brunette man of thirty, whispers to me across the two-person table at The Crooked Drink, a straight bar on Smithfield Street, near the Ohio River.

We’re doing lunch here: beer and salads. His idea. The conversation is supposed to be about a day and time in the next week that he can come to my studio and be Mr. February for my Beautiful Man calendar. So far, we’ve said nothing about modeling.

I laugh at him. “You’re not even queer, Jake. Why do you want to make love to me?”

“I’m curious these days. Some men are.” He laughs. “We’ll make love in the dark. I won’t be able to see you.”

I take in his Tom Brady looks and understand why women love him. He’s gorgeous. Tall, dark, and handsome all the way. A total cliché. But who really cares? He’s to die for. The extraordinary look that a male model should have. He’s not a model, though. He’s a mailman. Yes, you heard me. A mailman. He goes from door to door and drops off letters and parcels to Pittsburghers. He battles the snow in February and the hot sun in July. Modeling is the furthest thing from his everyday career.

He takes in my ginger hair, emerald-colored eyes, and freckled cheeks. He studies the cleft in the center of my chin, cords that run up and down my neck, and my broad shoulders. Jake licks his lips; I don’t know why.

I provide him with a reality check. “What happens when you feel my balls swing against your thighs? You do know this is going to occur when you get behind me.”

“I’ll deal with it.”

“And what about my hairy ass? Will you deal with that, too?” Honestly, I don’t have a hairy ass, but I want him to understand that a man’s ass and body parts aren’t like a woman’s. We’re not soft and supple; something he probably won’t comprehend.

He raises a beautiful right eyebrow. “You have a hairy ass?”

I nod, grin. “Think Chewbacca.”

“Jesus Christ,” he chirps, and swallows half his beer, numbing his mind.

I take a bite of my salad: too much lettuce, not enough cucumber. “Will Saturday morning work for you?”

He’s cute but not the brightest light in the house. “This Saturday?”

“Yes. This Saturday. I’m thinking ten o’clock.”

He rubs his chiseled chin. “That might work.”

“Good. Let’s schedule it.”

He pulls out of his phone and presses a few buttons. “What’s the address of your studio, Burne?”

“It’s 1029 Liberty Avenue. I’m on the fourth floor. Suite C.”

Jake continues to press buttons on his cellular. “As in cat?”

“As in cute male model.”

“That’s me,” he chuckles, grinning, maybe playing.

I think he’s going to be a handful in front of my Sony, and for Timmy. Somewhat irritating, but not in a negative way, just annoyingly cute, which also starts with a C.

“Sunday. Nine o’clock,” he says.

“No,” I snap at him. “Saturday at ten o’clock.” So dumb and adorable. A delight. Charming. An i***t with a beautiful face and smile. God help him.

He sighs and presses more buttons on his phone. “Saturday at ten.”

“You got it.”

He looks outside one of the bar’s windows. It’s snowing. Kevin Mercer, the cutie meteorologist on Channel 2 I would like to marry, forecasts three inches of snow to fall by the end of the day. Typical for January in the Burgh.

“What if there’s a blizzard?”

“No problem. We’ll reschedule, Jake.”

He places his phone on the table next to his salad. “Is this a naked shoot? Will I have a boner? Am I going to jack off for you? Do I have to save up a load in my nuts so you can get the best shots of me blowing it for you?”

Laughter takes hold of me. “No. It’s nothing like that. This is for a good cause. It’s not pornography.” I shake my head, enjoying his company. “But do you have a red Speedo?”

“That’s a thong, right?”

I continue to laugh. “It’s a swimsuit. Like a pair of underwear.”

He shakes his head. “No. But I do have a red thong.”

I think about him being Mr. February and wearing his red thong: long muscular legs, ripped stomach, line of dark treasure trail that falls beneath his navel into the thong’s material, athletic hips. I picture red hearts and roses behind him and Jake cuddling a child-size teddy bear in his arms. Totally cliché. Totally Valentine’s Day. Totally perfect.

Excited, I say, “Bring the thong. You can wear it for the shoot.” I take another bite of the salad. “Georgina Fang, my drag queen makeup artist, might have to trim your chest and pubic triangle. Are you going to be okay with that?”

“I never took geometry. What’s a pubic triangle?”

I hold my laughter in, steering clear of offending him. “It’s the patch of hair above your dick.”

“Oh, that.” He nods. “I don’t mind if Georgina goes down there to play. She or he can play with me or taste me. Whatever.”

I provide him with details of the shoot: his arrival, introductions with my staff, undressing, makeup, hair trimming, posing, and following my simple instructions. I tell him that he might hold a stuffed teddy bear, a dozen roses, or chocolates. Something to do with the February holiday.

Jake somewhat absorbs my rambling. Following my spiel, he glows: a big smile on his face, perfect teeth. The best Mr. February in all of Pittsburgh.

“Any questions?”

He nods. “Just one.”

“Hit me, Jake.”

“Why would I hit you? I like you, Burne. You seem like a good man.”

I ignore him and say, “I mean…ask your one question.”

“Sure. Yes. After the shoot, when everything is wrapped, can I make love to you?”

What is his obsession with making love to me? I don’t get it. Should I? I’m confused. I’ve known Jake for the last ten years as my mailman. I’ve listened to him talk about his endless string of girlfriends: Heather with her big lips; Trinity with her smooth stomach; Tina loves to dance; Vivian won’t give him a blowjob; Jennifer likes to spend money. To my knowledge, he has never mentioned wanting to make love to me before, or be intimate with a guy. Curiosity burns within me.

“Are you really curious about sleeping with a man?”

He nods. “I do want to make love to a man, particularly you, because I trust you.”

Good to know. I get it. He’s bi-curious, which I’m perfectly fine with, posing no judgment. I say to him, “You can’t make to love me, Jake, but I think I know someone you can.”

“Who?” he inquires, raising both eyebrows.

“His name is John Nasdell. He’s Mr. January for Beautiful Men. I can give you his cell number. Mention me. And make sure you tell him that you look like Tom Brady and you don’t want a relationship, you simply went to spend the night with him.”

“I don’t want to spend the night with anyone, Burne. I just want an hour or two to make love to a guy.”

Good to know he’s removed me from his candidacy list. “Got it,” I tell him. “No romance. Just s*x. That will work for John. Tell him that.” I borrow a pen from our waitperson and write John’s phone number on a napkin. I pass the napkin to Mr. February.

“Thanks,” he says. “This means a lot to me.”

“Sure.”

We continue to talk about his fresh affection for men, the act of sliding his condom-covered d**k inside a man’s ass (always use protection), and wearing a red thong as Mr. February. It’s not a bad time with Jake. Not at all. Instead, we have a fine lunch together, friends.