“The only one,” Yin said, with a reminiscent sigh. He saw Julian’s green eyes. He remembered the first time he’d thought to himself how amazing the color was. The green was electric.
Julian had been in “the den.” It was what they called the TV room in Yin’s former, shoddier apartment.
Just the two of them.
They had been watching an educational channel, one with a focus on historical documentaries. The program that was on was titled Sex Through The Ages. There were plenty of visuals, great pieces of erotic art—illuminations of The Kama Sutra, erotic miniatures, homo-erotic art of Classical Greece and various other ancient civilizations.
Yin had been watching one image—an Egyptian pillar, with a ruler seated on a throne, showing off a huge phallus. It blended very well into the rest of the wall art. Yin gave a short, appreciative laugh. He found it amusing.
He turned to look at Julian, who was feeling his crotch through his jeans. Jeans shredded across one knee (which Yin had suggested), instead of both sides (“it’d be more unusual, the asymmetry”).
Julian went on, half in his own world. He noticed Yin looking at him, with an unfurrowed brow, eyes that didn’t shift around. An open, unnamable look on his face. Yin’s face—with the fine bone structure, neat eyebrows, and small, tight pores on unblemished skin.
“Maybe you wanna switch channels,” Julian said, running a hand through his dusty blond hair.
Yin appeared to consider it. “It’s okay. The show’s interesting.” He was actually more interested in doing a drawing study, on Julian’s eyes.
“And very graphic.”
Yin smiled, shrugged his shoulders slightly, looked back at the screen, propped one leg up on the sofa.
A muffled moan—ohhman—made Yin turn to his right, to the source of the sound. There was a Kama Sutra scene on the TV. Julian’s zipper was down. He was playing with himself.
Yin kept watching. He looked at his friend’s package. About the same thickness, he noted. Though Julian’s a bit shorter.
Julian noticed, stopped.
I’m getting too comfortable, am I.”
They both looked at the TV again. Now there was something on lesbians—and there were delicate, brilliant line illustrations by Aubrey Beardsley, some of which were familiar to Yin, after checking out a book on Erotic Art from the local library. Characteristic of Beardsley’s work were large areas of black and white, hard, curving lines, rich ornamentation, and thighs and bosoms that were lush and white.
Yin wasn’t thinking about anything. His favorite state of mind. Where he operated freely, in the moment, his own personal variation of “c’est la vie.”
He sank back comfortably into his seat. God, he loved good art. And good erotic art more. And people who didn’t give a damn about what he did, and why, and when, all the more.
The image on the TV sent a shockwave to him, and his consciousness shifted downwards. He stood up, untied his pajamas with one hand, then lay back, stroking himself.
He sighed. “Don’t mind me,” he said to Julian, without looking at him.
Then Yin heard the clink of Julian’s belt buckle, as he shifted his hand—“I’ll join ya”—also speaking, and not looking at the other.
Yin eased his head back, then suddenly sprang up to his feet. “Hold on.” Disappeared into his room.
Julian waited anxiously. His thoughts raced.
Yin has a gun and is going to point it at me, and shoot me. Oh, my God, we’re fags. But is there anything abnormal about two guys hanging around beating off? What are we—?
“Man, oh man.” Julian clenched his jaw shut, trying to hide a grin. Yin still saw it.
Yin strode up to the TV set, balanced his full-length mirror against the wall.
Stepped back to where Julian was, went forward, rearranged it, until they could both a little of each other in the mirror’s reflection, from the sofa.
Julian stared at Yin, while trying not to seem overtly interested. “Is that eyeliner you got on?”
Yin turned aside. Shyly, or haughtily—he didn’t even know himself. “Yes, just a little. Didn’t think you’d notice.”
He had taken one from a lady friend at school, who had a bunch of free samples from completing an online survey.
“It suits ya quite well.”
“It does. Gives more character and adds some glam, hmm?”
“Do you, uhm,” Julian said. He wasn’t breaking out in a sweat, but one of his index fingers reached up to swipe his brow. “Man...”
“Uh?”
“Have you...anything else.”
He meant anything else besides the eyeliner, Yin understood.
“And nobody’s gonna know.”
“Dude, who in the world am I gonna tell?”
Yin pondered. Yes, he could trust Julian. They were close as brothers. They’d seen each other close to naked numerous times, and they were comfortable talking about most anything.
“I’ve a secret stash.”
“Of?” Julian asked instantaneously.
“Randoms.”
“Would you, be more...detailed?” Julian asked, in a way that was as much a request, as it was a cross somewhere between a dare, and an order.
“I’ll be right back,” Yin complied.
Yin went to his room. He rifled through the black box. He kept it under some clothes and CDs in his cupboard. The stash was growing. He ordered them online, mostly, and they always came in discreet packaging. They were good, quality pieces.
He made over his face, lightly, skillfully. Foundation, smoky purple-silver eye shadow, sheen of lip gloss. Removed his Titanium stainless steel ear stud, and put in a dangling one of interlinked chain pieces instead.
Settled on what he felt he liked best, at that moment. A midnight blue spaghetti dress, and a tiara he placed onto his head. And the heels. Just two pairs so far, a precious desert gold high-heel pair he’d practiced walking in to perfection. The other was a pair of red pumps, that were a little narrow at the toes.
He went out, and said in his usual voice, “So, how do I look?”
The TV was still on but neither was paying much attention to it.
“You’ve got great gams, Yin.”
“Yours have more muscle.”
“Yeah, but your calves are longer. And more toned. And mine are...kinda...white.”
Yin sat next to Julian again.
“Would you ever go out like that?” asked Julian.
“Nah. I’d just be misunderstood.”
“Mmm.”
“People would think I’m some drag queen...you know. I’m not. That ain’t my scene. It just isn’t.”
“Mm-hmm, that’s cool,” Julian muttered, not exactly comprehending, but not disagreeing.
“Could you tell?”
“What?”
“That I’d have a stash like this? Just by looking at me,” Yin added. “Pretend you didn’t know me, and just saw me on the street.”
“Well, you’re normally walking so quickly outside, with your head down or to the side. It’s a bit hard to tell because you don’t stay still long enough.”
“Assuming I did stay still.”
Julian cocked his head to one side, then brought his chin down, studying Yin intently with his third eye.
“Maybe the eyeliner,” Julian said slowly. “You’re very, ah...pretty. I don’t mean sissy. Good-looking?” He shook his head. “God, I don’t know.”
He wanted to stroke himself while blowing Yin. He was dying to do so. He was sick of talking, wanted his hands to take over, go over Yin’s sexy, slender thighs and calves. But he waited to see what Yin would do next.
Yin’s hand went down, and Julian’s too, to their respective members. They stroked and pumped themselves till the program ended, watching each other in the mirror, both not making a sound. Julian shot a full load—Yin came in shorter spurts. Jacking off in the room together. It was the hardest they’d ever been.
Neither said a word till Julian noticed the time.
“Shit, I gotta go,” he said. It was 6.15pm. He was meeting his date at 6.30pm in town.
“I’ll see ya,” said Yin.
“Later.”
Julian tumbled out the door. Yin cooked and stayed in the dress and tiara till he went to sleep. He played his Queen and Nirvana records, singing till his lungs hurt, using the broom handle and hairbrush as his imaginary microphones. The sofa was his stage—the world, his imaginary audience.
But he sang for Julian, who was everywhere, while Yin was starring in his own rockstar fantasies. It was Julian that was his manager; it was Julian in the front row; it was Julian who was some celebrity photographer who always got the best shots of him. They trashed hotel rooms together; got banned from a major airline for “disorderly conduct”; got stoned on joints mailed in by fans to make the music that much more interesting.
So all the songs were for Jule—right down to the last note.
Originally published June 2009