This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult males, so if that's not allowed where you live then you should march in the streets. I'm releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license, which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as you give me credit and don't use it for commercial purposes of any kind. If you enjoy the story, I'd love to hear from you. Thanks for reading.
CHAPTER ONE
"Models aren't paid to think. You are paid to stand the way I tell you, and look the way I tell you, and breathe if I give you permission, got that?" This stream of invective was delivered in a choking cloud of cigarette smoke. "Now get the fuck away from me, you fucking meat puppet."
Pete had no response prepared for such an overwhelming load of abuse being heaped on him at once. With a blank, glazed look, he returned to his mark in front of the cameras, next to his fellow model.
They were standing in a cornfield. Or, really, a field that had grown corn previously, but was now a stubbly wasteland, covered with drifts of snow. In the steely blue sky above them the sun shone brightly but without warmth. It was not terribly cold, if one dressed appropriately. Pete was not dressed appropriately. He was wearing, at the moment, a tie. And a pair of white boxer briefs. And that was all. He was cold, and now even his asking an innocent question had been summarily rebuked by that reptilian photographer. This was turning out to be less fun that he'd hoped.
"Nailed ya, did he?" asked his fellow model, who was similarly attired, but did not seem in the least bothered by his state of undress.
"Hell yeah he did," Pete replied. "He called me a 'fucking meat puppet.' What does that even mean?"
"It means you don't ask questions, ever. It sucks, but it's the way these gigs go, so you just learn to shut up and pose."
"I've never done this before," Pete offered, by way of defense.
"No kidding," came the chuckling reply. "What did you ask him, anyway?"
Pete wasn't sure that he should answer this, because it might expose him to more abuse. But this guy looked sincere, and how much worse could his reaction be than the photographer's?
"I asked what we were modeling."
"Why?" He was laughing, but not cruelly, so Pete continued.
"Because I thought I could do a better job if I knew. You know, show the product off better. That kind of thing."
"Look, we're wearing exactly two items of clothing here: a tie, and underwear. That's not a lot to work with in terms of creative expression. It may be the tie, it may be the underwear--ooh, here's a thought--it may be both!" Here he bugged his eyes out and waved his hands in a faux panic. Then he dropped his hands to his sides and continued. "So what? It's not going to change how you wear 'em, right?"
"But why have us just standing here in a barren field if they want people to buy their clothes? It just doesn't make sense."
"Have you been to an X&Y?"
"No," Pete admitted.
"Have to been to an Abercrombie and Fitch?"
"Well, yeah. So?"
"Xavier and Young is trying to be the new A&F. So they're basically copying everything A&F does. A&F has a sexy catalog, so X&Y has a sexy catalog. A&F's models are naked, so X&Y's models are naked. Heh," he chuckled, "A&F has a two-letter name, X&Y has a two-letter name. Not a lot of creativity there, huh?"
"So, that explains us standing in a field--how?" Pete asked.
"Duh. We're mostly naked, and that creep over there is taking our picture. If he thinks we're sexy enough, then we get to be in every X&Y store in the country. The clothes don't matter. What they're selling is us."
Pete considered this.
"Doesn't that sort of make us, well, prostitutes or something?"
"Kind of, yeah. Cool, right? You work out, you pose, you get the money. Is this a great country or what? I mean, look at those guys over at the catering table. See them? The ones in ties and aprons? Well, they haven't taken their eyes off me since I came out of the tent wearing these tight boxers. Every time I flex or smile or whatever they perk up like they hope I'm about to strip off and start beatin' it for them."
Pete saw the hungry, rapt attention of the three cater waiters. He turned back, intending to ask why provoking waiters was a desirable pastime, when he was interrupted.
"Hey--watch this."
As Pete stood bewildered, his companion pretended to notice something terribly interesting on the ground; he turned, facing away from the catering table, and bent over slowly to take a closer look. His arched back caused his his muscular buttocks to be thrust out, and he slowly shifted his weight from one leg to the other.
"So, did they notice?" he asked in a stage whisper.
Pete turned to look at the catering table, and saw all three waiters staring slack-jawed at the white-cotton-covered cheeks. Pete wasn't sure, but they didn't seem to be blinking. Or breathing. One dropped a bottle of mineral water into a bowl of hummus. Clearly this display was having the desired effect.
"Uh, I think they noticed." He turned back and saw that he was once again face to face with his fellow model, who was grinning widely.
"Awesome, right? I could do this all day."
"Why? I mean, why does it matter to you that three waiters--" Here Pete lowered his voice to a whisper, "Who are probably gay--" He returned to normal volume and continued, "are looking at you? Isn't that kind of creepy?"
"Hell no it ain't creepy! Why have a body like this if no one's going to look at it?" He breathed deeply and sighed. "This is the best job in the world, man!"
Pete was not sure he shared his new colleague's enthusiasm. This modeling job had been his mom's idea, to help him make some money for college in the fall; she had a friend who had some cousin who knew someone at the agency.
"You do this a lot?" Pete asked.
"As often as I can. But this is The Show, right here. The stuff I did before was all local--health clubs, sporting goods, that kind of thing. But this, this is the real deal. We get in the X&Y catalog, we're set. If we can really sex it up, we might get put up in the stores. Sky's the limit then."
Pete was about to ask what it might mean to "sex it up," but he was interrupted by the shrill rantings of the photographer.
"All right, bitches," he shouted, meaning everyone of any gender in the range of his voice. "Let's get this thing done. I want those assholes at Abercrombie and Fitch to fucking kill themselves when they see this."
He approached the models, in a fog of cigarette smoke and obsequious assistants, and began to shout instructions.
"Okay, you, the blond one," he gestured at the one who was not Pete, "Stand more to the left. No, you moron, my left! It's always my left. Jesus fucking Christ where do we find this meat?" He paused to consider the shot. "Now, you, the dark one," he pointed impatiently at Pete, who was momentarily caught off guard by being referred to by his hair color, "stand next to him. That's it, facing him. Closer. Closer. Closer. Good. Closer. Closer!"
Pete and his fellow model had not been introduced, but they now stood together on the same square foot of cornfield, their bodies almost touching. Pete could feel warm breath on his face, could see goosebumps on the collarbone in front of him.
"CLOSER!"
There was really no way for them to get closer without wearing the same pair of underwear, but they tried. They were touching now, their nipples meeting, the fronts of their boxer briefs brushing against each other. Pete told himself it was the cold that made his nipples harden. He looked into the golden eyes of his counterpart, and knew he had to say something.
"I don't think we can get any closer," he whispered.
"Yeah, we can. Follow my lead."
At this, the golden eyes slowly closed, as the face drew closer to Pete. Before he knew what was happening, he could feel lips a whisper away from his own. Not a kiss, not yet, but the hint of contact. A warmth spread through his mouth, his face, his body, and in the background, somewhere, he could hear the click-click-click of the shutter racing impossibly fast to capture this moment. Then, he suddenly realized, he was being kissed. His fear of the photographer's anger kept him rooted in place as the kiss deepened and the shutter reached some sort of climax of clicking. Suddenly, the noise stopped.
"And that is how it's done, bitches! Let's get the fuck out of here," shouted the photographer, who swept away with his attendants in tow.
It was only when the kiss ended that Pete realized he had closed his eyes as well. Suddenly, he didn't feel well, and his knees gave way. He pitched forward helplessly, into the catching arms of "the blond one," who kept him from crashing to the ground.
"Can we get some water over here?" shouted Pete's rescuer. He was delighted to see that the three cater waiters fought over who should be the water bearer; in the end he had his choice of three water bottles handed to him by three waiters sporting three very visible hard-ons. Just another reason to love this job. He chose a water bottle at random, and brought it up to Pete's mouth.
"Here," he said to Pete, as he held the bottle of water to his lips. This act, of pouring water into Pete's open and grateful mouth, caused the waiter whose bottle was being used to suddenly ejaculate in his pants. He turned and bolted for the catering van without looking back.