Picture Perfect

We broke up for a lot of reasons, Angela and I, as people always do. It was the laundry that triggered it. We must have squabbled over the laundry at least a dozen times before, but for whatever reason, this time the proverbial camel collapsed under the pressure. I'd been putting through load after load, trying to get through it all before she got home from work, hoping she'd appreciate coming home to a tidier living space. I was even starting dinner as she walked into the basement suite we shared. She huffed out an exhausted sigh as she dumped her purse and keys on the table and trudged to the bedroom. I heard the squeak of the bedsprings as she flopped down.

You're welcome for making dinner

, I thought, but instead called, "Rough day, babe?"

She didn't answer. Five minutes later she stomped into the kitchen with a bra dangling from her outstretched hand.

"Again, Jason--you did it

again!

" she growled, glaring at me with unmitigated fury.

"Aw, shit--I'm sorry, babe. I know those aren't supposed to go into the machine." I shrugged helplessly. "I swear I looked. It must have been tangled into a shirt or something."

"Right. It's never your fault, is it?"

I furrowed my brow at her. "Can you relax a little? It's just a bra. Honest mistake. Here--I can be your bra." I grinned playfully, cupping my hands near her breasts as I tried to defuse the situation with humour.

"Don't you dare!" she snapped, pulling away as if I were some random pervert, and not her boyfriend, who had touched her breasts on a regular basis for nearly two years. "I'm so sick of this... I'm so sick of all of it!" She flopped down at the table and burst into tears.

It all came out then--every petty frustration, every held grudge. How I never cleaned up after cooking, how I tracked dirt everywhere, how I forgot sometimes to pay our phone bills by the due date, and so on. Things came out that caught me completely by surprise. She was frustrated that I could never have a deep conversation with her, how I was rude and tactless and hurt her feelings constantly, and her friends all apparently shared this opinion and thought she was an idiot for staying with me. I knew I was a bit on the brusque side, but I'd always figured, why say something in twenty words what you can say in two? If I'd hurt her feelings she hadn't exactly expressed this to me with any kind of clarity. I guessed it was one of those situations where I was supposed to just know when her feelings were hurt. Or, possibly, she hadn't really been hurt but was convinced by her friends, who had hated me from Day One, that she should be.

I did my own share of venting since the gloves were off at this point. I told her, speaking of rudeness, maybe she could have thanked me once in a while for doing the laundry or making dinner instead of finding fault all the time. I claimed to do a lot more of the housework than she did, though this was a point of fervent disagreement between us. I criticized her for gossiping about me to her friends instead of confronting me about her complaints directly.

Things got a little less mature from there, I'll admit. I had a few things under my skin that I hadn't thought worth bringing up until this very moment; now those things seemed enormous. I told her how annoying it was when she told people her name was Angel, and how it was tenfold annoying when she'd started to buy little teeny-bopper t-shirts and cutesy jewelry that said "Angel" on them in glitter. I told her it wasn't cute--I told her her name was Angela, and going around with sparkly crap that said "Angel" on it made her look like a stripper, and it certainly didn't help that she wore way too much makeup, her clothes were too small, and why the hell did she buy so many high heels she could barely walk in? I think I used the term "disgustingly pretentious" at one point, and I didn't even know how true it was until I'd let it cross my lips. I'd despised her pretensions for so long, and had swallowed it all back to avoid a fight.

She was weeping plenty by this point, wailing about how horrible I was for staying with her if I hated her so much, and maybe I just kept her around for sex. I grimaced at the ghastly black trails of mascara running down her face and pointed out that we hadn't done it in nearly a month because she was so goddamn frigid, or maybe because she was getting it somewhere else. This did not go over well, but I still took the opportunity to call her out on her regular and shameless flirting with our upstairs neighbour, this pretty-boy bohemian type whose name we didn't even know but called "Artsy McLonghair". At this she stormed out of the room, effectively ending our final battle.

Angela found a friend to stay with and moved out very quickly. I decided to enjoy the sudden peace and freedom I'd been granted rather than getting depressed over the split. The only thing that really troubled me was how untroubled I was. I could hardly think of a thing I even liked about Angela now--it's funny how one's perspective changes after a breakup. Funny and disturbing. How many people, I wondered, were stuck in soul-killing relationships just because of routine?

I actually did start to miss her a little, in a moment of weakness when I was next doing a load of laundry. I started digging through my clothes as I filled the machine, making sure there were no delicates to separate, then suddenly remembered Angela was gone and delicates were a thing of the past. The thought brought both relief and a pang of loss. We'd been together for a long time--it was inevitable I'd feel like something was missing.

I heard a key in the lock, and one of my neighbours stepped in. There were four suites in the building--a sprawling old converted heritage house--and we all shared the laundry room that happened to adjoin my suite (the lone perk of living in the basement). There was a schedule, and today was my day for sure. I'd double-checked.

"Oh... sorry!" he said. It was Artsy McLonghair himself, holding a white shirt in his hand with a blotchy pinkish stain on it. "I know it isn't my turn, but I've had a paint emergency." He smirked. "I was hoping I'd get lucky."

I sighed. I didn't interact with the guy much, but he irritated me almost as much as Angela, with his long, girly hair and his thick Scandinavian accent. He was just plain odd, and seemed to have an endless flow of equally odd visitors of varying ages and genders. I knew he was an artist, as I'd see him sometimes hauling large canvases up the stairs, and he almost always had paint splatters on his clothes, skin, and even his otherwise maddeningly perfect hair.

"Why'd you paint in it if you didn't want paint on it?" I asked, my voice betraying some of the irritation I felt.

He seemed completely unfazed, and in fact, smiled wider, revealing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth. Maddeningly perfect. "Call it a blond moment?" he chuckled, flicking back a stray blond lock from his forehead. He was one of the blondest human beings I'd ever seen. His hair, eyebrows, and lashes were almost white. "Sometimes inspiration strikes, and I stop for nothing. Forgot what I was wearing. I guess I could soak it some more for now, and come back in a couple of hours...?"

I shrugged and glanced at the shirt in his hand. It looked like he'd already worked at the stain as thoroughly as possible, and it wasn't likely to bleed paint into the rest of my clothes. "Nah, just throw it in with mine if you like," I offered. "I just started a load."

He glanced in as I lifted the lid of the machine, giving an appraising glance over the mass of clothes that were just starting to get sudsy. "You don't separate your colours," he stated.

"Goddamn it, you too?" I laughed humourlessly. "Sorry--touchy subject. Seriously though, I always wash everything together, and my whites still come out white. No lectures, please."

"All right," he said lightly, dropping his shirt in and shutting the lid. He gave me a lingering, thoughtful look. "Have some drama recently, I guess? I saw your... female companion... moving some boxes the other day."

"Yep--that's over," I said bluntly. "Good riddance."

He seemed slightly amused by my assessment of the situation, though his pale blue eyes still showed sympathy. "It's always a bit tragic when relationships die, yes? But I think you can do better. She seemed very... artificial, if you understand my meaning."

"Hunh... yeah, I know what you mean. You pretty much nailed it. Funny--to hear her tell it, she's convinced that she could do a lot better. Well, good luck, 'Angel'." I paused and rolled my eyes. "Sorry... I shouldn't be venting at you. We don't even know each other."

"Oh, I don't mind. Perhaps we know each other a little now, yes? It's Jason, is it not?" He chuckled at my mildly suspicious glare. "I got your mail in my box once. I'm Aleksi."

I shook the hand he offered. His hand was large but thin, and weirdly soft--it gave me the creeps. He smirked, almost as if he'd read my mind, and hung onto my hand a bit too long.

"That's a nice manly handshake you have there," he remarked playfully before finally letting go. "You're a tradesman of some type?"

"Gasfitter," I said, backing toward the door of my suite. "Well, uh..."

He nodded. "Thanks for letting me in on your laundry day. I'll come back for that later. Nice meeting you properly, at last, Jason."

"Sure--you too," I mumbled before retreating fully to the safety of my own home.

I lounged in bed with my laptop while I waited for the laundry, and random surfing turned quickly to porn. Angela had always hated porn and couldn't stand the thought of it in our home, and so I'd mainly abstained out of respect. Now it was my home, my laptop, my Internet, and my cock. I found a promising video of two heavy-breasted girls instructing a third in their slutty, Sapphic arts, and started off stroking myself slowly through my pants. A nice, leisurely buildup would be awesome. I imagined spending a good hour or two edging, building up to a really intense release.

But after nearly twenty minutes, nothing much was happening. I'd gotten a bit hard here and there, but it had gradually waned the moment I tried to encourage it. I swore furiously at my cock, at Angela, at the Internet, and gave up, slamming my laptop shut and just turning on the TV instead.

I'd managed to forget about Aleksi's shirt by the time my laundry was finished. I moved my basket inside and then found the shirt halfway through sorting. I went to put it back in the laundry room for him to pick up later, and then changed my mind, figuring I might as well be neighbourly and bring the guy his shirt. His place was two floors up, and I felt like stretching my legs.

Despite being in my own building, I felt as if I were crossing into foreign territory as I approached the landing on the third floor and knocked. After a moment I heard a distant reply from within.

"It's open!"

Hesitantly I turned the knob and pushed the door open. Immediately that feeling of being in foreign territory ramped up to an almost dizzying level of disorientation. The top floor suite was practically the antithesis of the basement. I lived in a dark cave of cold concrete furnished with ancient, temperamental appliances and pipes running back and forth across the ceiling that sweated and dripped on me in the summer. The penthouse was high-ceilinged, airy, warm and inviting with large windows, hardwood floors, and modern appliances. The main area was an open concept kitchen-dining-living area, and above was a large loft. It was so much bigger than I would have ever expected--almost impossibly big. I knew I would have to examine the building closely next time I was outside to make sense of this.

"Who's there?" Aleksi called from the loft above. His voice echoed off of the vaulted ceiling.

I opened my mouth to answer, and then noticed the art lining the walls. It was a mixed lot of oil paintings, watercolours, sketches, and photographs. Some were a bit abstract, sort of impressionist or post-impressionist maybe (I'd never been an artsy guy), but mainly they were nude figures.

"Allo?" Aleksi called.

"Sorry--it's Jason!" I replied finally. "Your shirt...?"

"Did you come all the way up here to bring it to me? You doll, you didn't need to do that! Come on up."

My eyes raked over a few of the naked photos as I stepped cautiously toward the stairs. I tried not to look at the male figures, focusing on the tits instead. But they clearly weren't meant to be viewed erotically--they represented a wide range of ages and body types, and none were in suggestive postures.

I ascended the stairs to the loft with a bizarre sense of unreality. Upstairs was what turned out to be Aleksi's bedroom and studio. It was a chaotic mess of arty crap, with an enormous bed in one corner, the sheets and blankets twisted and bunched and lying mostly across the floor. I had expected a man who fussed over separating laundry to be a bit tidier. My eyes went to the walls, where there was more art, mainly photos. Here the figures in the pictures were almost exclusively male, and many were paired in distinctively erotic poses, in stark contrast to the more tasteful ones below.

"Ah hell..." I muttered, briefly feeling like I had to flee from this place. My eyes couldn't help noticing that Aleksi was in many of the photos, completely and unapologetically naked, though all of the photos were carefully posed so as to cover the genitalia. In a few he was passionately kissing various men. Well, of course he was gay--I didn't know why it hadn't been obvious to me from the start. I appeased some of my discomfort by silently mocking Angela for flirting with him.

"You can just toss it on the bed."

I glanced over at him finally. He was standing shirtless, daubing flesh-coloured paint onto a canvas. He seemed to be fiercely concentrating. I put the shirt on his bed as requested, and stood awkwardly in this extremely homoerotic space. I didn't know what to do with myself, but the instinct to flee had faded. I looked at some of the photos again, actually finding them rather aesthetically pleasing. It was a surprising feeling. I'd never been homophobic, exactly, but I always considered myself extremely straight.

My eyes were drawn to one painting, not hung on the wall but leaning against a pile of other canvases on the floor. It was a stunning portrait--blue-eyed, full-lipped, incredibly sensual. I gawked at the face for a while and almost asked who this gorgeous woman was, but realized suddenly that the face was notably androgynous. It took me an embarrassingly long time to realize it was a self-portrait. I looked at Aleksi again; his back was to me. His spine and ribs were well defined under his pale skin.

"What do you think?" he asked in a low, almost purring voice. I had no idea what he was referring to. Was he asking how the shirt turned out? What I thought of his art, or his home? What I thought of him? I felt a tickle crawl up my spine and couldn't decide if it was pleasant or not.

"I think you need to eat a few burgers and get out in the sun more often," I blurted out, needing to criticize in order to keep myself grounded in reality.

He finally removed his eyes from his painting and turned to face me, his forehead ever so slightly creased with concern. His thin, boyish, starkly pale chest didn't have a single hair on it. I realized that, despite my assessment of him and his apparent displeasure with it, he was completely unselfconscious. He stood tall and proud, not hiding a thing, tacitly inviting me to look.

"I actually like my body," he said simply, finally smiling. I was noticing his mouth now that I'd stared at that self-portrait. Soft, full lips. "You should watch your words, though. Thin people don't generally like being told they should eat, just like fat people don't like being told they shouldn't. Body types rarely have much to do with burgers."

Well, I'd been schooled. Rubbing the back of my neck absently, I mumbled, "I guess I didn't really think about it."

"I actually eat very heavily--plenty of fat, and meat as well," he continued, still smiling tranquilly, his hand delicately gripping a paintbrush. "I'm just naturally bony. And it's perfectly okay, even if conventional Western aesthetics want men to be bulging with muscle and machismo. Also, I'm European--the sun and I don't get along." His smile widened before he turned back to his painting and continued making careful strokes.

"Hunh," I grunted, silently considering his words for a minute or two. I was starting to wonder what I was still doing here. "Well..." I began, intending to excuse myself.

"Hold on--don't run away yet," he said quickly, making a few final strokes and rinsing his brush. I watched him clean up his supplies, moving back and forth across his studio space with grace and ease. His movements were perfectly fluid, and perhaps it was partially because of all the nude photos on the walls, but he had every appearance of being more comfortable in his own skin than anyone I had ever seen. It was hard not to watch him--he was catlike, even effeminate, and it actually didn't bother me. I usually felt a mild aversion, or at least annoyance toward effeminate men, but his self-assuredness was magnetic.

He touched my shoulder as he walked by me to have a look at his shirt. He held it up to the light and examined it thoroughly. "Looks like it all came out--fabulous!" he concluded. He tossed the shirt back onto the bed and approached me, gesturing to the stairs with a delicate, long-fingered hand. "Join me in the kitchen, yes? I at least owe you a drink for your trouble."

"Oh--you really don't owe me anything," I protested, but I headed down to the kitchen area with him close behind me.

"A drink between neighbours, then?" he suggested, letting out a boyish giggle and tossing his long, blond hair back as he opened his fridge.

"Not gonna say no to that," I replied with a shrug. I had to concentrate now on not staring at him.

This is a dude,

I reminded myself.

He's a dude. And even if you were bi-curious, what's attractive about a skinny, pale boy chest?

But I knew exactly what was attractive about it--the fact that he loved his body, and owned it.

"A beer?" he suggested.

"Sounds good."

He pulled out two bottles and nudged the refrigerator door shut with his hip before grabbing a bottle opener from a drawer and popping open both beers. I took the bottle he offered and glanced at the label. It was one of these highbrow, ultra-pure microbrews, probably expensive. I cringed inwardly knowing that expensive beer was probably wasted on me, but when I took a sip it was immediately an otherworldly experience, just as it had been walking into his suite.

"Oh god--oh my god," I exhaled, looking at the bottle again.

"Good, hm?" His eyes seemed to gleam with electric intensity as he watched me enjoy the beer.

"Incredible." I sipped again, savouring every moment of it. It was a deep red ale, full-bodied, creamy with just the right amount of sweetness and a distinct flavour of roasted hops. For the first time in my life I felt like I was tasting beer for what it was intended to be.

We sat at his kitchen table. I glanced across at him as I drank. He kept his eyes on me as he sipped from the bottle. His mouth was so goddamn pretty, full and moist, and the way it wrapped around the mouth of the bottle was actually turning me on a little. Was I really that horny?

It was an illusion, I told myself. Like an optical illusion. His long hair, delicate features, sensual lips, and natural grace were fooling me into seeing him as I might see a beautiful woman. His androgyny was seriously messing with my brain. I could appreciate him on the level that I appreciated his portrait, I decided. I could accept that he was beautiful--I could find him nice to look at, and it would be okay, because that's all it was. Maybe with Angela out of my life I was finally letting myself mature a little. I could appreciate both a very fine beer and a very beautiful man on entirely new and sophisticated levels. Sure--that was okay. At least as long as no one knew.