Picture Perfect

After one night with Aleksi, it was bizarre trying to adjust to regular life. I felt as if I'd been on a long, luxurious vacation, and going back to the everyday grind was almost soul-crushingly disappointing. I was working with a team repairing and maintaining gas lines beneath an old apartment building. It was gloomy, filthy work, and my mind was far away. It was playing my night with Aleksi on repeat.

Once a few days had passed, and the memories weren't quite as fresh, I wondered what the hell had possessed me to go upstairs and fuck my neighbour. My male neighbour. I had never had same-sex temptations in my life, and then, out of the blue, Aleksi had happened. It must have been one of those rebound things. I was messed up in the head from my breakup with Angela, and I'd done something completely out of character. When I thought back on the experience, it seemed only as real as a dream. I tried to lie to myself, say that it had never actually happened. But I knew somewhere there were photos of me in Aleksi's bed, in the throes of ecstasy. And there were photos of us together--we'd taken dozens, intimately posed. How had that seemed like a good idea at the time? I could ask him to delete them. He would understand.

It was on Friday after work that I next crossed paths with Aleksi. He stepped out the front door as I was getting my mail. It was a warm, early summer evening and he wore a loose-fitting, semi-transparent tank top over snug leggings and leather sandals. His long, startlingly fair hair was tumbling freely down his back as usual, and he carried a canvas bag slung over one shoulder.

Purse,

my brain insisted.

He carries a purse.

But it wasn't a particularly feminine bag--probably the kind that's given a manly name like 'tactical tote' or 'utility lugger' so that men won't feel embarrassed to carry it. Not that Aleksi would be embarrassed to carry anything. He grinned at me, flashing a mouthful of gleaming white teeth.

"Jason," he said in a purring, affectionate tone that made my stomach twist a little. My name sounded exotic in his thick Scandinavian accent. "I have missed you. You've been a busy boy, yes?"

I nodded stiffly. "Yeah... work and stuff." My eyes didn't want to move from him. Brilliant orange beams from the setting sun filtered between the houses across the street and swathed him in light. His white-blond hair practically glowed. Good lord... the universe was conspiring against my will.

He lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the aggressive sunset and then turned to examine me with a coy smirk. "Look at you. All rugged and dirty."

I looked down at myself. Yes, I was in dirty work clothes, just as I would be at the end of any other work day. I hadn't shaved in a couple of days out of sheer laziness and probably looked like a hobo. Aleksi looked at me as another man might look at a woman in lingerie. His intense blue stare was turning me on--actually turning me on.

For fuck's sake.

I started breathing again suddenly when I realized I had stopped nearly half a minute ago, and tore my eyes away from him at last, using my mail as an excuse.

"Hunh... bills," I muttered. How would I broach the subject of asking him to delete all the erotic photos? And did I even want that anymore? He was standing near my shoulder, and I could feel the warm tickle of his eyes still on me. If I ever went up to his apartment again, I was almost certain the evening would end in more photos instead of less, as well as more fucking, no doubt. Damned Aleksi and his eyes and his hair and his sexy, sensual mouth.

"Must be difficult for you," he remarked, his features soft with sympathy. "Your girl gone, and no one to share the financial burden."

I shrugged and nodded. "Gotta start budgeting really strictly. Rent's a bitch, but I really like this neighbourhood--wouldn't want to have to move."

"I would not want that either," he sighed, "now that I finally know what a lovely neighbour I have."

I smiled. Damn--I couldn't help it. I grinned like a moron. Quickly I gained control of my expression, biting the inside of my cheek almost hard enough to draw blood. "Ehh... you haven't... told anyone what a 'lovely neighbour' I am... right?"

He chuckled, gave his head a shake, and hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder. "You made yourself quite clear about that," he said in a low, conspiratorial tone. "Even if you had not... I know a straight boy when I see one. Straight boys never like people to know about their gay sex."

I nearly choked on my own breath and glanced around, making extra sure no one was eavesdropping. Aleksi laughed again. I looked up at him; his eyes were dancing with amusement. Was he teasing me? I frowned and took a deep breath. "The thing is...." I began.

What? What is the thing?

I tried to bring to mind my earlier mental justifications. I continued quickly: "I was on the rebound! People do... crazy things." I cringed again, realizing what an asshole I was coming off as, suggesting that I would have to be a crazy person to be into him.

"Of course," he replied smoothly, seeming to actually understand. He smiled gently and tucked his hair behind his ears. "You don't need to defend yourself, Jason. Be who you want to be. We're all right, you and me--yes?"

I replied with a hesitant nod that deepened as I became more confident in his response. He was serious. He was... unflappable. I released a sigh of relief. After the desperate, infatuated way I'd mooned all over him in his apartment, I hadn't expected he would be so accepting of my backpedaling. "And... the photos," I continued, feeling the scorch of embarrassment rise in my cheeks. "If I asked you to delete them...?"

He gave a playful pout, but smiled immediately after. "Of course. It's always been your prerogative. They make me happy, but not at your expense. I will have a last look at our masterpieces and delete."

My mouth twisted. I fidgeted with my mail, shuffling it like a deck of cards. "Well... maybe... I guess you don't have to," I decided. "Yeah--if you really want them, keep them. Your eyes only, though."

His smile widened, lighting up his whole face--he looked as gleeful as a kid opening Christmas presents. "Thank you, Jason. What a nice gift you've given me."

It made me far happier than it should have to make him smile like that. "Hm. So... headed out somewhere?"

"Downtown."

I glanced over him. His tank top was charmingly oversized, and one of the straps was a hair's breadth from slipping off his thin shoulder. As self-assured as he was, there was something incredibly fragile about him. "Downtown--by yourself?"

That gleam of amusement returned. "Sadly, yes--no dates, or even hookups."

"That's not what I meant," I sighed.

"Oh, were you worried about me?" he crooned, looking melodramatically flattered. "I know I'm a bit of a princess, but I am all grown up. I've just to pick up a new lens for one of my cameras. You could tag along if you wanted...?" He shifted his hips and tilted his head, watching me curiously. His change of position caused that strap to finally slide off his shoulder.

"Ehh... I'm, uh... all gross from work," I said once I'd recovered from my fascination at his bared shoulder. "I don't want to cramp your style." I scratched my head, trying not to make eye contact. I worried that if he looked at me too closely, he'd be able to tell how much I suddenly wanted to go with him. Anywhere with him.

"Please, you're adorable!" he assured me as he fixed the strap of his top. "Come on--come with me, just as you are. I could use the company. We could grab something to eat." He paused and winked. "Just as neighbours, yes? I won't act boyfriend-y. I promise."

I smiled despite myself, appreciating not only that he understood I wouldn't want anyone to think we were 'together', but also that it didn't offend him in the slightest. "Yunno what--I think I will come with. Haven't got much in the fridge anyway." I shoved my mail back into its box and locked it--I could deal with that bullshit later. I turned my back to the door and faced the street, shielding my eyes from that blinding sunset. "You got a car...?"

"Oh, no--I take the bus."

"Well, I can drive if you like. I'm parked right here." I pointed at my muck-spattered, slightly rusted pickup truck. "Ugly as hell, but it's got A/C. You look like you'll combust if you spend too much time outdoors on a day like this."

Aleksi laughed delightedly and padded down the front stairs to have a closer look at my vehicle. "It's got character, Jason--just like you!"

I unlocked the door for him, shoved my toolbox aside so he would have room to sit, and went around to slide in behind the wheel. I started the engine and turned the environmental control to the coldest setting as he settled in. I spared him a glance and lingered over his prim, pale form. He looked starkly out of place sitting in the beat-up, liberally duct-taped leather seat of my truck, with his tender feet finding refuge among the assorted tools and fast food containers that littered the passenger footwell. He looked up from buckling his seatbelt and noticed me staring.

"What...?" he wondered, grinning.

"Nothing," I muttered. Buckling in, I shifted gears and steered carefully into traffic. I had to remind myself to keep my attention on the road. It was so easy to look at the brilliant figure sitting next to me instead. He had begun to explore my toolbox, which didn't concern me beyond the thought of his delicate fingers getting dirty or scratched. It was a perplexing reaction--I remembered Angela poking through my tools on occasion, and I had never worried about her hands.

He popped open my glove box and snooped around. Owner's manual, registration, random napkins, oil change receipts, more trash, half a bag of beef jerky I'd forgotten about, a broken pair of sunglasses. And one well-loved bottle of hand lotion. He picked it up and grinned, holding it up for me to see while we were stopped at a red light.

"Oh, do you moisturize regularly?" he giggled.

"Semi-regularly," I replied with a smirk as I started driving again. I was surprised at first that I wasn't embarrassed, but of course it would have been a little incongruous to be uptight about a man I'd recently ass-fucked suspecting something about my masturbation habits. So I liked to occasionally get my rocks off during lunch breaks--this could hardly be a big deal to a man who kept hundreds of erotic photographs chronicling his sexual partners.

"It's important to have a good personal care routine," he added. I could hear the grin in his voice. Then I heard a quiet

snap

as he flipped the lid open. I glanced at him several times quickly as he squeezed out some of the lotion into his palm.

"Uhhm...?" I mumbled, tensing.

"Oh, don't panic, sweetheart," Aleksi giggled, sliding his hands together slowly as he distributed the lotion all over them. "I just like to keep my skin baby-soft."

I let a hand slip down from the steering wheel to my jeans, trying furtively to adjust them as there was suddenly a bit less room in the crotch area. I tried to breathe deep and calm my confused libido. "So, where we headed?"

"You know where the old Europa is?" He slicked the lotion over his fingers one by one.

"Yeah, I think so." My eyes continued to flick unbidden to his movements as he slid and twisted each finger into the lotion-slicked opposite fist.

"There's a fabulous little camera store in the same block. That's where I was hoping to go. Is okay?"

"No problem!"

In an effort to curb my errant arousal, I started up a little small talk. I was curious about his accent, so I asked. He described his accent as "muddled"--he had lived in Iceland until the age of ten, and grew up speaking almost exclusively Icelandic at home, although he learned Danish and English in school. Then his family relocated to Denmark, and Aleksi stayed there for four or five years before problems at home had him sent to France to stay with extended family he barely knew. He spent a couple of years there falling in love with the arts and learning to speak French. Once he'd reached the age of majority, he moved here, and slowly became accustomed to speaking English fluently.

I also learned that he worked a few days a week as a

maître d'

at a high-end restaurant. He earned a little money here and there with his art, and was hoping to transition toward painting as more of a career, but he was aware that it might remain a dream. The rest of his income came from freelance photography, which had started simply as production of stock photographs for his own reference, but his work with various models resulted in some unexpected business that expanded through word of mouth, particularly within the LGBT community. It turned out there were many individuals and couples who wanted to be photographed in a certain style, and wanted to know they and their photos would be treated with respect and dignity--Aleksi put them at ease, produced a high-quality product, and gradually made a name for himself.

After I had found a parking garage downtown, I let Aleksi lead the way to the camera store, purposefully walking a bit behind him as he strode gracefully down the sidewalk. I caught myself watching the sway of his hips, the round orbs of his perfect ass. His oversized tank top covered it almost completely, but the fabric of the top was a bit see-through, hinting at a tempting silhouette, and while he walked, it occasionally billowed enough to reveal the bottom curve of a cheek or two.

I scolded myself inwardly when my jeans got uncomfortable again, and forced my eyes upward. I watched his shoulders instead. There was nothing sexual about shoulders, about long pale arms and slender wrists. God, his skin was so fair.

Alabaster.

The word popped up unbidden. I didn't even know what the hell alabaster was, but that was what his skin resembled. Where had I even gotten that? It was one of those irritating metaphors that had a tendency to file themselves away in one's mind without any idea of their origin. It sounded like something terrible authors wrote in trashy Harlequins--corseted maidens with flowing hair and impossibly perfect tits who fell in lust with broad-chested scoundrels always had alabaster skin. I chuckled silently, imagining Aleksi as a woman--he probably would have impossibly perfect tits. And I supposed I could play the part of a scoundrel.

Well, looking at his shoulders clearly wasn't getting my mind out of the gutter. I increased my pace to walk beside him, but not too close. He smiled across at me. I smiled back, guardedly, hoping I wasn't flirting.

Aleksi wasn't long in the camera store and left in boisterous spirits, chattering away about his new lens and what it was going to do for his photos. I didn't know a thing about photography so I didn't follow most of his discourse, but he was delightfully charming in his excitement.

We exchanged a few ideas about where to get dinner, but in the end we decided to grab whatever would be quick as we were both starving and not feeling especially picky. There were a few popular food trucks in the neighbourhood--we stopped at one called Tacovasion that seemed to have an enthusiastic following. We devoured mouth-watering tacos liberally stuffed with shredded beef and spicy pork, and then Aleksi suggested we wander down to the waterfront. There was a boardwalk marketplace where local vendors and artisans had booths and tables set up. I wasn't much into casual shopping, but was feeling pretty mellow and Aleksi's enthusiasm was amusing me.

I kept a few paces apart from him as he swooned over pretty things, getting especially carried away at a booth displaying what appeared to me to be just some old clothes--he described the garments as "vintage" and "upcycled". Seeing that he would probably be a while, I wandered over to idly browse at a stall across the way selling wallets, belts and other leather goods.

After a few minutes, I heard someone calling Aleksi's name, and turned curiously to see who had recognized him. I spotted a young Latino guy in white shorts and a pink polo shirt hurrying up to Aleksi, who received him with a warm smile and an enthusiastic hug. I looked over the guy critically, mentally naming him Pink Shirt. He was younger, maybe twenty at most. He had a gold hoop through one ear, and his hair was carefully slicked into a faux-hawk. He spoke animatedly with Aleksi in a lispy voice, waving his arms around in what seemed like deliberately showy, flamboyant gestures. I rolled my eyes and sighed, trying to turn my attention back to the selection of belts on the table in front of me. If some dudes like dudes, fine, but why did some of them have to be so...

gay?

My attention was soon distracted by the arrival of a trio of rowdy young guys with drinks in their hands. They were around the same age as Pink Shirt, college maybe, laughing and cussing as they wandered along the boardwalk. It was impossible not to catch snatches of their conversation since they were making no attempt to be discreet as they noticed Aleksi and his friend talking, and started making some rude remarks about them, including some rather graphic slurs. The three of them converged on the table I was browsing at, and started looking at a selection of belt buckles as they continued to go on rather obnoxiously. I tried to ignore them, but they were really starting to get under my skin, in large part because their vulgarities seemed to shine a spotlight straight onto my own discomfort around gay guys. I'd never used language like these losers were using, but was I really any better than them? Was name-calling so much worse than my tendency to walk well apart from Aleksi on the street, or the way I'd rolled my eyes at his flaming friend? I wanted to say something--tell them to shut their goddamn mouths, at least. But I just wasn't that guy. Instead I kept my own mouth shut and let them move on.

Then they started addressing Aleksi and Pink Shirt directly. My stomach clenched up. Suddenly those tacos I'd enjoyed so much weren't sitting right.

"Hey--why don't you queer-ass cocksuckers get a room?" one of them called, and made an exaggerated vomiting noise.

"Yeah, let me know what room it is so I can set it on fire," a second guy laughed.

You've got to be kidding me,

I thought.

There's no excuse for that.

I turned to look at Aleksi and his friend for their reactions. Aleksi seemed not to react much. He looked down casually at his fingernails. Pink Shirt, on the other hand, turned toward them directly and smiled, sticking up both middle fingers in their direction.

"Suck my dick, douchebags," Pink Shirt called out cheerfully. "Or are you afraid you'll enjoy it too much?"

There was a bit more swearing back and forth, but eventually the trio lost interest and moved on. I breathed an inner sigh of relief. Pink Shirt kept talking with Aleksi for another minute, and then said he had to leave. They hugged again, and Pink Shirt sashayed off. He passed by the guys on his way; I heard them make one more comment, to which Pink Shirt responded playfully:

"Please--you can't handle my sweet ass!"

His voice carried, and I found myself smiling. With my hands stuffed in my pockets, I wandered over to the clothing booth where Aleksi was still browsing. He seemed to have fallen in love with a multi-coloured scarf. He wrapped it around and around his slender fingers, indulging in the feel of the silky fabric. He noticed me nearby and smiled.

"Time to go?"

I nodded. I'd had about enough, at least. He paid for the scarf, and we started walking. I still kept a few feet apart from him, though now I was feeling a bit conflicted. Why should I be embarrassed to walk with him, especially now?

At least try to show some solidarity,

I told myself.

Be a man.

After a few minutes I glanced over, and almost panicked when I couldn't see him. I hadn't noticed that he'd lagged a few paces behind me, focused on carefully tucking his new scarf into the bag that held his camera lens. That sick feeling of indigestion rose again when I noticed the three douchebags wandering over, closing in on him.

Fuck, no... don't you dare.