A bit of shuffling ensued. Frank fetched juice refills for both of them and settled in the armchair, sketchpad on his lap and pencil in hand. Carver, meanwhile, had found the record player and started up Ella Sings Gershwin. “‘Someone to Watch Over Me,’” he said with a chuckle. “That’s appropriate.” He sat on the sofa just long enough to remove his shoes and socks and then stood a few feet away from Frank. “Will Carver and Reed be shocked?”
“They’re open-minded amphibians.”
Carver took his time unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. He allowed the chinos to fall and pool around his ankles before stepping gracefully out of them. For several moments after that, he struck poses in his tighty-whities, and although his posture was generally relaxed, his eyes were bright and his gaze never left Frank’s face.
“You draw so fast.”
Frank hadn’t realized he was drawing at all, but when he focused on the paper he saw several versions of Carver. They were abstract, nothing more than a few graphite lines, and yet they were unmistakably a man. And, Frank thought, unmistakably Carver. Because who else stood with a head angled just like that, hands moving constantly, hips very slightly cocked?
“An animator has to be fast,” Frank pointed out.
“A lot of art to produce in not much time. Sure.” Carver glanced at his stomach. “Maybe I should have dieted before meeting you.”
“No.”
Just a single word, but it seemed to soften something in Carver’s expression. He swiftly removed his briefs.
Nude, Carver took up an inordinate amount of space, as if someone had plopped Michelangelo’s David—all seventeen feet of him—into Frank’s living room. And Carver displayed no embarrassment or nervousness, standing with legs a little spread and one hand on a hip. He was magnificent, his cock proportionate to his big body, his skin golden, his expression proud. Maybe he wasn’t Renaissance but Classical instead, a hero sculpted by a Roman master artist.
But, no. He was a living, breathing, twentieth-century man. And he was so close that Frank could nearly touch him.
“Since your mom isn’t Jewish, do you celebrate Christmas with your family?” Frank heard himself asking. Just to be saying something.
“We’re steadfastly secular. Besides, my parents had six sons, and all the others are married, so there are wives’ families to consider. We do Thanksgiving instead. Works for me, since there are so many parties and things to attend here. And, uh, as a family, we’re not especially close.”
“Six sons is a lot.”
Carver chuckled. “Amen. I’m number five. Which means I had to do a lot to get anyone’s attention. And here I am today.”
“You have my attention,” Frank admitted, as if there had been any question.
“And vice versa.” Grinning, Carver spun so that Frank had a full view of his backside. Frank had been right—that ass was something else. Carver, looking back over his shoulder, winked. “How about you? Brothers? Sisters?”
“Only child.”
“What are your parents like?”
Frank managed not to wince. “Drunks. My father drank himself to death when I was nine. My mother followed a year later. My grandmother raised me. Honestly, she drank too, but I think she was too damned tough for it to kill her. She wasn’t a… warm woman.” Frank never spoke about this to anyone, but it was easy to spill secrets to a beautiful man with no clothing on. After all, if Carver could bare his body, Frank could bare his soul. Some of it, anyway.
“I’m sorry. I’m glad you have your friend Paul. Are you doing Christmas with him?”
“They invited me. Palm Springs. But I have so much work to do, and….” He shrugged. “They probably just want real family there.”
“Then why did they invite you?”
Frank didn’t have an answer for that.
The record ended; Carver turned it over and sang along with “I’ve Got a Crush on You.” Not surprisingly, he had a good voice. Frank had read that he’d performed musicals on stage before becoming a movie star.
The drawings were turning out well, but Frank wasn’t satisfied. He wanted to be touching Carver, not wielding a pencil. He wanted to know what Carver felt like, tasted like.
When Carver turned to face him, he wasn’t smiling, and there was something searching in his gaze. “What do you see when you look at me?”
Frank could have said something along the lines of a handsome man in his thirties, or a famous actor, and he would have been telling the truth. But Carver looked suddenly so vulnerable that Frank decided he needed a… a truer truth.
“I see a confident man, a brave one. He moves with the grace of a dancer and with the expectation that everyone’s attention will be on him. He also expects that he’ll get his way. This man likes to play with expensive toys. Although he loves where life has brought him, he’s chafing a little at some of the expectations. Such as the need to always look perfect on camera, even though his real body and face and hair are more beautiful than anything the studios and directors demand. And the man himself is more interesting than any of the characters he plays. He’s a lot more than America’s Beau.”
Because Carver remained frozen, apart from a widening of his eyes, Frank continued. “While some people might use their charisma to steal all of the light in the room, this man reflects that light on everyone around him, making them feel special too. Even if they’re only an office boy who brews terrible coffee.” He paused before saying the rest. “Or an animator with a bum foot and a surly disposition.”
