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Not to mention my particular sensitivity with feeling like I’m being used—yet again—just to satisfy someone else’s sexual curiosities.
“I’m not a kid,” he says.
I snap my attention back to him. Really? This not-a-kid is still focused on that? “Your belt buckle literally says ‘BOY’,” I point out flatly.
He glares at me. “It’s a brand.”
Fuck, even his glare is beautiful. Why am I not jumping on the chance to photograph this beauty? I have literally dreamed of his face before, haven’t I? What’s wrong with me? He’s a goddamned jewel.
Unaware of this category-ten hurricane blaring inside my head, he abandons his spot by the sling and makes his way out of the studio. I lean against the wall and watch him—and his slender V-shaped frame that cascades down to the cutest, tightest ass I’ve ever seen—as he heads toward the door.
He stops.
So does my heart.
When he turns, the sight of his blue eyes is like some kind of undeserved gift.
I should rescind my dismissal. I should offer to photograph him still. Maybe that’s what he’ll want. Maybe he didn’t know how to voice it. Maybe I got him all wrong. I’ve been misunderstood before, haven’t I?
“Guess I should’ve listened,” he says instead.
I flinch. “To what?”
“That thing they say.” He lifts his chin just a pinch, appearing oddly defiant. “You should never meet your idols.”
My heart sinks with anger.
He turns, the door swings open, and unlike my last client, he’s sure to make it close behind his ass with a resounding, humorless bang.
[ THE HANDYMAN ]
It’s a shitty Friday afternoon.
Dante wishes he had just stayed in bed.
Oh, and it’s about to get worse. Fuck yeah.
4
I give the door a tired knock.
It opens. Lex appears, his slender shape made more shapeless by a pink oversized Steven Universe jacket with a giant yellow star on its chest. It hangs so low, I can’t confirm if he’s even wearing shorts. A tattoo crawls up his long, pale neck like a spider, and the millimeter of hair on his otherwise buzzed head carries a faint purple tint, likely from one of his experimental dye jobs.
“Just in time,” he sings with a curly smile. “I’m living in Hell, Dante. Like, all nine circles of it. And you’re the only one who knows the way out.”
Always so overdramatic. “What’s the issue?”
“It’s with my garbage disposal. It sounds like a Squirtle trying to evolve into a steel type whenever I turn it on. I’m scared of it.”
I won’t pretend to know what that means.
He takes me into his apartment, through which I’m forced to step over a number of things on the floor, mostly laundry, until at last I’m standing in front of the traitorous sink. “Observe,” he states as he runs the tap, then flicks on the disposal. I hear the issue. After cringing, he turns it off and winces at me. “So do you think you can help me out?”
I pull out my phone and start thumbing over my contacts, looking for a guy.
Somewhere in the contacts, I get lost thinking about that kid’s perfect fucking face—his blue eyes, his aesthetic shape, his jawline, his expression. No, my frustration isn’t about unfulfilled sexual desire; it’s the artist in me that’s mourning.
The photography we could have accomplished.
The photos that could exist right now on my camera, if I had just let go of my fucking pride for a second and entertained the idea of shooting him.
We could have achieved brilliance.
“Can’t you do it yourself?” asks Lex.
“Nah, never got the kid’s name,” I mumble.
“Uh … who’s name?”
I flick my eyes up to Lex’s confused ones. Oh. I forgot where I was for a second. “Nah, nothing.” I land on a name in my phone. “I’ve got a guy who can—”
“Who’s name?” Lex slinks over to my side of the kitchen like a purring cat, lifting his eyebrows. “My name’s Lex, short for Alexander, as you well know. That’s the name missing in your phone … along with a photo of me done in your sexy studio …”
He’s a desperate, hardcore flirter. Fortunately for him, two can play that game. “Your little issue here can definitely be fixed. Gonna need to get way down in there … deep, deep under that sink.”
“Deep?”
“Yeah, way deep. It’s a dirty, greasy job. One of those jobs that gets all your clothes dirty as hell.”
“M-Might want to … to take off your shirt before you get down in there, then …” he breathes, overcome.
“Yeah, definitely would recommend that. Then begins hours of tireless, tedious, sweaty work …”
“Oh my good God,” he squeaks.
I smirk, finally arriving at my punch line. “Yep. So I’ll call Earl and get him on the job right away.”
“I just can’t even—” He blinks, coming to. “Wait, what? Earl? Say who?”
I finish typing out a text to Earl, my newest handyman for anything sink-and-plumbing related, and tap send before pocketing my phone. “Done. He’ll be here by tomorrow morning, afternoon at the latest. Have a great day.” I see myself to the door, minding not to trip over a pair of platform boots lying out on the floor.
