“I know, I’m sorry. My class let out late,” I explain. The rain and not having my bike hadn’t help either. “Can you buzz me up?”

The voice sighs and the electronic buzzing soon signals my entrance. I shake some of the rain off my coat and begin the climb to the top floor.

This was a last resort. The week without my bike had been impossible. The circumstances of how it had been stolen didn’t matter but the whole ‘being late to everything’ did. I could have easily called up my mother and asked for a replacement but I knew that that would lead to having to come home and sitting through another dinner with a rich debutante looking for a husband. I was desperate but not a masochist.

In the end, it was David who suggested this. He knew this Kurt person through his sister and knew he was always looking for new models. She gave me his number and told me that he was expecting my call. The conversation had been brief, just an exchange of pleasantries and he asked me to describe what I looked like. He asked what my class schedule was like and told me to come to his studio on Friday at four o’clock. It was now quarter to five.

I finally make my way to the top floor, exhausted and sweaty, and knock on the lone door on the landing.

“It’s open!” the voice calls. I open the door to the studio and am struck by the blinding light streaming in through the windows and skylights. “Good, you’re here. I’m Kurt.” I turn and see a figure coming out of the bathroom with a towel in his hands.

Kurt is tall and lean. That’s the first thing I notice. The next is his eyes. They are a piercing blue, like the sky on a clear, winter day. Then I see his wet, dark hair and impossibly pale skin. He’s wearing loose black pants, a grey sleeveless shirt and is barefoot.

“B-Blaine,” I stutter. David and his sister hadn’t prepared me for this. Not that David would notice or care but his sister definitely should have mentioned it.

Kurt looks me up and down, probably hating me for the puddle I am leaving on his floor. He tosses me the towel. “Take off your coat and we’ll get started.”

I set down my bag and remove my soaking coat from my shoulders. Kurt had given me very specific instructions on what to wear and unfortunately, it was ruined. It was just a basic white undershirt and blue jeans but still. “Sorry, I’m so late,” I apologize, hanging my coat over a chair then rubbing the towel over my head.

“It’s fine. The light is better now.” Kurt goes over to the small kitchenette and pulls a roll of film out of the refrigerator. “Let’s get started.”

“But I must look like a drowned rat.” I down to remove my boots and wet socks, eying Kurt as he shuffles around the studio, loading the film into his camera.

“You look fine. It’s different. I’m tired of taking pictures of perfect looking people.” He moves a stool in front of a grey backdrop.

“Oh, thanks, then,” I joke. Kurt sets his camera up on tripod and turns to smirk at me.

“You know what I mean. I spend my days going to Park Avenue penthouse to prep schools to churches and take pictures of people at their best because that how they want to be remembered. It pays the bills but it gets old.” He goes back to the kitchenette and lights the stove. “Would you like some tea?”

“Please.” I move in front of the backdrop and sit on the stool as Kurt puts the kettle on. The stool as a rotating seat and I spin a bit on it. My shirt is sticking to my skin and the jeans are uncomfortably tight but I am ready and willing to do this for the twenty dollars I was promised.

He comes back to his camera and peers through the viewfinder. “Tilt your head to the left. No, your left. Good.” He clicks the shutter and stands up, looking at me thoughtfully. He moves right in front of me, his pink tongue poking out between his lips. “Can I adjust something?”

“Sure,” I breathe as he comes closer. His longer fingers rake through my hair, breaking it into loose curls. “I have my pomade if you want. It gets kind of... unruly.”

Kurt twists his fingers around a lock of my hair. “No... I like it like this. It’s more... you.”

I shrug as he moves back to his camera. “I don’t know. It’s how I usually wear it.” He snaps another photograph as I speak. “Should I shut up?”

“No,” he says, taking another. “Keep talking. And relax. You look like you have a rod up your ass.” His words shock me and I stare at him, biting my lips to keep from revealing too much. He seems to realize my discomfort and his voice softens. “It’s okay, Blaine... How do you like your hair?”

I pause and release my lips. “Without the pomade. It’s like glue and I like my curls. My mother doesn’t, but I do.”

I see Kurt smirk. “Turn to your right. Look at me. Keep talking.”

“She started slicking it back when I was a little kid, said I’d thank her for it later. I didn’t know that I had curly hair until I got the mumps when I was eight and had to stay home from school for two weeks.”
“You didn’t know until you were eight? Look up,” he instructs.

“No. Anytime it got wet, she or the nanny would come at me with the pomade and smooth it down.” I gaze up at the skylight and sigh, closing me eyes. I hear the shutter shut multiple times and Kurt make an approving sound. The kettle whistles and Kurt pauses to make the tea. I spin on the stool, watching the long line of Kurt’s back in the kitchenette.

“Sugar?” he asks.

“One.” I take the opportunity to stretch my back and yawn.

“Long week?” Kurt hands me a mug. It warms my chilled hands and the steam feels good on my face.

“It’s the week before finals.”

“Ah.” Kurt returns to the camera and as I raise the mug to my lips, he snaps a picture. “So... Got a girlfriend?” he asks nonchalantly.

I sputter and almost spit my tea out at the question. “Um... No. No, I don’t... I’m focusing on my studies right now,” I lie. Kurt nods, a small smile visible. “What about you?”

“Nope. No girlfriend. Don’t want one.” He says it casually. “People like me don’t do well with girlfriends.”

“People like you? You mean... artists?” There is a long moment of silence as Kurt stares through his viewfinder. I’m staring right back, waiting for him to take the picture.

“No. That’s not what I mean.” He takes a drink of his tea, wiping his mouth off with his wrist, beginning to circle me. “Artists make good boyfriends. We remember the folds of a favorite sweater, how the light plays off skin first thing in the morning. We are great at the small gestures and we fall in love with each sketch, poem, or photo. But I would not be a good boyfriend for a girl.” He stops right in front of me, studying me face, almost daring me to ask my next question. Or expecting me to run away screaming, the twenty dollars long forgotten.

“Why?” The question comes out as a breath as Kurt’s hand traces along the line of my jaw, his fingers impossibly hot on my skin.

He leans in close, pressing a kiss to the shell of my ear. “Because, Blaine, I’m a much better boyfriend to another boy.”