Beautiful Boys: Gay Erotic Stories by Richard Labonte (Editor) Page A
Authors: Richard Labonte (Editor)
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on hot Mediterranean evenings. I imagined the men that he would meet and bed.
Over the years, I heard less about Adrian’s martial arts competitions. I wasn’t sure if he still taught. He also got bigger, year after year. I had imagined it impossible; in my mind, he was as muscular as could be, with perfect proportions. But Adrian obviously didn’t feel that way. His muscles grew. They became more angular. He looked more like a bodybuilder than a martial artist. But rather than looking more healthy, he appeared tired with lines under his eyes.
Only a year ago, something strange was happening to him. Les and Simon had joined a new gym and left ours, but a new friend, Ger, was not only full of gossip, but had started training with Adrian.
“Why does Adrian look so dark?” I’d asked. “His skin has gone a different color, but it doesn’t look like a tan.”
“I know. Isn’t it awful? It’s experimental. Some sort of injection, he’s on some trial of it.”
But the effect was disconcerting: his skin tone didn’t match his Anglo-Saxon features. He was darker on the upper part of his body, while his legs were lighter. I couldn’t help but take part in a running commentary with Ger over the weeks about how awful it looked. It was also clear that Adrian’s increase in size and muscularity was through steroids. The veins on his arms stood out. Occasionally, when I saw him, I still imagined feeling his amazing body, but it was also off-putting. It had become harder, more boxy and less welcoming. I noticed, once, when he was saying hello, that his voice was scratchy and low, a cold I’d assumed, and then after time, he couldn’t seem to get rid of it because he was doing too much partying.
The last times I saw Adrian, he had reverted to a more natural color. His body was still imposing, But he seemed run down. In the meantime, I was turning forty and thinking about aging. I’d settled into a happy three-year relationship, barely went out and hadn’t partied in ages. Because it was so different from my drug-fueled discovery of Sydney as a single man, it had caused introspection. I came to admit to myself that I’d turned some of those substance-enhanced encounters and friendships into myth and romance, and romanticized bonds that had only been possible because both parties were high.
The very last time I saw Adrian, I’d thought about this. I certainly wouldn’t erase our embrace from my memory but felt some embarrassment for my young, naïve self, searching him out at dance parties, and the way that instead of accepting and valuing experiences, I tried to recreate them and seek out more.
We left the gym at the same time, and I noticed, with some shock, that his voice was still gravelly after what I remembered as months since it first started. On the street as we parted, I put my hand on his back. I felt a shiver of attraction from the heat of his body. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself,” I told him. He replied in a tone both jovial and self-conscious that he was trying.
Two mornings later, when he failed to show up for a training session, his client, who was also a friend and pissed-off, went to Adrian’s apartment to give him a lecture on unreliability. But seeing that Adrian was apparently home—his car parked out front—but did not answer the door, he got worried and called the police. It was too late to revive Adrian. He’d died.
None of us knew the family well enough to inquire about what happened, and we weren’t even sure if a comprehensive toxicology was done before his body was cremated less than a week later. But I found out that he’d had a tumor removed from his throat, which was the real excuse for his change of voice. I found from the Internet that the possible side-effects of injectable tanning treatments are unproven, and doctors worry that tricking the body into believing it is exposed to the sun might cause cancer. I learned
Over the years, I heard less about Adrian’s martial arts competitions. I wasn’t sure if he still taught. He also got bigger, year after year. I had imagined it impossible; in my mind, he was as muscular as could be, with perfect proportions. But Adrian obviously didn’t feel that way. His muscles grew. They became more angular. He looked more like a bodybuilder than a martial artist. But rather than looking more healthy, he appeared tired with lines under his eyes.
Only a year ago, something strange was happening to him. Les and Simon had joined a new gym and left ours, but a new friend, Ger, was not only full of gossip, but had started training with Adrian.
“Why does Adrian look so dark?” I’d asked. “His skin has gone a different color, but it doesn’t look like a tan.”
“I know. Isn’t it awful? It’s experimental. Some sort of injection, he’s on some trial of it.”
But the effect was disconcerting: his skin tone didn’t match his Anglo-Saxon features. He was darker on the upper part of his body, while his legs were lighter. I couldn’t help but take part in a running commentary with Ger over the weeks about how awful it looked. It was also clear that Adrian’s increase in size and muscularity was through steroids. The veins on his arms stood out. Occasionally, when I saw him, I still imagined feeling his amazing body, but it was also off-putting. It had become harder, more boxy and less welcoming. I noticed, once, when he was saying hello, that his voice was scratchy and low, a cold I’d assumed, and then after time, he couldn’t seem to get rid of it because he was doing too much partying.
The last times I saw Adrian, he had reverted to a more natural color. His body was still imposing, But he seemed run down. In the meantime, I was turning forty and thinking about aging. I’d settled into a happy three-year relationship, barely went out and hadn’t partied in ages. Because it was so different from my drug-fueled discovery of Sydney as a single man, it had caused introspection. I came to admit to myself that I’d turned some of those substance-enhanced encounters and friendships into myth and romance, and romanticized bonds that had only been possible because both parties were high.
The very last time I saw Adrian, I’d thought about this. I certainly wouldn’t erase our embrace from my memory but felt some embarrassment for my young, naïve self, searching him out at dance parties, and the way that instead of accepting and valuing experiences, I tried to recreate them and seek out more.
We left the gym at the same time, and I noticed, with some shock, that his voice was still gravelly after what I remembered as months since it first started. On the street as we parted, I put my hand on his back. I felt a shiver of attraction from the heat of his body. “You’ve got to take better care of yourself,” I told him. He replied in a tone both jovial and self-conscious that he was trying.
Two mornings later, when he failed to show up for a training session, his client, who was also a friend and pissed-off, went to Adrian’s apartment to give him a lecture on unreliability. But seeing that Adrian was apparently home—his car parked out front—but did not answer the door, he got worried and called the police. It was too late to revive Adrian. He’d died.
None of us knew the family well enough to inquire about what happened, and we weren’t even sure if a comprehensive toxicology was done before his body was cremated less than a week later. But I found out that he’d had a tumor removed from his throat, which was the real excuse for his change of voice. I found from the Internet that the possible side-effects of injectable tanning treatments are unproven, and doctors worry that tricking the body into believing it is exposed to the sun might cause cancer. I learned
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