the sitting room.”
“Do you want me to open the wine?”
“Yes. Just pour it. It’ll be fine.”
Gustavo signed the check, and the room service waiter left, leaving the artist and his guest alone in the opulent suite.
“Cheers,” Gustavo said, raising his wine glass. “It’s very nice to meet someone like you in this big city.”
“Likewise,” Tim said. “It hasn’t been the best time for me lately.”
“What’s the problem?” Gustavo asked, squeezing a gauze-wrapped lemon over the oysters.
Tim paused, not knowing if he wanted to get into this with a person he’d just met. But he was in a suite at the Plaza with a stunning young artist, drinking vintage Argentine Chardonnay.
“I lost my job at a big advertising agency a few weeks ago,” Tim said. “I’m now working as a bartender in a gay bar in Greenwich Village. It’s kind of fun, and the money is good, but I don’t think it’s my new career.”
“Don’t worry.” Gustavo patted Tim’s shoulder. “Look at you! You’ll get a better job. Who wouldn’t want to hire you?”
“I hope you’re right, but at the moment I’m not feeling so great.”
“Take off your clothes,” Gustavo said as they both gulped raw oysters.
“What?” Tim said incredulously.
“Yes, I want to paint you. I can’t do it while you are dressed.”
“Are you serious?” Tim asked, taking a sip of wine to wash down the oyster.
“That’s how I work,” Gustavo said, again looking straight at Tim. “And if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll strip too.”
After a long pause and another gulp of wine Tim said, “Well, why not?”
The December afternoon sun was fading over Central Park as Gustavo sat with his drawing board in hand. They had not spoken for over three hours.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I think this is done.” And with that, Gustavo put down his brushes and paints.
“I think I like it,” he said, “but I always have to live with art for a few days before I decide for certain.”
Gustavo did not show Tim the painting. Instead, he came over and wrapped his arms around Tim, both standing pressed against each other. “Tim, you are a wonderful sitter.”
After they showered together in the glass-enclosed marble bathroom and dried each other off with the oversized towels, they dressed.
“Do you still want to come to the reception?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with you.”
Gustavo kissed Tim on the lips and pulled him into a tight embrace. They were two strangers reaching out to each other.
As they exited the entrance of the hotel on Grand Army Plaza, the Lincoln Town Car was out front waiting for them.
“You sure about this?” Tim asked as the driver was opening the door of the limo.
“Yes, baby,” Gustavo said hugging Tim. “After all, you are my new subject.”
Chocolate
December 1974
G oing to work in the morning, Mr. Farquharson always wore a flower on his lapel. Usually it was a baby pink tea rose that closely matched his cherubic complexion, although he was quite unaware of this. Mr. Farquharson regularly bought a dozen tea roses on Friday evening at the Thrifty Flower Mart and kept them in a small glass by his sink in the bathroom. The final accent of his morning regimen would be the flower he had selected and carefully pinned in the buttonhole of his pinstriped suit. A deep breath and one final tug on his lapels, and he would be armed with self-assurance for the day.
To most people, Mr. Farquharson was fat, but he preferred to think of himself as portly. He even pretended rather convincingly not to know who or what the ladies working for him meant when they laughingly joked about “Porky Pig.” Perhaps he really did not know, since very little penetrated Mr. Farquharson’s world that he did not personally prescribe.
Mr. Farquharson was an accomplished cook, and that contributed largely to both his size and his success. He had been lucky in the business world. He’d started out several years ago in the
“Do you want me to open the wine?”
“Yes. Just pour it. It’ll be fine.”
Gustavo signed the check, and the room service waiter left, leaving the artist and his guest alone in the opulent suite.
“Cheers,” Gustavo said, raising his wine glass. “It’s very nice to meet someone like you in this big city.”
“Likewise,” Tim said. “It hasn’t been the best time for me lately.”
“What’s the problem?” Gustavo asked, squeezing a gauze-wrapped lemon over the oysters.
Tim paused, not knowing if he wanted to get into this with a person he’d just met. But he was in a suite at the Plaza with a stunning young artist, drinking vintage Argentine Chardonnay.
“I lost my job at a big advertising agency a few weeks ago,” Tim said. “I’m now working as a bartender in a gay bar in Greenwich Village. It’s kind of fun, and the money is good, but I don’t think it’s my new career.”
“Don’t worry.” Gustavo patted Tim’s shoulder. “Look at you! You’ll get a better job. Who wouldn’t want to hire you?”
“I hope you’re right, but at the moment I’m not feeling so great.”
“Take off your clothes,” Gustavo said as they both gulped raw oysters.
“What?” Tim said incredulously.
“Yes, I want to paint you. I can’t do it while you are dressed.”
“Are you serious?” Tim asked, taking a sip of wine to wash down the oyster.
“That’s how I work,” Gustavo said, again looking straight at Tim. “And if it makes you more comfortable, I’ll strip too.”
After a long pause and another gulp of wine Tim said, “Well, why not?”
The December afternoon sun was fading over Central Park as Gustavo sat with his drawing board in hand. They had not spoken for over three hours.
“Yes,” he finally said. “I think this is done.” And with that, Gustavo put down his brushes and paints.
“I think I like it,” he said, “but I always have to live with art for a few days before I decide for certain.”
Gustavo did not show Tim the painting. Instead, he came over and wrapped his arms around Tim, both standing pressed against each other. “Tim, you are a wonderful sitter.”
After they showered together in the glass-enclosed marble bathroom and dried each other off with the oversized towels, they dressed.
“Do you still want to come to the reception?”
“Sure, if it’s okay with you.”
Gustavo kissed Tim on the lips and pulled him into a tight embrace. They were two strangers reaching out to each other.
As they exited the entrance of the hotel on Grand Army Plaza, the Lincoln Town Car was out front waiting for them.
“You sure about this?” Tim asked as the driver was opening the door of the limo.
“Yes, baby,” Gustavo said hugging Tim. “After all, you are my new subject.”
Chocolate
December 1974
G oing to work in the morning, Mr. Farquharson always wore a flower on his lapel. Usually it was a baby pink tea rose that closely matched his cherubic complexion, although he was quite unaware of this. Mr. Farquharson regularly bought a dozen tea roses on Friday evening at the Thrifty Flower Mart and kept them in a small glass by his sink in the bathroom. The final accent of his morning regimen would be the flower he had selected and carefully pinned in the buttonhole of his pinstriped suit. A deep breath and one final tug on his lapels, and he would be armed with self-assurance for the day.
To most people, Mr. Farquharson was fat, but he preferred to think of himself as portly. He even pretended rather convincingly not to know who or what the ladies working for him meant when they laughingly joked about “Porky Pig.” Perhaps he really did not know, since very little penetrated Mr. Farquharson’s world that he did not personally prescribe.
Mr. Farquharson was an accomplished cook, and that contributed largely to both his size and his success. He had been lucky in the business world. He’d started out several years ago in the
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