Page 58 of Sweet Thing

“Hmmm, I love it when you talk dirty,” Simeon sighed and flicked his hips to give his cock a little delicious friction. “But it’s not the same. When I’m on the runway my job is to display the garments, not my true self. But if I see you I’ll get self-conscious. You know me, probably better than any man alive.”

“Better than Pieter?”

“Yeah, better than Peety,” Simeon admitted. “We were never lovers, no matter how much I wanted it. He just never saw me in that way. Sad huh!”

“Yeah, he must be mad not to have snapped you up. But it’s worked out well for me, no? If you and Pieter had never fallen out and become friends again, I might never have met you.”

“True.”

“So do you not want me to attend your Berlin shows? I do attend fashion shows. I’ve seen you walk before.”

“Yeah, but we didn’t know each other,” Sim whined. “I don’t wanna jinx it.”

“We’re not going to jinx anything! I want to support you. But if you’re uncomfortable with me being in the audience I won’t attend.”

Simeon felt foolish for being so precious. Bastian meant a lot to him, so much so that the thought of fucking anything up in front of him would be an emotional disaster. Bastian began to pull out of the hug, but Sim held him in place.

“I'm just being stupid. I guess I just don’t want to go over on an ankle or fall on my ass in front of you.”

“Is that what models have nightmares about?”

“Oh God yeah! All of us are insecure. Designers are just as nuts as artists. They can suddenly change their minds at the last minute and make us wear all kinds of weird shit to fulfill their vision. One time, when I was walking for Triage in NYC, the designer decided the loafers he’d chosen for me didn’t work and I would look better wearing eight-inch heels with a bespoke suit. I nearly broke my fucking neck.”

Bastian guffawed, and his lack of sympathy got him a jab in the ribs.

“Seriously, if you don’t want me to attend, I won’t.”

Simeon fell silent and pondered for a long moment.

“Let’s just leave it until closer to the gig. It’s not until July seventh, so there’s like, four weeks to go.”

“Deal.”

****

Simeon arrived at Masculo’s atelier at 11.40 a.m. The studio workshop was in the Labels Berlin 1 building,alisted warehouse on the east side of Berlin, on the Spree Riverfront. It had been renovated in 2006 to become headquarters for a group of Berlin-based fashion designers.

The architects who designed the renovations added swathes of polished concrete, glass walls, and polished steel, allowing light to flood into the main foyer of the space. The redevelopment had cut the vast open-plan warehouse into units now used as studios, workshops, and trade retail establishments for Fashion. Hans Boss, Petrol Jeans, Spritus, Calvin Zoros, and François Masculo all rented space at Labels Berlin. Masculo rented the largest unit, No1.

Nerves were getting the better of Simeon by the time he was buzzed into the Masculo unit. A well presented young man sat at the polished concrete reception desk. He looked up, pinched his lips, and eyed Simeon studiously, his gaze roaming up from Sim’s sneaker clad feet, to his long, long denim covered legs and eventually found his face. The receptionist then smiled. “Mr. Duchamp. Simeon, yes?”

“That’s right.”

“Hi, I’m Alfred. So good to meet you.” The man stood, picked up his iPad and moved from behind the desk. “Mr. Masculo will be here in fifteen, but the other models are waiting in the lounge.”

Alfred was wearing scarlet red denim and a crisp white shirt. He had a definite shimmy to his ass as he walked down the hallway. Simeon followed, glancing in awe, not at Alfred’s ass, but at the framed artwork designs from a past collection Masculo had done for an 80s Bowie video, juxtaposed with contemporary fashion shots of garments on the figure. Masculo’s recent work was very futuristic, and he appeared to have an obsession with finding new uses for clothing and fabrics.

They approached a door, and Simeon heard a wailing cry. A baby? Had somebody brought their baby to work? Alfred opened the door to the lounge and stood aside so that Simeon could enter. He saw, to his delight, a beautiful blond with bright blue eyes, the most gorgeous face, and his equally lovely father.

“Sim”, Pieter called out in delight on seeing him. “Little Bird, look! Uncle Sim’s here to play with you,” he said to his seven-month-old son. Lukas turned from his father’s shoulder, and his face broke into a wide, toothy grin. He shouted a nonsensical word and opened his arms to Simeon’s approach.

Simeon was confused. “What the hell are you guys doing here?”

“I arranged it. We’re doing this gig together. It’s supposed to be a surprise. So, SURPRISE!” Pieter snort-laughed.

“Help yourself to refreshments”, Alfred called, pointing to a table laid with pastries, fruit, a tea urn, and a cafetiere, before closing the door to the lounge.

“But you’ve retired? You said not even a million Euros would get you back on the runway.” Simeon’s brows knitted with confusion.