Page 16 of A Long Con

Berkeley’s voice rang out behind me, dropping like the bubbles he spoke of onto my shoulders, stiffening my nipples. One guy—Ogden, a half-Navajo guy who’d beaten cancer he’d gotten on the Rez—seemed to notice. He sucked in his breath and whispered, “Ooh, yeah. Perfect.”

“I’m more in touch with my female side. I’m much happier. You’ll notice I wear only black and white. This is an improvement over wearing all black. One of these days, God willing, I might get so happy I can wear red.”

“Fuchsia,” Hobie called out, certain about something.

“Fuchsia?” asked several club members.

“Yes. Worn on the left, he’s a spanker. On the right, a spankee. Or don’t you remember that old hankie code?”

Berkeley’s voice overrode all the clamoring about handkerchief colors. “Okay, on the left. Definitely on the left.”

My brain was flooded with an image of a nearly naked Berkeley slapping my buttocks. I was even turned over on his knee. Kanapapiki. Sonofabitch. I had to swiftly change the mental channel and imagine McMahon bending over, pants around his ankles, forcing a “small person” to kiss his ass.

I gained confidence thinking of these repellent things, and soon Berkeley had taken his pad into his hands and examined me from every angle, sketching. I stayed impervious. My face was a placid lake while I could actually hear Berkeley breathing, panting through his nostrils like a horse.

“Your skin tone . . . absolutely dazzling . . . It’s like a robe of satin, of gingerbread . . . makes my mouth water . . . “

Fredericka called out, “Teacher! Are you supposed to be getting all jacked over the model? This is serious study, isn’t it?”

Berkeley’s embarrassment washed over my shoulders, and I couldn’t resist swiveling my head to see him. Nice juicy erection. That was my message, clear as an unmuddied lake. Your swollen package is going to burst those buttons, teacher.

However, aloud I only said, “Teacher, keep it in your pants.”

He laughed nervously. “In school, we had only women models.”

Dr. Moog called out, “Who wouldn’t get hard over this Christ on a bike?”

I was gratified when everyone murmured agreement. It had been so long since I’d been praised. Getting more comfortable being studied like an ant under glass, I scanned the audience of students to see who else had a hard-on. Anson, Harte, and Ogden definitely did. This was fun. I wondered how many couples would fight over me later on because I’d aroused one of them. Or both.

I was startled out of my reverie when, like a shot, Berkeley slapped his pad onto a cocktail table. “Okay! Now Pothole and I have to get back to cleaning my house because, as you know, I’m being slammed with a thousand a day in fines from the City if I don’t, or face demo. You guys keep sketching. Let me know when you want me to come back and we can start with the colors. Turk, that’s fucking amazing! Have you drawn before?” Berkeley cocked his pulsating crotch nearly over Turk’s shoulder.

Turk shrugged modestly. “Just as a kid. I grew up with The Bare Bones in Pure and Easy. Not much sketching going on there.”

I had to move if I wanted to discuss my business idea. Leaping from the stool to the disappointed groans of the students, I grabbed my jeans and tank top and followed Berkeley to the bar where he waited for Pothole to finish doing whatever with the coffee.

“That business idea, Berkeley,” I growled, stepping into my jeans. I made a big show of stuffing my dick inside the tight pants, a motion that wasn’t lost on him. What the fuck was I doing? I’d never lusted so for another man. My few brief experiences had been just that—brief. A turn-on at the moment but nothing I’d want to repeat again. With a thud of my heart, I realized I wanted to repeat it with Berkeley. Again. And again.

“Yeah, what is it?” said Berkeley. His words were clipped as he shuffled cardboard coasters around on the bar. He was clearly trying not to look at me.

“Your paintings. I can sell them. I know a lot of buyers, people who buy art for their own collections. I’ll bet we can get three, maybe five grand for one of yours.”

This got his attention. His obsidian eyes locked onto mine. “I’ve got one we can get three million for.” He said that in all seriousness. He was earnest, you have to hand him that.

I scoffed. “Nah. What painting?”

Berkeley looked side to side, as though competing art buyers might be listening. “You know that painting Nude Descending a Staircase?”

“Yeah. Marcel Duchamp. It’s in some museum. What about it?” I just knew all this shit from hanging out and googling stuff while waiting for my underworld bosses to wake up, or finish doing underworld stuff. Bodyguarding was half doing, half waiting.

Berkeley’s eyes were solid, wet, and glimmering. “I have a study he did for that.”

There was a brief silence. “A study. Duchamp did. For that.”

“Yes.”

I snorted. “And where might this be? In your safe?”

He became even more intense. “I’m serious as Trump’s hairstylist, man! I have a three by two-foot study, an oil on canvas nearly identical to the finished one at the Philadelphia Museum of Art!”