Around and around, we go. - 1. Conveyor belt

The neon light of the supermarket drained the warmth out of everything, like bleach tablets in water, coated the room with blank coldness. I place a new paper roll in the cash register, waiting for customers. That’s the worst part. Waiting. As time goes one, thefts and aggression become somewhat alluring if only to disturb the steely routine. I remember the day when my mortarboard sliced the air. I was filled with a bliss that knew no borders. My life was going to be great. And it was, for a while. And then it slowed, shifting from a highway to a conveyor belt. Thoughts litter that belt like glittering garbage. Some of them are potent, some mundane. I work on them, all of them, to make them into something concrete and relevant. And it doesn’t work. And on they roll on the conveyor belt until they fall, unable to come to life.

Everyday I come home at midnight, I eat some crudities and I take a shower. The water has a strange effect on me. It soothes me like a loaf of white bread would, makes me feel warm on the inside, complete. I suspect that Freud would say that it’s a reminiscence of the time spent inside my mother but I don’t dwell on that interpretation too much. Afterwards, I go to bed but not always to sleep. Thoughts are sometimes rather keen to whirl around and around, preventing me from sleep. Sometimes, I think of a customer and let my mind conjure up pleasant images although they seldom translate into physical release.

Every morning I get up at 07:00 and I get ready for my job at the supermarket. A few hours later, the conveyor belt rolls on as I scan items. The decision to go swimming came to me randomly. A sudden tremor of my lethargic brain to catalyze my body into action as I was rearranging items on their shelves. I had already considered doing some exercise but like many other thoughts, it remained a consideration. The supermarket closed early due to the lack of customers and I went to the swimming pool. The temptation to just float away and let water surround me was strong but I refuse to surrender to it. There was another man with me and we swam abreast for two hours. We did not speak that day, nor the other week-ends which were the only times I could go to the swimming pool except when the supermarket closed early. After one week, he asked me if I’d like him to coach me. Since his techniques were vastly superior, I agreed. One month passed before we exchanged words that had nothing to do with swimming. One night, as we had been swimming together for three months, we left the swimming pool and settled down at a nearby bar.

I learned that his name was Thomas, that he liked Montbazillac and Baudelaire and mountain climbing. His upper lip looked like the silhouette of a seagull with its wings outstretched. Two smooth bows that met under a slightly upturned nose. His eyes were an unremarkable brown but he possessed a sizzling intelligence that conveyed strength to them. His fingers were long and bore no mark of ring whatsoever although that didn’t necessarily meant that he wasn’t engaged. Either way, that wasn’t relevant, my interest in him being friendly rather than romantic.

“What do you do?” asked Thomas.

The question felt like an ice cube sliding down my spine. I didn’t want to talk about work with Thomas. Work was boring and soul-crushing. A perpetual reminded of my inability to do anything else.

“It’s really not interesting.” I said with an unintentional edge to my voice.

“You can always change it.”

I sensed my mood darken but refrained from frowning and kept my tone as light as I could as I spoke.

“I don’t know that I can do anything else.”

Thomas looked at me with a soft smile and a glint in his eyes that bordered on mischievous.

“That’s the last time I take your hand.” he said after taking a sip of white wine.

I rubbed my middle finger with my thumb as my mood darkened further. Why the sudden condescension? We were having such a peaceful time, having tacitly agreed not to discuss jobs or spouses or so I thought.

“What do you mean?” I asked, making no effort to keep the coldness from my tone.

“I have a job for you, if you’re interested. It’s available right now,” he leaned toward me, “You would be working as a living model.”

I stared at him, mulling the thought over. Being naked didn’t frightened me, it was the perception that others could have of my naked body that did. I was very slim and my skin was white as snow. Then there was my height. I was very tall and often received a lot of gaze because of it. I sniffed and rubbed my nose.

“We’ll see.” I said with a polite smile.

---
 

The first time I saw Jonathan, the image of Emma Bovary crossed my mind. A tall, freakishly pale guy whose reserved demeanor would come across as shyness or coldness to the casual observer and in a way that was right, both for the shyness and the coldness but what marked me the most was his fear. He tried so hard to hide it, too. But to me it was glaringly obvious, like that massive and I mean massive bulge of his.

When it comes to that bulge though, I’m not the only one to notice. I know he saw mine too, even if he tries not to look. Out of fear, of course. Of what I would say if I caught him, of his own desire. Tonight was the first time we actually talked. Not about swimming, anyway. When I told him that I had a job for him, he went all defensive but I think he’ll consider it. He hates his job, that much is certain and I know that he would be a great model. Or maybe it’s just my lust speaking, but I don’t think so.

If I have jerked off thinking about him? Plenty. Till my toes curled and my balls dried up. But there’s more to it than that. Yeah, he makes me horny, but I genuinely like him too and I think being a living model will help him. He might be swimming every weekends but he’s not at ease with his body, that much is certain.